#SIX FUCKIN HOURS IT TOOK ME

[mxliv-oftheendless]

So.

It took me six hours, full of rock and techno music blasting in my ears on loop…

BUT MY THESIS DRAFT IS FINALLY DONE!!!

[love-r-boy]

i made a uquiz because i reread antigone and felt catharsis. which tragic greek figure are you?

[mothbart]

finally had a breakthrough with my jeg big bang and now i am going to lay in bed and read this stsg fic until midnight

[caseyscraftycorner]

Me, three days into making pixel art: "what if I made one of my poems into a comic?"

[falinscloaca]

desperately wish someone else could write a fifty paragraph essay about the (troubling…. but maybe thats just me????) attitude Heaven Will Be Mine had towards violence and consent. because theres a whole lot that could be said there but trying to think about it myself makes me want to throw up and lament learning how to read

[lovelookspretty]

not so bad

— in which rafe and y/n absolutely despise each other in public but crush in secret. rafe is failing his humanities class & is assigned y/n as his tutor . . . maybe all it took for this relationship to form was just a bit of forced proximity and some time.

college!rafe cameron x reader au

warning(s): n/a. just a bitchy rafe whos generous n gets awkward as fuck when it comes to u

authors note: college!rafe is lowkey nicer to y/n since he can’t help his buried feelings !! but he’s still an ass. i wouldve casted drew as himself but drew is too sweet i cant even imagine him having like a female sworn enemy that he lowk has a crush on

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine

the door swings open, revealing rafe himself. he’s silent as soon as he sees you. “lock the door,” he says as he turns around and starts to head further inside, leaving you at the entrance.

“lock the door,” you mock-mumble under your breath as you enter, closing and locking the door behind you like you’re told. you look around, realizing you’ve never actually seen rafe’s dorm before. his friends’ dorms maybe, but never his.

his dorm is surprisingly clean, with only empty to fully filled water bottles scattered around, but very few. both sides of the room are displayed with posters on its walls, you can fell which bed is his and it’s made with its sheets tucked tightly in the crevices with two large pillows at the head of it.

you watch as he walks over to his desk and sits in the chair, opening up his laptop to the online textbook provided for the class.

he peers over his shoulder to glance at you, “can you fucking—i don’t know—sit down somewhere? the furniture isn’t coated in poison, you know.”

you fight the urge to make a remark, and you just sigh and let it go. “kay!” you say, and carefully making your way over to sit on the edge of his bed, placing your bag by your side. you catch his eye when you reply so eagerly without a problem, but you ignore this.

“where’s your roommate?” you ask him, looking around. “just wanna make sure when i need to expect someone- also, typically i charge for tutoring, and if crawford is making me tutor you then i’m charging you double. hundred-fifty an hour.”

rafe looks pissed, shaking his head and opening his mouth like he’s about to argue before closing it again. finally, he sighs, leaning against the wall by the kitchen. “my roommate’s just . . . out . . . today. he’s running errands. whatever, can we just get this over with? i’ll pay you after.”

you grin, feeling even satisified that rafe has to use his own cash to pay for however long this will take. “have a girl coming over tonight?” you guess from the way he’s rushing you. you reach into your bag for your ipad, “this wouldn’t be happening if you’d just pay attention in class, you know.”

“i know," rafe mutters, still annoyed but trying not to show it. "i just don't get how humanities could be important in the real world," he says, running a hand through his hair before resting the side of his head against his spread index finger and thumb, looking at you. “or my world, i mean.”

“still trying to do real estate?” you puzzle, pulling up the notes you took during class for him to look at. “it’s like your dad’s job, right? the cameron department thing.”

“cameron development,” he corrects you, hissing through his teeth.

“whatever. just surprised you’re not pursing sex work from all the girls i see you pull into bathrooms at parties,” you mutter out the end of your sentence under your breath, in a way not wanting to bring up that you’ve even noticed that before . . . again . . . and again . . .

“yeah?” he seems amused. “sex could sell more homes than fuckin’ humanities ever could.”

“sex?” you repeat with raised brows. “damn near prostitution versus political science, sociology, journalism, anthropology,” you name off as you lean left and right in your seat, pretending to think and weigh out your options. “yeah, maybe passing your humanities class can be a good thing! pull up your notes, please?”

“i did," rafe grumbles, gesturing to his laptop.

“i said notes, not the textbook. i wanna see what you’ve even written down while in class,” you say.

he’s silent as he opens up his documents, and he pulls up his most recent document filed under notes. he hands his laptop over to you as he leans back in his seat. you look over his text.

furrowing your eyebrows, you say, “okay, so you . . . you wrote the title of his lesson yesterday. that’s good. but under that you didn’t even write down any notes, you just have someone’s phone number. are you that predictable?”

he chews on his dog tag necklace and shrugs, taking his laptop back. “she was new. just wanted to make a friend,” he insists, closing out the tab.

you hum. you don’t really believe him but it isn’t like you care enough to argue over that. you hand him your ipad to show him your notes. “we’ll start at the beginning of the unit,” you tell him as he takes it.

rafe lets out a breath from his nose as he matches your energy from before, “‘kay!” he skims over your writing, gnawing on his pencil quietly.

you almost catch yourself smiling that he does this, but you refrain.

the lesson seems to be going better than you thought, though there are some pissed glances here and there from both sides. it takes two hours to go over the unit with examples and practices. you’re already exhausted.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, the lesson ends. rafe slumps back in his chair, relieved to be done with the humanities assignments that you made him do for now. he looks up at you, barely casting a smile your way. “thanks for the help,” he mumbles, awkwardly meeting your gaze.

“thanks for the money,” you say, half-reminding him that he needs to hold up his end of the deal as you stand from your seat.

as he stands, he bumps into your ipad on his desk. it collides with his opened water bottle he’d been drinking out of the past hour or so and both of you know what’s about to happen. you blurt out a noise and try to dodge the water coming your way but fail, getting his water on your legs and even more pouring at your crocs that invite even more liquid in. you can just feel your socks absorbing it now.

rafe grimaces as he stares down at your wet legs, and the least he does is reaches down to grab the bottle and the cap that flew off the desk. he closes it up and sets it on his desk as you take off your shoes and socks, holding them with barely your fingers.

“i have uh . . . towels, paper towels,” he says, and you just nod immediately, accepting whatever to dry yourself off.

when he comes back, you grab the paper towels and shove your soggy socks into his chest which he takes out of instinct before exclaiming and dropping them on the floor. you can’t help but look back and glare at him before patting your legs dry, and then tossing the paper towel into the nearby trash can that sat at one of the ends of his desk.

you can see rafe shrug as he picks up your socks and hovers over his trash can too. “might as well,” he murmurs.

“wh— are you serious?” you try to catch the socks, but then again, he’s too far and you have no business carrying some wet ass socks back to your dorm. your hands fall to your sides as you sigh.

it’s like he’s visibly contemplating (or debating with himself) before he walks over to his dresser and rummages through a drawer, finally pulling out a pair of socks. “here,” he says, tossing them to you, which you almost fail to catch from the sudden surprise. “they’re clean. swear.”

you give him a doubtful look. “i didn’t need your socks. i have plenty in my own drawer, thanks,” you say, placing the pair on his desk to reject them, and he stares at you.

he shakes his head and turns around. “so difficult,” he murmurs under his breath, and he quickly cleans up his drawer before closing it.

he grabs his wallet from on top of the dresser too, pulling out the wad of cash. you can tell from the look on his face that he’s not only doing this to count his money properly but also to subtly flex right in front of you. you roll your eyes and look away.

he counts out his three-hundred before handing it to you, scrunching up his nose as he stuffs his wallet into his pocket. you stare at the money, then take it while giving him a glare.

you quickly count it but bless, there’s two hundred dollar bills and then five twenty’s. perfect.

“okay, good luck on your exam,” you say and grab your bag, heading for the door like you’re in a hurry this time.

“wait,” rafe says, and you almost groan from annoyance. you just want to go back to your dorm. “here,” he mumbles to himself, and he steps over to the mini-fridge in the corner. he opens it up and grabs a water bottle, then tosses it to you.

“rafe,” you say, not really expecting all of these ‘gifts’ just for screaming at him for two hours about humanities. you toss it back to him, which he catches.

“just for the road,” he insists with a shake of his head. “since i spilled mine on you.”

you stare at him like he’s stupid. “dude, i live down the hallway.”

when you see his awkward reaction, you almost feel bad. actually you do. and it’s weird. usually you don’t notice this at all, but something about rafe feeling dumb about trying to thank you just makes you feel guilty for how you’ve treated him. fine.

you give him a look like you’re saying okay. that it’s okay to give you gifts and that you’re okay with receiving them. rafe doesn’t even cast a smile, he just nods. you squint your eyes at him before heading for his door again.

rafe meets you there and holds out the water bottle for you. you look up at him and take it. you almost smile, and it seems like he might too, but you both catch yourselves and quickly look away.

“ace your exam so you won’t have to hear from me like this again,” you say, half-joking to keep up their normal behavior.

“i’ll try, i’ll try,” he says simply, and stands at his door while you leave. you raise your eyebrows once before heading off to your dorm, taking your bag and your water bottle with you. you hear his door shut from behind you.

as you walk away, you can’t help but replay the moment in your head, the weird sense of camaraderie that just occurred. maybe, just maybe, rafe cameron isn’t the most horrible person on the planet. and it doesn’t help that he’s unfortunately attractive, which makes it slightly more difficult now to keep up the mutual hatred you have for each other.

from inside the dorm, rafe stands there for a moment, staring at the closed door. he shakes his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“not so bad,” he mutters to himself before turning back to his desk, ready to tackle his upcoming humanities exam thanks to you.

[laiiaaa]

SARDINES — CARMEN BERZATTO

summary Carmen seems a little off when you visit him, and you try to figure out why. For once, you pry him open.

length 3.2k

contents angst, hurt/comfort, he's really an angel even if he's closed off n stubborn, very very emotional, lots of negative self-talk from Carm, he cares so so much, relationship talk, everything resolves in the end dw <3

It takes more than a few knocks for Carmen to open the door. If you counted correctly, it took six tries, plus a phone call. So you shouldn’t be surprised that when he finally does open the door, he barely gives you a kiss on the cheek and mumbles Hey before turning his back to you again, back in the kitchen with his phone face up on the counter. He’s antsy, almost talking to himself, checking his phone every five seconds.

You walk in and lock the door behind you as you take off your shoes, and you drop your bag on the coffee table, which houses little else other than a remote and a day-old mug with coffee staining a ring in the bottom. “…Everything okay?”

He leans into the counter with his weight on his hands and spares you a glance and a haphazard nod. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine—just waitin’ for my guy to call back.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?” Sitting down on the couch, part of you expects him to join you without being asked. Your back and feet ache, and all you want is for Carmen to lay with you, ease his hands up and down your spine, and watch the first thirty minutes of a random film before falling asleep.

“No, no—he usually answers when I need ‘im.” But he’s working. He’s at home, and you’re waiting on him, but he’s working. He seems to be prioritizing that a lot lately—a lot more than usual, at least. Running a hand through his hair, he watches the screen again, and mutters to himself, “Thirty fuckin’ minutes. Fuck you.”

You peek over the back of the couch. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You sound upset.”

“Yeah, baby, I’m—fuck this—” He derails from answering and instead picks up the phone again, calling and letting the dial tone ring out the second time this hour. He waits with his hand on his hip and his lip tugged between teeth.

You know ‘his guy’ doesn’t pick up when he drops his phone on the counter again with a sigh and another muffled profanity. “Carm?”

His head rests between his hands, but he lifts it to look at you. “Yeah?” 

“Can you come sit with me, please?”

God, how you tug on his heart strings when you ask, your voice all sweet and dripping honey, you make it impossible to resist. “‘F course, yeah,” he answers, pocketing his phone and turning off the kitchen light before joining you. 

He loops an arm over your shoulder as he presses his lips to your temple, and his heart skips a beat or two when you snuggle into him with your hand splayed against his chest. The two of you stare off at nothing in particular, soaking in the touch of the other. You smell so distinctly like you—like home—he’d be getting lightheaded in the best way if he weren’t so…so caught up in everything you help him escape: work, the fringe family, being so dead tired that in his mind he can’t tell where his kitchen ends and the fire begins. But that phone call he’s waiting on. It’s poking needles in the nape of his neck. 

You sit up after a couple minutes, keeping a hand planted over his heart when you look at him. “I can literally feel how anxious you are.” He scoffs, but before he can protest you add, “Seriously, Carm, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s—everything’s just…” He looks off into nowhere behind you, his free hand making circles in the air like the words will fall into his palm if he tries hard enough. He stumbles for a few moments until he looks you in the eye again, a bit pained when he tells you, “Everything’s fine, baby.” The arm that was hooked over your shoulder is now curled around your waist, and his fingers, rough and scarred, trace meaningless shapes into your back, teasing beneath the hem of your top. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout it, alright?”

You’re unconvinced. You shuffle your hips around to straddle his, placing your hands on his shoulders with your thumbs carefully massaging the sides of his neck. Like clockwork, his hands take purchase of your waist, and he brings one to slide down over the curve of your ass before smoothing circles into your thigh. He always seems to speak to you in this way—maybe about as much as he tells you he loves you through his food—the physical connection much easier to manage than trying to crack open the rock-hard shell in his chest.

You lean into him a little more, your back arching ever so slightly. “You know I want you to keep me in the loop. What’s the guy for now?”

He sighs. “It’s just—shit with the stoves ‘n it’s messin everyone up, the kitchen’s basically a fire hazard, ‘n I really need him to answer his damn phone before something…” He shrugs. “…Before something just, I dunno, blows up, I guess.”

“Well, nobody’s even in that kitchen right now, so no explosions just yet.” You eye him for a moment, biting at your lip in contemplation when he doesn’t smile quite like he usually does at your drier jokes. “Is there something else bothering you?”

His brows furrow. “No, no—why, why’re you askin’ it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like, like…” He shakes his head as if it pains him to consider it. “Like there’s somethin’ wrong with me, or, or somethin’ I’m hidin’—”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Carm, c’mon.” Your voice goes softer, hands a little gentler as you cradle his jaw in your palms. “I just want you to let me in.”

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “You’re always sayin’ stuff like that,” he mumbles, and you can feel the vibration of his voice through your hands through to your heart.

“Because I mean it.” The AC whirrs nearby, almost muffling your words. “I want you to tell me about the things that bother you. I would never judge you.”

You’re so tender with Carmen, he thinks he could melt into a puddle on the floor, left to seep into the floorboards and through the ceiling of his downstairs neighbor. And he feels the words bubbling to the surface, the emotion pooling, red-hot behind his eyes, an answer burning at the back of his throat and clawing through his chest rough enough that the kisses you scatter from his cheek, to his jaw, to his neck do little to aid his wounds. But when he answers you, it’s tame. “I do tell you about things.”

“You do, but…” You wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle into the space between it and his shoulder. “I’m just thinking about this game I used to play when I was a kid, sardines.”

His head tilts back against the back of the couch, and your breath dances along his skin while his hands smooth along the bumps of your spine. “Sardines?”

“Mhm,” you hum, “It’s kinda like…hide and go seek, but reversed. One of us would hide, and when someone found us, they’d squeeze into that spot too. And I remember being terrible at it, because we’d be making faces at one another in our little hiding spot, and I could never stop giggling, and I’d just expose everyone too soon.”

He chuckles quietly to himself. “I can picture that, you laughin’ while shoved in a closet.” His fingertips trace your shoulder blades.

“Pretty much how it went. Always too loud.”

“But I like hearing you laugh. I—I always feel better…gettin’ to see you all happy.” He’s thinking he got a little too caught up in the moment, and before you can say anything back, he asks, “What were you thinkin’ about the game, then?”

“It’s a little stupid to say it out loud,” you start.

“‘S not stupid, promise.”

You pause, hesitant. “…Okay.” One quick kiss to his neck before you continue, eyes closed to sink into him, “I just like to think that, eventually, you’ll let me in like…like it’s a game of sardines, or something. That I’ll just…squeeze in right beside you, and—and you’ll let me be there for you without pushing me away.”

He hums, low and drawn out to give you a beat to breathe.

“Sometimes I just want you to tell me what it is that’s bothering you, just to…make it easier on you a little bit, knowing someone’s in your corner. Just to be there.” Your fingers twirl into his messy curls and scratch at the nape of his neck the way he likes, and his silence drags on long enough to make you anxious.

But Carmen, too, is anxious. His chest is tight, his hands fidgety, and he’s sure—he knows, he feels it in his gut—that he needs to say something, anything. But he can’t find the words. They swirl in the back of his mind, and he can taste them crawling to the tip of his tongue, but they never become clear. They lurk where he can’t see them, and he keeps his thoughts on lockdown for you, because he’s been convinced along the way somehow in his decades of living that it’s easier, for him, if he keeps the softer parts stowed away, never to be seen again. He’s starting to think you’re trouble, that you make him softer where he grew to be tough. So it’s muffled and covered by his palms smoothing up your waist when he asks, “Sit up for me a bit, baby?”

And you listen, of course, because really you’re thankful he didn’t kick you out by now. Your vision is blurry from tears pooling in your eyes, but his hands—so, so gentle, the touch barely there like he thinks you could break—cup your jaw and urge you a little closer, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and wiping away stray tears. The two of you gravitate closer until your noses brush by one another and you exchange breath, until he leans into you and slots his lips against yours. He’s hesitant and careful, he doesn’t know if it’s quite the right thing to do or if it’s says what he needs it to, but when you prop your hands against his chest and kiss him back he knows part of you needs it like he does. 

Both of you need it—that silent exchange, emotions spilled between sweet kisses and kind hands. So you stay that way, with Carmen’s hands holding you close to keep you from running away, and yours answer back I’m here, until he pulls away, eyes closed, to rest his forehead against yours. 

He keeps himself blind when he whispers, “I know…” You can tell he’s mulling over his thought, so you wait for him to add, “I—I know, that you’re in my corner. An’ I want you there, alright?”

You try to soak in the feeling, so close and seemingly getting closer, a little breathless from his kisses as much as his words. “Alright.”

“I just—I just get so, so stuck in my head that I…” He swallows. “I can’t tell half the time if there’s anything even worth sayin’, I’m just spaced out ‘n…going fuckin’ crazy.” His brows furrow against yours. “I’m not used to stuff like this.”

“I know.”

His hands rest along the curve of your face a little firmer when he suggests, “But I can try—to, to, uh, tell you things, to let you in, or, or however you put it—I—” A deep breath. “I’m so fuckin’ bad at this, I’ve never done this, but—but I’ll try, for you, alright? You tell me, an’ I’ll try for you.”

You nod against him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “I just—it’s just—I like this, y’know? Being with you, I like what we have, I—I like doing this, and—I wanna…I wanna make you happy. The same way you do for me…” He goes quiet and shakes his head a little, anticipating his next words. “I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

You can’t fight the smile that pulls at your lips, even if it is bittersweet. “You aren’t gonna fuck it up, okay? Being with you already makes me happy. I know you’re trying.”

“But trying isn’t…it’s not always enough, an’ I know in some ways—in a lotta ways, probably, I’m not…I—I’m not the best at saying things, an’—shit, am I—am I saying too much—?”

“No, Carm, no. I want you to keep talking.” You take his lips in another gentle kiss, your stomach whirring warm and content.

“I don’t really know what to say, or—”

“It’s okay,” you coo. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but…if there was something else bothering you earlier…you can tell me.”  You pull back a little to really look at him, running your fingers through his curls and making him gently close his eyes. “And I’ll just say okay, and then we can move on. I won’t say anything unless you want me to.”

He hums with his eyes still closed, his mouth in a smirk. “Mm, like sardines.” It’s a little snarky when he says it, but when his thumbs brush beneath your top, you know he’s just thinking over his options. 

“Yes, like sardines.” You’re a little embarrassed, but also a little thankful that he followed the bit.

He waits for a few moments, just breathing, letting you smooth your hands through his hair and over his shoulders and down his chest. It’s calming, he realizes—simply existing in the same space, careful touches and brief kisses. He runs his palms from the back of your waistband to the plane between your shoulder blades and presses gently, urging you to lean against him once again. When your head rests against his chest, he takes in a deep breath through the nose and out the mouth. He watches the ceiling. 

“There’s…” Another pause. “It’s not just the stove that’s botherin’ me.” 

You don’t answer him, not even a hum to acknowledge he’s said anything, and he realizes that you were serious about the whole ‘not saying anything’ bit. 

“I…fuck, I don’t even know how to say any ‘f this. I think…I think I’m just freakin’ out about…about everything. The restaurant…you…” There’s a long, heavy pause, a shaky breath. “An’—an’ that’s it, really, besides family I guess—which is really fuckin’ pathetic when I say it out loud.” A sniffle. “Real pathetic. But all I’ve had is fuckin’…fuckin’ cooking, an’ working, an’ dealin’ with my family ‘n fuckin’ Richie all my life—” His chest gets, tight, a hand leaves your back to run over his mouth. “God, an’ I am so fucked up,” he laughs.

You were already crying before, and the tears keep coming, streaming from your eyes to your cheeks and staining Carmen’s shirt. You’re not sure whether he even realizes.

“I’m fucked up, and you’re just—you’re so perfect, compared t’me, ‘cause you’re all smart, an’ you always know the right thing to say ‘n how to say it, an’ you’re just in a completely different world sometimes, an’ I want in—I wanna be able to do things for you, all of it, but—” He needs to catch his breath. He needs water. He needs sleep. His throat is sore and scratchy, he feels his pulse pounding in his forehead. “I’m just…scared…that—that I could fuck you up, too.”

His chest expands beneath you, and you’re shaking, biting at your lips to stifle sobs. Part of you wants to sit up and hold him close, tell him that he’s the perfect one and you’re anything but, that all he’s ever been is made for you, that maybe he is fucked up, but you don’t care because you love him all the same—you love him.

Carmen isn’t used to this reaction. He’s used to explosions, yelling, screaming, pointing fingers with hot tears, saying what he shouldn’t, saying what hurts, guilt smacking him across the face for years to come. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He feels your trembling and holds you that much gentler. 

“Baby,” he starts, “Hey, lemme see you, you’re shaking—” He tries to peel you from his torso, prodding at your sides until you wipe at your eyes and sit yourself up. His hands reach to hold your wet face. “What—what’s wrong?”

You push his arms away. “Sardines, Carm.” You try to stay true to your word—that you’d take what he says, and only store it away—but you’d be lying if you said you’re not struggling to keep more tears at bay. 

“I want you to talk to me. You said you’d talk if I wanted you to, I—I need you to talk to me, c’mon, please—”

“This is so wrong—I’m the one who should be comforting you—”

“Hey, hey hey hey—” He smooths a hand over your hair and presses kisses to the tear stains on your cheeks. “That doesn’t matter to me. That doesn’t matter to me, alright?” He holds you steady, waits for you to meet his eyes, and when you look at him, it’s like he can see right through you. His thumbs brush away your tears, and your breathing settles.

You sigh, your hands moving from his chest to his shoulders. “We’re such a mess.”

Carmen shakes his head, mind full of you as his eyes trail the contours of your face, the plush of your lips when your teeth bite at them. “Wouldn’t wanna be with anyone else.” His hands touch your waist again and ease you into him, buzzing with your soft curves in his grasp. It’s more than therapeutic, he thinks. Life-sustaining might be more accurate.

You nod, and your fingertips graze along his cheekbones before you plant a soft, yearning kiss to his mouth.

He kisses you again because he can’t help himself, and he might be too scared to look you in the eye when he says it, but eyes closed or not, he means it. “You’re so good to me.” His arms wrap around you again, addicted to feeling your weight beneath his skin, and he presses his lips to your jaw. “So fuckin’ good to me,” he repeats, lower than a whisper like it slipped by without thinking. 

You card your hands through his hair, messily beautiful, and answer, “You deserve someone good,” just as quiet as he is.

He swears his heart stops, and his lips trail from your jaw down to your neck. “You’re too good to me,” he says again, with a bit more honesty in the change. He knows you, so he already knows what you’re going to say, and that any other time he’d deny it.

You hum, a warm smile curling the corners of your mouth as you pull him closer to your chest, grazing your lips by his hairline for a gentle kiss. “No such thing.”

And for the first time, with his arms wrapped tight around your waist with a gentleness reserved only for you, and with your body slotted against his, he really starts to believe it.

[samandcolbyownme]

Summary: Reader goes on a run with a few of the others but they end up getting blindsided by another group, reader and Rosita take the most damage.

Warnings: strong language, twd apocalypse setting, not-so-secret feelings between reader and Daryl but nothing is official right away, mentions of alcohol, mentions of fighting, reader gets injured and needs stitches, reader giving and receiving punches, kicks, etc. mentions of blood, cuts, weapons such as knives and guns, heavy mentions of killing (FAKE OF COURSE!!), a kiss or two, maybe three if you’re lucky ;)

Word count: 5.8k

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

“Y/n. You comin’ or what!?” Rosita yells over to you, “or are you too bus-“

“I’m comin’, alright!” You yell back, cutting her off, and all she does is smile.

You look away from the group, cheeks turning red as you look up at Daryl. His head tilts to the side as he looks at you confused, “What’s she mean by busy?”

You shake your head, “Nothing just.. girl talk.”

Daryl scoffs, shaking his head, “Good luck out there.”

“You sure you can’t come?” You bat your lashes, which definitely does something to him, but he just shakes his head, “Y’know I would if I could.”

He reaches up to pinch your chin between his fingers, “Be fuckin’ careful out there, a’right.”

You give him a smile, “I always try my best.”

He hums lowly as he watches you walk away, keeping his eye on you until you and the group were out of the gate.

If Daryl didn’t have a prior commitment to help Aaron with the one wall, he would definitely be going with you.

“Try and convince him to come along again?” Rosita asks as you walk with her. You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh, “Can you give me a break?”

Rosita is your best friend, has been since you saved her life. She had six walkers on her, you were moving by and decided to stop and help her and she instantly liked you, so away to hilltop you went.

One night later on, when you both were giggly off some liquor you found, you admitted to her that you had a thing for The Archer in your group - Daryl Dixon.

Which, you and him also did end up taking a liking to one another. It only took one look from each of you and that was enough to not keep each other off your minds.

“I think it’s really cute.” She glances over at you, “Seeing you guys in looove.”

“Please. He is not in looove.” You scoff, a laugh following right after, “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“You guys talking about you and Daryl?” Michonne elbows you and you sigh, “Not you, too!” You groan, “Oh my god.”

“I think it’s cute, too. Never really seen Daryl look at someone the way he looks at you, and I’ve known him a while.” Michonne raises her brows and you just shake your head.

Someone even mentioning his name has your cheeks turning a rosy color.

“You know it’s true.” Rosita adds, “C’mon y/n. Just take a chance already.”

“I’ll think about it and get back to you.” You laugh, everything becoming serious when Rick holds his hand up, signaling to stop.

“Walkers?” Michonne asks, moving closer to Rick, and he nods, “About seven or eight? Some might be in the side tree line.” He looks back at the group, “I think we can take ’em.”

You nod, getting your knife gripped in your hand before you continue to walk down and take out the small group of the dead.

——

About an hour later, you come to the few houses at the end of the one road, “Wait.” You grab onto Rosita’s arm, “I don’t think we’re the only ones here.”

Rick snaps his head towards you, “What do you mean by that?”

“Something just fe-“

Bullets. Lots of them flying your group’s way.

“Get down!” Rick yells as you all duck behind old cars and trees. You get your gun ready, along with everyone else and aim, looking through the sight to see if you can see anything.

As soon as you see a body you fire, which leads everyone else into shooting blindly in the direction of where gunfire came from first.

“We move on three. You two go that way.” Rick points to you and Rosita and motions towards the houses, “You two go that way.” He motions for Carl and Michonne to go the opposite.

“I-“

“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere.” A voice from behind and the sound of a shotgun loading makes you all whip around.

Six men coming to form an arch around her.

“Who are you?” Rosita asks and the woman with the gun laughs, “Hell, I should be asking you all the same. Damn. Thing.”

“Wait.” She squints her eyes at you and points, “You. I’ve seen you.. with that long haired, crossbow wielding, psycho.”

You clench your jaw, tilting your head slightly, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” The lady with the gun tilts her head, “I think you heard me. I don’t really like repeating myself.”

“What do you want?” Rick asks, ready to negotiate, “We didn’t come to cause any trouble we-“

“I don’t fucking care about your bullshit we need supplies sob story, although.” She purses her lips, eyes scanning over your backpacks and weapons, “It really doesn’t look like you have a sob story at all, so I’ll just go ahead and let these men pick you off one. By. O-“

“We will give you our guns and walk away.” You say with a shrug, “How about that?”

She hums, gun now pointed at your chest, “How about… no.. and instead, we bring you inside and try to find out a little bit about you mysterious, pathetic looking people.” She looks at all of you again, “And where you came from.”

“No. We’re not-“ Rosita is cut off by the woman pointing the gun at her, “Was I talking to you?”

“Well, you said, you mysterious people, so I’m guessing I was included in that, too?” Rosita fires, sarcasm on her words.

The lady just sighs, “You made it so easy to pick who the first one is going to be.”

She steps closer to Rosita and you all move a step closer, too, “I’m just sayin’, you mess with one of us. You mess with all of us.”

You stare at the woman, a cold stare, “Put the gun down, and we’ll fucking talk.”

“We can talk this out. If you just let us explain why we’re here.” Rick steps up and the gun is now on Rick before it’s lowered to the ground, “Who’s in charge here?”

You all motion to Rick and he nods. The lady raises a brow, smirking as her eyes fall onto you, “Really? Because it seems like she’s running the show.”

“Walk.” The woman points towards the one house, “Now. Before I change my mind about killing you where you stand.”

You all move in a line and her men take your stuff.

Guns, knives, backpacks. Everything.

You were racking your brain for a way to get out of this, just like the others were.

“I have to pee.” You blurt out, instantly going with it, “Can I use the bathroom, or a tree, or something?” You cross your leg over your other one to make it more believable.

The woman looks you up and down, rolling her eyes as she motions to you, “Take her around back. Bring her in when you’re done.”

The man grabs you by the arm and pulls you, “Wait, I-“

“I have to pee, too.” Rosita does exactly what you did and the woman looks between you and her and squints, “If this is some kind of a ruse to escape, I swear, I’ll keep the kid hostage until I find you again, and then.. I’ll make him watch you all die a slow and extremely painful death.”

“No.” Rick and Michonne says instantly, “You can trust them.” Michonne assures the woman, but she didn’t believe it.

“I don’t trust you.” She shakes her head, “Do what you want, but just know, I warned you.”

You try not to laugh at the stupid woman as you and Rosita are walked back to behind the one house, with only two guards.

You share one glance with her, and that’s all it took for her to be on the same page as you.

You both turn around to face the men, giving them both the stink eye as you squat down. You bring your thumbs up to connect them to your belt loops.

“Are you going to piss or wh-“

You and Rosita lunge forward, knocking them both back onto their backs by the knees with a grunt.

You’re in fight or flight mode, and you weren’t going anywhere, not without a major fight.

“Fuckin bitch, get-“ you stomp the heel of your boot on his wrist and he yells, letting go of his gun. You go to try and kick it away, but he manages to get you on the ground and his hands quickly moving to go around your throat.

You grab his wrists, trying to pry his hands away as painful whimpers and squeaks are forced out of you.

He brings one of his hands back, quickly delivering a punch to your cheek bone. You’re dazed instantly as the punch jarred everything in your skull.

He delivers another punch, this time harder, which busts your cheek open.

As your vision is turning darker by the second, you try your best to kick him anywhere you can connect at. A sudden wave of panic sets in as your vision is almost totally back now, causing you to fling your legs up, your ankles on the opposite sides of his head.

You straighten your legs out to tighten them, pushing his arms together as you bring your knees in. He starts to lean backwards, and it’s just enough for you to bring you foot back, kicking him directly in the face.

He falls backwards off of you, his hands instantly moving to feel the blood that’s gushing from his nose, or mouth, hard to tell.

You go straight for the knife, lunging over to grab it before whipping around to stab him.

His hand catches your wrist, pushing your arm away from him as you try your damdest to keep pushing down. You groan loudly, smashing your knee into his groin area, which gives you the opportunity to push down and plunge the knife, handle deep into his throat.

You look over at Rosita as quiet choking fills your ears. You’re still dazed, in pain and your breathing just as rapid as hers.

She stands up, and you notice she’s got a decent cut on her forehead, “You good?”

She looks back at you, eyes going wide, “Holy shit, y/n.” She rushes over to look at your cheek, “That looks.. bad.”

“M’fine. We don’t have time.”

You stand up, looking down at the corpse with the knife in its neck. You bend down, pulling it out with a squelching noise as it comes out.

As you both gather up the weapons and supplies as quickly as you can, you flick off the bodies lying on the ground and Rosita can’t help herself, “I see why Daryl likes you.”

“You’re still on that?” You ask quietly as you move with her to the back of the house, looking around to make sure no one is coming to investigate.

“Honey, I’ll be on that until you’re on him, okay.”

“Oh my god. Okay, I promise, I’ll make it clear to Daryl, but only if we get out of here with everyone alive.”

“I swear to god if-“

“On your knees! Now!” One of the two guards starting to run towards you yells, but it was only a split second later that you were being shot at, again.

You and Rosita book it around the building, stopping her once you see the woman come out of the house with another guard.

Rosita leans around, firing a shot right into the one guards head, but the other one is still back there somewhere.

You go to pull your gun up and you hear your name being yelled.

“Y/n!” She’s pulled back and slammed against the old garage door, falling to the ground with a groan. You turn your gun on the guy who threw her, “Step the fuck back or I wi-“

He smacks the gun up in the air, it fires one time before the man kicks you in the torso, causing you to fly back onto the concrete, “Fuck.”

The man kicks your gun before moving to stand over you and your hands desperately search for something sharp or hard enough to crack his skull open with as you kick to keep him back.

Rosita jumps on his back, yelling as she tries to choke him out.

You scramble to pick up a rock you felt, and as he flings Rosita off, he quickly bends down to try and grab the collar of your jacket, you quickly slam the rock into his temple.

He stumbles back, groaning, and you get up as quick as you can, moving to grab your gun as you glance back at the porch.

One of the guards from

You turn to warn her, but the man you hit with a rock runs at you, slamming you into the brick wall, back first, before he grips your shoulder and neck and delivers another hard slam.

He does it again, this time throwing you away from him you roll across the dirt a few times and groan, coughing from the dust that your body stirred up on impact.

. He steps back, looking towards Rosita who is now standing up, gun in her hand. The guards cant even say or do anything before Rosita shoots both of them, back to back, not even giving them time to think about what they even wanted to say.

Which meant there was only one guard.. and the main bitchshow left.

And speak of the devil, Rosita points the gun to the door as the woman walks out first, Michonne, Rick and Carl all follow, and they have the final guard on their tail.

The woman comes down the steps, walking over to you and Rosita. Her eyes move over to examine the dead bodies of her people.

“There’s more outback, probably making their way up here right now.” Rosita says as she walks up next to you.

“Should have just listened, you now.. because now, I’m going to fucking kill you two in front of everybody.” The woman raises her gun and you scoff, “Go fuck yourself.”

You step towards her, “We never wanted this.”

“That’s funny..bbecause once you’re on my land, this is usually the only way it ever ends up.” The woman looks around, “Looks like we got more than the two out back.”

Walkers push their way through the trees and brush, moaning and groaning as they move towards where the gunshots and yelling has been coming from for the last half an hour.

You swing quick, hitting the gun out of her hand which catches her off guard, “Rosita. Go. I got this.”

She nods and grabs her weapons, making her way up to where Michonne and Rick had just taken out the last guard.

The woman goes to hit you but you grab her arm, jamming your knee into her ribs as she groans, catching your leg and body slamming you onto the ground.

You cough as she stands up, placing her boot on your chest, pressing down as you’re now looking at the shotgun from the bottom of the barrel up.

“If you kill me, you’ll have people after you.” You lay there, looking up at her as you wait a few seconds for your chance to swipe her legs out from under her with yours.

She falls to the ground with a grunt, trying to quickly get to her feet but you tackle her to the ground, instantly starting to wail on her.

“More walkers!” Carl yells loudly and you wrap your hands around the woman’s throat, “Kinda busy here, kid.”

“You got this?” Michonne asks as she looks down at the woman turning purple in your grasp, and you nod.

As soon as Michonne walks away, the woman brings her knee up, hitting you right in the middle of the back.

You tense up, “Fucking bitch!”

She leans up, head butting you in the nose and you fall back, with a quick and blurry glance around, you see walkers, at least twenty or so making their way in from the field.

She moves her body onto yours, straddling your thighs as her knees pin your hands down before she delivered a hard punch to your face, “You really think you can kill me? I’ve been doing this for years.”

“I’m gonna.” You spit blood at her, clenching your jaw as her hands tightens around you neck, “Maybe if I get you out of the picture, I can have that rugged lookin’ archer all to myself.”

“S-say one more fucking thing about him.” Your voice is strained from her grip, “I swe-“ you squeak as she squeezes, lifting your head up off the ground.

She leans in, “I bet he would make me feel so-“

Now you were pissed.

Everything in you felt like it was on fire, “Fuck you.” You manage get out before getting one of your hands free.

You reach up and grab as much of her hair you could get. She groans through gritted teeth as you pull her down with a hard yank, her body lifting to free your other hand.

You immediately try and deliver a punch, but she beats you to it. She cracks you over the mouth, the force busting your lip open again your teeth, and you instantly taste blood, lots of blood.

You grab her by her shirt collar, heaving yourself forward as far as you could go before throwing yourself backwards.

You’re able to get your leg under her, which helped you throws her body over yours.

You quickly move, getting into a standing position, just like her. Your chest rising and falling quickly, face swollen and broken.

More walkers keep coming, but you weren’t leaving this bitch alive.

“Give it up already.” She pulls a knife from her side holder and spins it around over her finger before gripping it.

You keep your stare on her, ready for whatever was about to come.

“Y/n! duck!”

You duck, watching as the knife she threw, land perfectly in the bitches chest. Michonne helps you up before going to take care of the walkers that are a little too close for comfort.

The woman falls to her knees, gasping as she sluggishly brings her hands up to the object protruding out of her chest.

You walk up, putting a hand on her shoulder as you grip the knife with your other hand, “Who are you?”

She smiles up at you, “Oh honey. I’m am only the start of what’s about to come.” Without another second, you twist the knife, pushing it in more before you push it upward.

The woman gasp, groaning in pain as you twist it again, “Oh, and the crossbow wielding psycho, just happens to be the love of my life, and the people you pointed your guns at, are my family.”

“Family doesn’t mean shit.” The woman chokes on her blood, droplets splashing all over, “They just.. screw you over in the long run.”

“Not my family.” You stand up, getting ready to walk away when you fall, due to the slash to your thigh.

Your hand slaps over the open cut in your blood soaked jeans, crying out in pain, just hoping someone can stop bashing heads in enough to hear you.

You look over, quickly trying to push yourself over the broken concrete and stones to get closer to a knife that’s lying on the ground.

The woman moves over as fast as her knees could carry her, “It’s not over until one of us is dead.” She grabs your ankle, holding you from moving any closer.

As she moves up, she puts pressure on your wounded thigh with her knee, making you cry out in pain. You opened your eyes, watching as she brings the knife up,

It all happened so quick, right as her arms went up, you struck, gripping the the knife and plunging it into the side her skull, causing what little life she had left in her, to fully die out.

She falls over, revealing Michonne, who is looking at you, “I’d ask if you were alright, but..” she cringes in a joking manner as she moves down to hold pressure on your thigh. , “..you don’t look it.”

“What the fuck was that?” You ask, laying back on the ground, “I feel like none of that made sense.”

Rosita runs up, falling down as she digs through her bag for medical supplies, “Shit, all I have is gauze, and you need stitches, y/n.” She looks up at you, “Oh my god, your face.”

“Have you seen your face, yet?” You try to raise your brows but you just can’t, “You need em, too.”

Rosita nods, “I can feel that it’s bad.” She laughs slightly, “Alright, lift your leg so I can wrap it quick.” She sighs, “And then we can get the hell out of here..”

“You guys ok-“ Rick stops talking when he sees how beat up you and and Rosita actually are, “I’m so sorry.”

“Rick why are you apologizing?” Rosita asks as she glances up at him. You have your eyes screwed shut as you push through the stinging pain of Michonne holding pressure on your thigh.

“I brought us here I-“ Rick hakes his head and you look at Michonne, “Tell him it’s not his f-ah, fuck.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Rosita says in a mumble.

You look back to Michonne, “Please tell your man that this isn’t his fault. We’ll be okay. We’re the one who live, right?”

Michonne nods, a smile spreading across her face as she looks at Rick and Carl, “We are the ones who live.”

——

About two hours later, you finally reached home.

Your adrenaline has been keeping you going. That was until you seen Daryl’s face fall and him running over to you the second your past the gate.

“What the hell happened?” He yells, looking over the beaten and exhausted group as he goes right to you, “Y/n, hey. Ya still with me.” He cups your cheeks, tilting your head up and holding you with one hand as he snaps with his other.

“We were attacked, they’re dead. But..” Rick shakes his head and Daryl looks down at you as he feels your head move.

You slowly look up at him, a slight smirk on your lips, “I kicked ass, Dixon.”

That’s all you get out before you fall into him again.

“Whoa, hey, alright, alright.” He catches you, holding you up as he turns Rosita’s face to him. He looks at Maggie, nodding towards Rosita, “Take her to get help. I’ve got y/n.”

Daryl picks you up bridal style, carrying you over to the medical trailer. He kicks the door and Dr. Carson opens it, immediately rushing Daryl to bring you in.

You come to again, looking around as you try to figure out where you are exactly.

“Has she fallen asleep or passed out at all?” Carson asks as he moves with Daryl to look at you.

“yeah, yeah, uh..” Daryl’s mind is a mess right now, “..few minutes after they got back, then she collapsed on me right before I brought’er over.”

He lays you down on the table and you groan in pain, “S’okay. We’re gonna get you better.”

“Try and keep her talking.” Carson turns his attention to you, “Y/n, hi, it’s Dr. Carson, do you want any pain medication?”

You shake your head, whimpering at the pain setting in more and more, “No. no.”

“We have plenty, y/n. I sug-“

You cut Carson off in a snappy tone, “I said no.”

“Alright.. Do you know what happened, y/n?” He asks as he shines a light into your eyes, “Can you see me?”

You nod, groaning as you close your eyes again. He moves to get an IV ready while you mumble memories about the day you’ve just encountered. You try to move your leg but you forgot about your injury first a second.

You groan, “The fucking bitch in the woods.”

Daryl and the doctor look at each other then back to you.

“Hey.” You can feel Daryl lean in, interlocking his fingers with yours. You give it a weak squeeze and slowly turn your head towards him, wincing in pain. He lays a hand on your head gently, “None uh that shit, don’t be forcing yourself to look at me.” He shakes his head, trying to blink away the gloss coating in his eyes.

“But.. I like looking at you.” You smile slightly and Daryl sniffles, giving you a slight laugh, “I know whatcha mean, darlin’.”

You raise your hand up slowly, laying it on his cheek, “If.. i-f it makes you feel any better, I ki-lled her because she s-aid shit, shit.”

Your body starts tensing as Carson wipes the excess blood from your thigh. You whimper, returning your attention back to Daryl, “About you.”

He scoff, shaking his head slightly, “Me?”

“Said.” You grit your teeth, squeezing Daryl’s hand and the table below you, “You were a long.. haired.. c-crossbow wielding psycho, but.. but that was before I-I pissed her off.. enough to say some.. more dumb shit.”

Your words are almost a mumble, but Daryl focuses enough on you to understand what you’re saying, “what else she say?”

You shake your head, “I’ll tell… you later.. Where’s Rosita?”

“She’s with Maggie and Enid.” Daryl assures you, “She’s fine. Jus’like you’re gonna be.” He brings your hand up slowly and gently presses his lips to your turning purple knuckles.

“Y’sure you don’t want any pain meds, y/n?” Daryl asks, his words full of concern. You nod slightly, “I’m sure.”

You squeeze Daryl’s hand tight and he lays his other one on top of your hand. You arch your back slightly, “Fuck, Carson that hurts.”

“I know, I know but I have to clean it out.” Carson answers as he continues to work on your thigh.

“Tell me more about what happened, hm.” Daryl reaches in ever so gently as he moves hair from your face without trying to touch any bruised and swollen skin, but you didn’t care what he did, “Y’think you can tell me how you kicked ass?”

“Mhm.” You close your eyes and reopen them slowly, “We.. went, to that apa-apartment complex and a-ah..” you wince, “..As we were deciding on where to go, they came up behind us, held us at gun point while she ran her mouth.”

“They, who?” Daryl asks, “What did they say, what did they want?”

You work through telling Daryl about when those people first arrived behind you and what all happened in the woods.

“She thought you were the leader’n not Rick?” He smooths his free hand over your hair, “You did kick ass, huh.”

You smile, letting out a sigh, “I wanted to e-end her the-” You wince at the sting from the second round of the antiseptic on your leg, “Second I s-saw her stupid smug looking face.”

You tense up, groaning lowly as tears form in your eyes, “Um, she.. she wanted to know why we, we were on her land? Took our weapons, back..packs..” you let out a long breathe, “Said she had other questions?”

You go into telling him about how you and Rosita got alone and what you were able to do to kill the first two guards and how dumb the woman was because she were to only send two.

“They didn’t ..do nothing, right?” Daryl asks, tensing up as he let’s out a huff, “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em all.”

“They’re both dead, Daryl.” You whimper out, taking a deep breath, “They’re all dead. Rosita and I took care of them.”

“Wait, hold on a minute. Y’both took out.. how many guards yourselves exactly?” Daryl asks and you fight back a laugh, knowing it’ll hurt, “Five. Rick and Michonne got the.. last guard.”

“Alright, y/n, I’m going to ask you one last time.” Carson looks at you and you turn your head slowly, “No.”

“Alright. Sutures are going to be going in soon, okay? I’m going to need you to try and sit as still as you possibly can, do you think you can do that?”

“Like I have a choice to go anywhere.” You mumble, “Sorry i-“

“Nah, stop that.” Daryl shakes his head, “You’re in pain, we get it.” Daryl glances up at you, squinting his eyes as he leans in to look at your neck.

He lets out a low growl, “If there’s more. M’gonna find them ‘em. They’re fucking dead.” Daryl’s leg was bouncing up and down.

“Stop, stop, Daryl. I’m fin-.” You dig your nails into his hand as your back arches with the first stitch going through your skin.

Your eyes start to close then reopen as you try to keep yourself awake and talking to Daryl, but you cannot form any words right now.

“Hey, hey.” Daryl tries to comfort you but he doesn’t really know how, “Stay right here, darlin’.” He lays his hand on your head leaning in towards you more, “Don’t y’even think about leavin’ me.”

“I’m not..” you whisper out, “Going anywhere.”

You clench your bruised jaw, keeping your lips shut tight whenyou feel Carson do another suture, “The l-eader..” you groan, taking a deep breath, “..said that-that this is just.. the beginning.. I don’t..”

Carson squeezes a little bit harder and you are forcing yourself not to kick him in the face, “Fuck I want to kill you now, too.”

He shrugs it off, knowing that it’s just the pain and anger talking. He just shakes his head as he keeps his eyes on his work.

Daryl lays his hand on the lesser bruised side of your face, “Y’don’t gotta keep talking, if ya don’t want to.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, “You’re doing so good, almost done, baby.”

You can’t lie, your heart absolutely fluttered out of your body with his words, “I-I got..” you squeeze your eyes shut as you feel the final two sutures go in, a sigh of relief falling from your lips when Carson steps back, “Thigh is done, now let me have a look at that cheek.”

You turn your head, following commands from Carson all while Daryl still holds your hands.

He hates that you’re going through this, he’s kicking his own ass over not just going with you like you asked.

He blames himself, and you knew that, too.

Two hours has gone by, Carson said you could sleep so that’s what you did.

You opened your eyes, looking around to see that you’re in an actual bedroom and not the medical trailer anymore.

You try to sit up, just as Daryl comes back into the room, “Thought you would have been out longer, m’sorry.”

“Don’t do that.” You say soft as you look up at him. He shrugs and shakes his head, “Do what?”

He’s avoiding eye contact with you, that’s how you know something’s up.

“Can you help me sit up?”

Daryl is right there, sliding a hand on your back as you hold onto his other one to sit up.

“Good?” He asks, “How’s your pain?”

“I’m not taking any meds.” You argue and Daryl chuckles slightly, “Why are you are so stubborn sometimes.”

“Says you.” You smile up at him, shaking your head, “I just… I didn’t want to be taking it away from someone who needed it more than me, I-“

“Y’needed it though, baby. Somethin’ could’a-“ He stops for a second, “why ya lookin’ at me like that?”

You shake your head, a small smile resting on your lips, “What meds did I get?”

He sighs, “Look, I had Carson give ya antibiotics, a’right, but thats it.”

You nod, “Thank you.”

He looks up at you confused, “Y’not mad at me?”

“Mad at you for, what? Caring about me?” You shake your head, “I don’t think I could ever be mad at anyone who tries anything they can to keep me in their life.”

Daryl looks up at you, nodding as his eyes scan over you purple and stitched up cheek and your voice is low, “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“But It happened to you.” Daryl stands up, walking over to the window before you can grab his arm, “Daryl.”

He keeps looking out and you sigh, “Don’t make me get up.”

He turns slightly, sighing before making his way back over to you, because he knows you’d try, “Don’t y’even think ‘bout it.”

“Look at me then.” You reach out, moving your finger slightly. His hand immediately finds yours and you can hear him trying not to get upset.

You give his hand a squeeze, “Hey.”

He leans over, careful not to put pressure on your hurt thigh. His arms wrap around you, holding you as you close your eyes.

You hand moves up and down his back, squeezing him tighter when you feel his body jolt slightly with a sniffle, “Daryl.” Your voice is just enough for him to hear, “it’s not your fault.”

You feel him nod, but he still doesn’t let go, “jus’don’t wanna loose ya.” He mumbles into your neck, laying his hand on the back of your head, “I like ya, a lot actually.”

“I told Rosita the same thing about you.”

He lifts his head, leaning back as he wipes his cheeks on the back of his gloved hand, “Been goin’ on t’me bout you, too.”

“That’s no surprise.” You laugh slightly, closing your eyes at the pain, “I’m good.” You look at him, knowing that he hates seeing you in pain, “I promise I’ll ask for medicine if it gets worse.”

Daryl goes to say something, but you cut him off, “Just shut up and kiss me.”

He rubs his thumb over his fingers, giving you a slight shrug and nod, “If y’want that,”

You tilt your head, reaching your hand out to him, “I want you.”

He smirks, laughing slightly as he shakes his head, “You’re gonna be the death’a me.” He leans over, hand moving up to rest on your neck.

You lean in, closing the space between you as your hands move up to cup his cheeks.

“You know you called me baby a few times.”

Daryl laughs softly, “I know.”

There’s a soft knock on the door before it opens, “Y/n?”

Daryl leans in, pecking your lips a few times before he tilts his head to kiss your cheek, “M’gonna go talk to Rick, ya good?”

You nod, brushing your thumb over his cheek, “More than good.” You smile and he kisses you a few more times before he stands up.

Rosita is standing there, arms crossed as she watches Daryl with a smile, “See, what did I say?”

He just shakes his head, a small on his face as he looks up at her, “You doin’ a’right?”

She nods, “I’m good.” You watch as Rosita comes over to sit next to you on the bed, “We’re good. Now, go.” She laughs slightly as she waves her hand, “We have things to talk about.”

——

Let me know what you think! I truly love each and every one of you. Thank you so much for reading! 🖤

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

[charnelhouse]

Thinking of ghost as a dad makes me think of red taking her toddler son shopping for Halloween decorations and seeing a skeleton and the sweet boy is pointing and bouncing up and down like “it’s dada!”

A/N: Ghost x F!Reader (Red Fox). Pure fluff. This ask made me curl up with joy.

She’s a little late. Only ten minutes and it could be anything: traffic, an additional errand, a parking lot shoot-out. Simon’s fingers twitch as his cell phone sits on the coffee table.

It’s only ten minutes.

Ten. Minutes.

He’d lost her in Ecuador for four fucking days, and she’d been fine. Well, relatively fine. Alive.

She can survive anything. He knows this. He feels this. But he cannot shake the belief that one day, his past will catch up to him and take her away. 

Don’t be a fuckhead, Simon. If it’s anyone’s past, it’s going to be mine. 

That makes me feel better, duchess. 

We’re sharing the burden, babe. Lucky for this kid, he’s got two spec ops, hot-ass parents. 

Yah really love a finger gun, don’t you? 

It’s called levity, dude. You’re too damn broody. 

“Don’t call her.”

Simon startles before side-eyeing Johnny, who is spread out on the far end of the couch. “I wasn’t gonna,” he growls defensively. 

“You’re staring at that phone like it’s a bomb.”

“She’s late.”

“She’s running errands with your enormous toddler. Yah know how hard it is to lift that kid? Try wrestling him into a car seat. Took me half an hour.”

Simon scowls. “Of course, I know. I do raise him.”

Johnny wiggles his eyebrows. “He takes after me.”

“Yeah, my enormous son is definitely your kid, tiny.”

“I’m six fuckin’ feet. Thank yah very much.”

“You’re still here?” 

Simon twists around to see Red standing in the doorway. She’s got their son on her hip and an orange plastic bag in her other hand. She leaves him breathless. Her skin dewy, her hair falling in her face. Stunning in a way that burns him. He still wants to shove her over a table and wreck her, but that desire is now weighted with something far more tender. She’s carried his baby.

He knew she’d be a good mother, but he didn’t expect her to excel at it so...perfectly. She can handle a tantrum and peel a man’s skin off.  She can silence him with a look.

“Simon said I could stay for dinner,” Johnny declares.

“I did not,” Simon refutes as he stands, rolling his shoulders. Their son’s tiny lips peel apart into a toothy grin, he claps his chubby hands together. 

“Dada,” he squeals as he opens his arms. 

Ghost smiles back, unable to blunt the joy that unfurls in his chest. Sometimes it’s all too much. 

“He got you something,” Red says as she places him on the floor. When she straightens, she presses her hand to her lower back. “Jesus - that kid is heavy. Remind me to stop having your babies.”

“Uhuh,” Ghost says dutifully. “Of course.”

She’d threatened to leave him a thousand times when she was giving birth. Their son’s head had not been easy to deliver. 

Red pulls something from her bag and hands it to their son, who waddles toward him. Simon crouches and sweeps him up in his arms. The boy squeals again delighted. 

“What have you got there?” he asks as he nuzzles his nose into the down of his son’s head, the soft velvet curls. He smells like Red’s perfume.

“Dada!” he giggles as he lifts a plastic skeleton. Soap barks with laughter. 

“He saw it in the store and lost it,” Red says as she walks toward them, placing a hand on the boy’s back. He shakes the skeleton before hugging it close. “Kept calling it dada. Got a lot of weird looks.” She cocks her head, her tongue darting over her lower lip. “I just wanted everyone to know that I’m getting it from a really hot skeleton.”

“Yah got a filthy head, Foxy.”

“You don’t even live here, Johnny.”

“Dada,” his son murmurs as he burrows his face into Simon’s throat. The skeleton is clutched against his chest, and he feels the boy relax, his damp, milky breath puffing against him as he nods off. 

Simon clears his throat, blinking a few times. There’s a raw snag of emotion in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow. Simon tries to pull the skeleton from the boy’s hands to look at it, but his son yanks it closer. 

“Typical,” Red remarks, her lips quirking in amusement. 

“What is?” Simon smirks because he already knows.

“Do you know how hard it is to shake you off when you’re asleep? It’s like being spooned by a bull slash octopus.”

“It’s true,” Johnny interjects in an empathetic tone. “Remember Siberia?”

“That was a life and death situation!” Simon snaps. “Sub-zero temperatures.”

Red’s eyes widen, her expression intrigued. “Give me the details, Johnny, and I’ll make you dinner.”

[wannabeschyulersister]

Clingy Carmen?

It had been a week and a half since you last saw Carmy. Your best friend from college was getting married in Maine and you wanted to be there with her to finalize any details and of course on her big day. You took your maid of honor duties very seriously.

You missed Carmen everyday. He would text you during the day to check on you but it wasn’t very often. You knew he was extremely busy so you didn’t take it to heart. He did FaceTime you once right when he got home one early morning. He looked exhausted so you didn’t chat too long.

On your last day in Maine, you got a text from Richie.

Richie: next time you go out of town, take my idiot cousin w/ you. He’s been a fuckin nightmare.

It was around nine in the evening when your flight got in. By the time you made it out of the airport and got a cab, it was close to half past ten. You knew it was still early and Carmy wouldn’t be home anytime soon.

To your surprise, he was already sitting on your sofa when you walked into your apartment. When he spotted you, it was like you could see the stress leave his body.

“Carmy? What are you doing here?”

He stood up and made his way towards you without saying a word. He grabbed you by the waist and pulled you closer to him, “I missed you so fuckin’ much.”

You returned the hug without a second thought. He smelled of your body wash and cigarettes. A weird but familiar scent. “I missed you too.”

Carmy held onto you tight, but not painfully, as if he were scared you would slip right through his arms. “Richie sent me home. Said I was being a dick.”

You laughed a little. Your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat soothing you in that moment. “If Richie said that then you must’ve really been a dick. He texted me saying that I should bring you with me next time.”

“That dick.” He mumbled as he rested his head on top of yours. You rubbed his back softly and for the first time in a week and a half, Carmen felt at peace.

When you left, he felt this knot forming in his chest. It seemed to get bigger and bigger as the week went on. He felt restless and irritable. Now, with you in his arms, it felt like that knot was gone. He felt like he was finally able to breathe.

“I need to shower and get this airport smell off of me.”

Carmy reluctantly let you go but grabbed your hand in one and your luggage in another. He brought you to the bedroom and watched as you gathered clothes for a shower.

He sat on the toilet seat as you bathed and told him about the wedding. He wanted to hear all of the details about the week.

As soon as you stepped out of the shower and wrapped yourself with your towel, he was up and hugged you from behind. His head resting on your shoulder. You reached back and touched his hair softly, “You really missed me, huh?”

“You have no idea.” He mumbled as he kissed your bare shoulder.

He watched as you did your skin care routine and helped brush your hair. Carmy was delicate with it in a soothing way.

“Did you eat somethin’? I should’ve asked when you first got here.”

You nodded, “Yeah, I grabbed a sandwich at the airport.”

Once you were dressed for the night in your favorite pajamas, you made your way to the living room when Carmy right on your heels. He had a movie playing from before but he hadn’t been paying too much attention to it. He had been antsy for your arrival.

You sat down on the sofa and he sat right next to you. Arm around your shoulders and he pulled you closer so you were resting against his chest. He breathed in the scent of your floral shampoo.

“How has things been at the restaurant this past week?” You asked him as he trailed his fingers up and down your left arm.

He sighed, “Horrible. We only have six weeks until we open and it seems like everything is shit.”

You hated leaving Carmy in the middle of the restaurant’s renovation. You had a full-time job that made you unavailable to help during work hours. The second you were off for the day, you made your way to The Bear. Carmy appreciated you being there for him to help with any decisions where he needed the opinion of Sydney or you.

Sometimes, you just being there to give him a quick kiss or a comforting touch on his arm made a world of a difference. He felt safe whenever you were near. Like he could handle any shit that was thrown his way.

“You know I’m here to help with anything that you need.” You told him softly.

Carmy kissed the top of your head, “I know. I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”

[ivystoryweaver]

Day 11: I Never Knew (Marc, Jake, Steven)

Summary: You meet up with all 3 Moon Boys one fateful night

Notes: gn!reader, angst, violence, fluff, protective Moon Boys being the absolute best TW: abuse. This story starts with an abusive boyfriend.

Word Count: 4.8k

Angstember Prompt Post

Your boyfriend of two years had tested the last of your patience. At first you loved his passionate hotheadedness. You quickly fell for him and moved in together six months later. It was lovely at first, to have someone fun and spontaneous, to sleep next to a warm, protective body at night.

After about a year together, you realized something wasn't right. Your boyfriend kept odd hours, whispered hushed conversations over the phone, made "quick stops" at the oddest hours to the shadiest places.

And that hotheaded passion sizzled into blame and resentment every time you tried to reason with him. He was always quick to apologize, to bring you flowers, or a gift, to take you out for the night, lavishing you with attention and intense, vigorous sex.

So you gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was trying, and every couple had their struggles.

But the fuse of his temper got shorter, and his actions, more suspect. He lost his regular job but somehow still brought home money. When you questioned him, he accused you of not trusting him. Something felt wrong, you knew it deep in your bones, but you told yourself that relationships take work and compromise.

It was just last week that you demanded to know why he was out all night - who he was with and where they went. He'd raised his voice before, on occasion, but that early morning was different. He roared out accusations, lunging at you, and continued yelling and screaming over your cowered body. He didn't touch you, but his words beat you down, literally to the ground, where he left you afraid, sobbing and alone.

That's what it took to make you realize he was abusive. Clearly, he was now verbally abusive, but you started to understand that he had been manipulative, dishonest and controlling the entire time, lying about finances and whereabouts.

He had abused you in almost every way, except physically. You knew it was time to leave, so you started to plan how you would secure yourself a place to stay and what to tell him.

Your phone rang as you finished packing your suitcase - the first of many things you needed to move out. Not recognizing the number, you ignored the call. But it rang again and again and again, with a voicemail that warned you to answer. You blocked the number and tried to frantically dial emergency when your boyfriend burst through the front door, enraged.

Barreling into your bedroom, he roared at you, demanding to know what you did with "the money". Apparently, the phone call was from his boss, calling to collect.

"You mean my money? From my job?" You challenged, shrugging him off and zipping your suitcase closed.

Jerking the luggage out of your hand, he screamed at you about how he needed that money for his boss, how he'd taken care of you all this time, and you owed him.

"You're gonna give me that fuckin' money," he spat, lunging toward you, but you were already running out the door with only your phone in your hand. You thankfully made it into the lift with the doors closed before he caught up, and you could only pray he wouldn't make it down the several floors of stairs and beat you to the lobby.

There was no one downstairs to help you, so you raced out the door into the night, frantically attempting to dial 999 while crying and trying to stay ahead of your insane boyfriend.

You ran as fast as you could, but he was bigger and stronger, and he was gaining on you. Attempting to cut through an alley, your lungs burned, painfully dragging in breath as you pushed yourself toward safety.

But he found you.

Your mobile clattered to the ground as he grabbed both your arms and shoved you hard against a brick wall, calling you all manner of vile names and demanding you give him the money from your account.

Noticing your phone, he twisted your wrist well beyond the point of pain. "You didn't call anyone, did you, bitch? If you get the police involved I'll fucking kill you."

You had already drained your joint account and put money in your personal savings account so that you could afford a deposit on a new place, at least get a moving truck and hook up some utilities. You didn't take any more money than you had made from your job at the museum.

"I owe my boss money and I need it right fucking now," he bellowed, wrapping one hand around your throat and squeezing. “Tell me where it is.”

Unbelievable that it took you til right now to realize your boyfriend was more than an asshole, he was apparently a criminal. Or at least his boss might be if he was demanding a midnight payoff "or else".

"I moved... the money," you gasped, completely out of breath from the running and the crying and the choking and the fear.

He gripped your shoulders and slammed you hard against the wall. "We're going to get it right now. Then we're going home and you're gonna get on your hands and knees and pay for all this shit you put me through."

You whimpered, trembling at his threats, disgusted that his eyes flashed with self-satisfaction. He slipped two fingers into your mouth, pushing them far enough to gag you, an evil chuckle making you cry harder.

"Oh yeah. We're gonna have fun tonight, baby."

"I don't think she wants to be your 'baby', shithead."

You gasped as two eerie, white gloved hands grabbed your boyfriend's head and slammed it against the wall, hard enough to knock him out cold, but not enough to bash his skull in. Unfortunately.

Through your tears, you saw an etherial mummy figure, bandaged and gauzey white, with haunting, moonlit eyes. Your body quaked with more terror than you'd ever known. Perhaps he was the boss your boyfriend was so afraid of.

You passed out in Moon Knight’s arms.

"Shit," Marc Spector hissed, lifting your limp body into a protective embrace. He'd heard your screaming blocks away. Khonshu had directed him to the asshole passed out on the pavement next to you, letting Marc know he was a small player in an elaborate criminal organization. It would keep him busy tonight.

Brushing your hair out of your eyes, he sighed. "Didn't mean to scare you." He decided to take you to A&E, but before he walked away, he kicked your unconscious boyfriend in the side for good measure.

You woke up on a hospital bed, alone, a long while later. It appeared you had been triaged but not admitted. Remembering your boyfriend's threats, you decided you better bail before the police questioned you or you found yourself responsible for medial bills you couldn't pay.

You were scraped and sore, but nothing seemed permanent, so you did your best to sneak back to the waiting room where you could blend in with other would-be patients. One nurse seemed to glance at you questioningly, but you managed to make it out the sliding glass doors and into the night.

Now what could you do? You had no money, no phone, no purse, no bank card, credit cards or cash. Your suitcase was back at your flat. Ambling around the side of the building, you shivered in the night air, realizing even your jacket was still in the building.

Tears burned your eyes but you couldn't give into them. Not now. Your best friend was out of town. It was a long weekend for your co-workers, at least in the office part of the museum. Your parents lived in another country.

Think, think.

A few minutes later, an old fashioned cab pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window lowered revealing a man with a flat cap and a mustache.

"Need a ride, señorita?"

Drawing your hands to your chest protectively, you quickly shook your head. "I-I don't have any money. I dropped my phone."

Shit. Why did you admit that to a stranger?

Jake Lockley nodded understandingly. He had been watching the hospital to make sure you had a ride, should you emerge. Marc's idea, after he did a little late night ass kicking. Marc knew the Moon Knight suit would frighten you, but he wanted to make sure you were okay. A cab ride might seem less intimidating.

"It's on me. You look like you could use a little help."

Tempting. But he probably worked for your boyfriend's boss. "No. No thank you. I'm fine."

"Understood. Be careful out there." He rolled up the window almost all the way before pausing. "I'll swing back by in a while, just in case you change your mind." He drove off without another word.

If he was aiming to hurt you or kidnap you, surely he could have forced you into the car, or worked harder to convince you it was safe to get into the car.

Weighing your options, you decided to try to walk back to the alley where the terrifying white-suited, Avenger-looking dude saved you. Hopefully your boyfriend would be gone and you could at least find your phone. From there, you would have a way to call a cab or the police or at least use money from your account.

As soon as you started walking, you realized how stupid this plan was. But what else could you do? It took you forever, but you finally found your way back to where you were attacked. Your boyfriend was indeed gone and after a maddening search, you found your phone with a cracked screen and 12% battery left.

Better than nothing. You thought you might order an Uber, but where could you go? Not home. Where?

Maybe to work. Someone there would help you, surely. Perhaps Steven from the gift shop - probably the kindest person you'd ever met. He lived in your building too, although you weren't sure in which flat.

You ordered the Uber, and ten minutes later, the same old fashioned cab pulled up to the curb. Your stomach flip-flopped, wondering if this mustached weirdo followed you. But he showed you the Uber confirmation and it was correct.

"But this is a cab," you reasoned.

He chuckled. "They don't make ‘em like this anymore, doll. This is my Uber car."

You tried to listen to your protective instincts, but the sun was rising. You'd been out all night and he was a legitimate driver. So you tucked yourself in the back seat.

The man tipped his hat, announced his name was Jake, and closed the door for you.

"Headed home?" He asked, glancing up at you in his rearview mirror.

"Uh no. No, I can't go home," you quickly answered, wrapping your arms around yourself and rubbing up and down with your hands.

"Got the heat on for you," he kindly offered, "and my jacket's laying across the back seat there, if you need it."

Your eyes cut over to the tempting leather. Without thinking about it too hard, you snatched the garment and pulled it around your trembling shoulders. The smell of not only leather but crisp freshness and earthy warmth, along with something like amber and oak, washed over you. You buried your nose in the comfort of it, grateful for this small mercy.

"Warming up?" He asked you after a quiet few minutes.

"Yes, thank you. You're very kind."

"My pleasure," he grinned in the rearview mirror and it made his eyes crinkle. Steven, from the museum, came to mind. His eyes did that too. "Where can I drop you? Have you decided yet or should I drive around for a while?"

"Oh god, sorry. One sec." Checking the time on your phone, you realized you'd been out practically all night, and the museum would open in a little more than an hour. You could wait outside. "The natural history museum, please."

"A little early for a trip through time. You sure?"

Just then, your stomach growled embarrassingly loudly.

"You ever eat at the bakery right down the street?"

"Um, sometimes." You fidgeted uncomfortably.

"No pressure. You just look like you could use something warm to drink."

Without another word, Jake pulled up to the museum's front entrance. You reached for the door handle, but stopped. "Actually...you're right. Could you drive me to the bakery? I'll just walk back to the museum when I'm done."

"As you wish."

A few minutes later, the old cab parked outside one of the only open restaurants at this hour. Jake rushed around to open the door for you and you quickly handed him his jacket.

"You can wear it if you're cold. No rush."

There was something warm and sincere in his eyes. Again your mind drifted to Steven.

"Thank you." As the two of you walked inside, you held up your phone. "I tried to pay for the Uber and leave you a tip, but it won't let me. Did the transaction get cancelled or something?"

"I told you," Jake reminded you, pulling open the bakery door, "My treat."

"Oh. Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

The two of you sat down and were quickly served glasses of water.

"At least let me pay for breakfast," you offered, but he laughed.

"They only take cash here, I think."

"Jake!" An older man bellowed, bustling up to the table with a karafe of piping hot coffee and two mugs. "We take more than cash. You can always wash the dishes."

The man winked down at you. "I'm teasing, sweetheart. Name's Burt. Janey got one of those Square things, so you can pay on your mobile if you do that kind of thing." He nodded at Jake. "But I'd make this one pay if I were you. Coffee or tea?"

You chuckled, happy to get your hands on a steaming mug of coffee, and slightly relieved that you wouldn't fall further into Jake's debt.

Soon enough, you filled your belly with a warm, flaky pastry and some eggs, polishing off two cups of coffee while you and Jake talked.

"Do you mind if I ask why you're going to the museum?" Jake inquired.

"Um...I work there," you slowly admitted.

"Oh." An unreadable expression clouded his handsome features. "But...I found you at the hospital last night. Are you hurt?"

Your eyes dipped in shame.

"Not trying to be nosy, just...concerned, is all." Gently reaching across the table, he pulled a leaf from your hair. An actual leaf.

You were mortified.

"Wanna freshen up before work?" He nodded toward the washroom.

"Yeah. Thanks." You made a beeline for the loo, wondering why you hadn't thought to put yourself together before walking into the museum like a crazy person.

Jake was right to be concerned. You looked like hell. Dark circles had formed under your eyes. Before you could continue silently berating yourself, the waitress named Janey quietly slipped through the swinging door.

"You okay, dear?" She softly asked, eyeing you in the mirror. Before you could answer, she handed you a clean cloth.

"Thank you," you whispered, gingerly taking the cloth and running it under the faucet. The kindness around you made you sniffle, and you were left wondering why you spent so much time on an asshole like your boyfriend.

"Rough night?" She waved her hand dismissively. "Don't want to pry. Just want to help."

"Thanks," you repeated. "Do you have a toothbrush for sale? Or...mints?"

Between you and Janey, you managed to clean up your mouth, wipe down the upper part of your body and manage to tame your hair.

"You come back by any time, dear," she said lowly as you walked back toward your table, but she reached out her arm to stop you. "I mean it. Anytime."

You nodded, reaching for your phone so you could pay for your meal. "On the house, sweetheart," Burt smiled down at you. "A friend of Jake's is a friend of mine."

You were speechless. Where had all the nice people been hiding?

Jake's eyes lit up when he saw you and he rose to greet you. "Feeling any better?"

You nodded, reaching for one more sip of water before you got back in the cab/Uber.

"Your friends are really nice. I haven't eaten there in a long time."

"We try to help each other out," Jake voiced, stealing a glance at you in the rearview mirror. "It can be rough out there."

You made it to the museum, thankful it would open soon. "You sure I can't pay you, or at least give you a good tip?" You asked him as he opened your door and offered you his gloved hand like a prince in a fairy tale.

"Just promise you'll call me if you need a ride. Or...anything. We'll call it even." He fidgeted with his mustache and you chuckled. Not a look you saw every day but he wore it well.

You thanked him again, but he noticed you stealing glances at his mustache.

"My uh...roomates think this thing is the worst. Not a good look?"

"Oh no," you laughed, "it's very dashing."

Jake bowed jokingly. "My lady."

You walked right into the museum wearing his jacket.

The security officer didn't recognize you because he worked weekends and you didn't. Probably a good thing. You could only hope Steven was scheduled today. But at least being inside the museum would give you a safe, comfortable place to think.

After meandering through several exhibits, you checked back at the gift shop, only to find Donna, Steven's boss, berating him for being late. He apologized profusely, professing that he had no idea why he hadn't heard his alarm. Poor thing. He was so sweet and Donna was just the worst.

She finally let him get to work, and as soon as she headed back to her office, you approached him carefully.

"Hi, Steven," you smiled at him, hoping he would have time to help you.

His eyes brightened when he saw you, but quickly narrowed in concern. You must really look like hell. "You alright, love?"

Bouncing on your toes, you shook your head quickly. "Not really. Can we talk?"

Steven knew he would get in trouble for leaving his post, but this was you. If you needed his help, Donna would have to wait.

Sure enough, she barreled back into the gift shop, ready for a lecture, but Steven pressed his hands together and demanded one more minute.

Guiding you by the elbow, he took you to a quiet corner. "Thought you had a long weekend. What brings you in?"

You asked if there might be any way you could talk in private, in one of the employee lounges. "I know you just got here. I can wait."

Chewing on his lip, he glanced between you and the swinging door where Donna lurked in her evil lair.

"Come on."

Once you were totally alone, he hesitantly reached for your face. “May I?” He whispered, gingerly brushing his fingertips over a scrape on your face. Peering down at your bruised wrist, he gently lifted your hand, shaking his head and exhaling sharply through his nose.

"You're hurt." His eyes locked with yours. "Who did this?"

Your face crumpled and you melted into his arms, the stress of the entire, sleepless night catching up to you. You knew this was the place to go, absolutely certain you would feel safe with Steven.

His heart burned protectively. The two of you sometimes ran into one another on your break, mostly out on the museum's front steps or at the vegan restaurant along the street. Occasionally you saw one another on the train home, or even in your building. He knew you had a boyfriend - the dimwitted bloke.

If that asshole hurt you...

"It's alright. You're safe here." He squeezed you comfortingly.

You finally settled, wiping your nose and eyes with Jake's jacket sleeve. Steven's eyes went wide as he studied the jacket carefully, but he shook his head and focused on you.

"Tell me what happened. What can I do?"

The softest brown eyed gaze you'd ever seen coaxed your confession out of you.

"I need your help," you whispered. "I need to get back into our building, but I don't have my key, or any of my stuff." You produced your phone. "And my phone is dead."

"Okay, of course," he nodded sincerely. "What about your boyfriend?"

"No, no, not him. I think he wants to kill me." You started to cry again.

"To k-kill you? Should we go to the police?"

"No, no police. I just need to get into my flat before my boyfriend gets back. If he's not back already."

Steven sighed. "I knew that dimwitted bloke was an asshole, but - kill you?"

"Steven, please can you help me or not?"

"Of course I will. Do you want to go now?"

"I don't want to get you in trouble with Donna. But my boss is her boss' boss...if that helps. I’ll ask him to pull rank.”

You and Steven took the train back to your building. Although you were half tempted to request Jake's Uber, Steven quickly dismissed that notion without sounding rude.

He let you in the building and you found the super, letting him know you "lost" your key. The super seemed willing to let you in, but warned you not to let it happen again.

As you exited the lift, you carefully looked for any sign of your boyfriend.

"What if he's home?" Steven whispered. "How will you know?

"I guess we just have to take that chance."

The super unlocked your door and you tiptoed inside with Steven behind you. The place seemed to be empty, thank god.

Darting to your bedroom, you recovered the packed luggage your jerk boyfriend tossed aside last night. You rushed to your safe to collect some important documents, working as quickly as you could manage. You made it out the door, not caring that you left it unlocked, dragging your luggage and almost making it around the corner when your heart stopped at the sound of your boyfriend shouting, "Hey!"

You and Steven exchanged looks before he grabbed your hand and your luggage. "Quickly! The stairs."

Trusting his lead, you ran, making your way to his flat, several floors up, before your boyfriend could follow, or figure out what floor you ended up on.

Steven ushered you into his flat, bolting the door as the two of you panted erratically from your exertion.

"Thank you," you gasped, reaching for your baggage. Finally getting a good look around, you couldn't believe how different Steven's flat looked from yours. His was on the top floor, in what appeared to be a loft, or converted old attic. The roof was steeply pitched with skylights offering more natural light than just the windows.

More than a dozen bookshelves burst with multicolored, worn paperbacks and gorgeous hardbacks. Ancient Egyptian artifacts, maps and souvenirs littered his cluttered desk and shelves. And in the middle of it all sat a bright aquarium with three plump goldfish.

You felt as if you stepped through a portal into another world. How could this place be in your building?

"Steven, your place is..."

"Bit of a mess, yeah? Sorry. Who's the biggest hoarder around? Me." He blushed, pointing to himself.

"No, it's wonderful. It's so different than my flat. It's like an old library."

He smiled, emboldened by your compliment. "You like to read?"

"Not this much, but yes. I do. I like the skylights." You locked eyes with him. "It's really soothing here." Reaching for his arm, you squeezed gently. "Thank you for helping me."

"Anytime." The crinkles around his warm eyes reminded you of Jake. It occured to you then, that Jake had also reminded you of Steven.

"Cuppa tea?" He asked, nodding toward the kitchen.

"Sure," you shrugged, following him. "I'll help."

The two of you worked quietly for a moment, when you asked him if he had a brother.

He swallowed hard. "I did...long time ago. He passed away."

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry, Steven." God, what an idiot you were. "I just...you reminded me of someone and I just thought, maybe... I'm really sorry."

"'Salright. You didn't know."

The two of you prepped the tea, boiling the kettle before steeping the leaves.

"This is his jacket, actually," you finally continued. "I forgot to give it back to him after he gave me a cab ride. Or...Uber, actually. He uses a vintage cab as his Uber car."

Steven almost dropped the cup and saucer he was holding. "That so?"

"Yeah, he helped me last night. Like I said, I forgot to give him back his jacket. He was kind, and when he smiled...he reminded me of you."

"O-of me?" Steven cleared his throat.

"Yeah." You shrugged. "Anyway, I'm sorry about the brother thing, but I just wondered. He had like this 1980s mustache though."

Steven, who had just brought a sip of tea to his lips spat it right back into his teacup, coughing a few times. "You're not serious. A silly little tache?"

You giggled. "Yes. I told him it was dashing. He wore it well. But he reminded me of you somehow. American lad though. Thick accent."

"Mmm," Steven nodded, cleaning up the mess he'd made. "I'm happy Jake was able to help you."

Your eyes went wide. "I didn't tell you his name."

Steven's mouth dropped open. "Right. I actually know him. Flat cap? Mustache?" He pointed at you. "Leather jacket, cab?"

"Oh," you gasped, smiling. "Don't you think you guys could be related?"

Pressing his lips together, Steven answered diplomatically. "Never really thought about it exactly like that, but...yes, I suppose so."

He paused for a moment before growing more serious. "So what's going on with your boyfriend? Or, ex-boyfriend, I hope."

"Yes, definitely," you assured him, attempting to explain what you'd gone through lately and how you suspected your boyfriend of working for a crime boss of some sort.

"As much as I love this flat, I'm even scared for you to live in this shit hole building with him, Steven. I think he's really dangerous."

As if waiting for his cue, your boyfriend pounded on Steven's front door, demanding, in foul language, to be let in.

"Do not open that," you warned him, but it was too late. His hunched shoulders squared up, chiseled jaw clenching. A deep wrinkle appeared between dark eyebrows as the typical twinkle in his eye went cold.

"Steven, no, don't!" You watched in horror as he yanked open the door, grabbed your boyfriend by the collar and dragged him inside. Kicking the door shut with one foot, he slammed the taller man against the wall, nostrils flaring as his eyes flashed.

Your boyfriend shouted an insulting protest, but with one, precise jab to his throat, he was rendered speechless and left gasping for air.

"Listen to me, asshole," Steven spat, but his voice sounded entirely different. It came out as a growl. And...American.

It couldn't be. Jake? But it didn't sound like him either.

"You're never touching anyone again," he went on, menacingly. “You're never coming back here again. You're moving out. Right now." He pointed to you with one hand. "Lose their number."

Your boyfriend raged, struggling against Steven's powerful, one-handed grip, but he still couldn't speak.

"You think your boss will protect you?" He taunted. "Your boss is a pussy. He's already dead. And you're next." Roughly releasing him, he motioned him out the door condescendingly. "Better run."

With a hopeless glance your way, he was gone.

Steven's head dropped as he waited for your reaction.

You finally whispered his name, inching closer. "Are you American? I don't understand."

Finally meeting your eyes, he answered, "I'm Marc. I'll let Steven explain."

Shoulders hunched and hands drawn to his chest, Steven came back to you, fidgeting uncertainly. "Bit of a long story. Want that tea now?"

Then he explained how you'd spent the entire night with one man, occasionally fielding questions like, "wait, you're the white mummy man?" And, "wait...you're Jake?"

Steven laughed sheepishly. "In a manner of speaking."

"Oh good, I can give you your jacket back. Wait - where's your mustache?"

The thought of Jake wearing a fake mustache was so hilariously endearing to you.

Steven let you take a nap on his couch and use his washroom to freshen up. Later, he ordered takeaway for an early supper. The two of you talked, trying to come up with plan to help you move on with your life.

"I know this is weird to say at a time like this, but...I've always had a little bit of a crush on you."

"On me?" Steven almost choked on his food. "I never knew."

"It's stupid, really. Just ignore me."

"Not at all. But can I ask you a question? Why did you stay with that plonker?"

You shrugged helplessly, shaking your head. "I guess I never knew there was anything better."

Angstember Masterlist || Moon Knight Masterlist || Main Masterlist

[miraclewoozi]

DRIVE. - l.c

DRIVE -- or, the night you realise it's actually very hard to stay mad at the guy who shows up at your house, throwing stones at your window on a Thursday night, to try and fix something that was your mistake in the first place.

pairing : chan x fem reader. content : fwb > lovers. angst, smut (MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT), fluff. more or less in that order. they’re both dumb as hell. not explicitly put in any detail but this was written with a more 70s vibe in mind so feel free to bear that in mind when thinking of the car/tech/styles etc if u like. w/c : 7.8k warnings : lots of swearing. it’s all a big fuckin misunderstanding because i am a whore for that. weed & alcohol mentioned (neither party is drunk or high at the time of this taking place). mentions of past cheating (neither mc or chan are the cheater). some pov switching because i said so. let me know if i've forgotten anything. proofread exactly once so if there's a typo, no there isn't. SMUT TAGS UTC.  notes : dino. get the fuck off my ass. i’m so serious i am not strong enough to handle the very real feelings i have for you. go away.  notes 2.0 : i listened to halsey’s drive for some inspo for this & took that as the title, so feel free to give it a listen if you want!

SMUT TAGS : dom!chan. car fuckin', making out, hair pulling, grinding/dry humping, fingering, finger sucking, dick riding, marking/scratching, unprotected sex (make good choices), overstimulation, multiple orgasms. praise. chan calls reader ‘baby’ & ‘sweetheart’. he’s a BIG talker during sex (sorry).

You’re not stupid. You heard his car pull up outside your house almost an hour ago. 

Since then, at random intervals ranging anywhere between thirty seconds and five minutes, there have been clinks of a thrown stone at your bedroom window, a piece of the gravel that lines your driveway. Each time, it makes your jaw tense, makes your fingers tighten in the bedsheets you pulled all the way up to your chin in a foul mood at 8pm. It’s been the same now for almost two weeks — you’ve been getting home from work, showering the day away, eating your dinner and retiring to your room as early as you possibly can. Your roommate tried to find out what was wrong around day three but you very promptly shut her down — she’s since learned that the best she’s getting out of you currently is a dismissive wave of your hand or some kind of a grunt. She joked one evening that it was like she’d adopted a teenager; you scowled so violently that she went to her room. 

Hardly any of your other friends have seen anything of you, either, despite the fact that several have come knocking to check if you’re all right. 

You’re very much not all right, as it happens. This is perhaps the most upset you’ve ever felt, and that’s going quite some way. The angriest, too. It’s worse than when that middle aged woman threw her entire bucket of popcorn at your head when you gave her salty instead of sweet, and you were picking kernels out of your hair for the rest of your six hour shift. It’s worse than when your nasty supervisor ‘forgot’ you were in the bathroom and ended up locking you inside the cinema overnight, because you didn’t have your own set of keys to get out and the people whose numbers you remembered weren’t answering their phones. 

It’s somehow even worse than when a summer crush from a few years ago broke things off by telling you that he already had a girlfriend back home and that you were basically just a means to pass the time and get his dick wet. God, and you thought that was the lowest you could possibly be.

Here you are, though, so far beyond all those things it would be comical, if it didn’t hurt. Chan has really done a number on you, and you’re not sure how you ended up getting so emotionally involved in your situationship with him that this is what you’ve been reduced to. For days now, you’ve been swallowing back tears of frustration (both with yourself and with Chan), rolling around in your bed night on night, unable to get to sleep because all you can think about is him.

Him, and the way he sounded genuinely horrified when his friends asked about the ‘movie girl’, and he laughed, ‘God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen’. It was impressive, how quickly your face fell, in no way aided by the squealing giggles that rang through the house as a very, very drunk girl came running out of the living room and shut herself in the toilet, drowning out a chunk of the conversation you were listening in on. Somehow, it hurt even more when he went on to say ‘besides, there’s… someone else’. 

And when you have managed to drift off after hours of staring at the walls and the ceiling, hearing those words on a loop on your fed up brain? Of course he’s been in your fucking dreams, too.

In your defence, all you were trying to do was use the mirror in the hallway outside the kitchen he and his friends were standing in, readjusting your top to cover the hickey that he had so kindly left on your collarbone just the night before. It wasn’t as though you sought him out to listen in; it was a coincidence. And okay, fine, maybe you should have walked away when the conversation turned to the topic of Chan’s love life. Maybe you should have not crept closer and held your breath to be able to hear them all better. Maybe, even, you should have stayed around long enough to ask what he meant by it then and there instead of hopping in a taxi and going home without saying goodbye to anyone. 

Hindsight really is a beautiful thing.

Never gonna happen. Well, Chan seemed quite happy to ignore the fact that it already had happened. Several times. At least four of those being in the very car currently on the street outside your home. The car he’s used on countless occasions to drive you up to lovers’ lookouts in the dead of night, letting one of his many mixtapes play through the tinny speakers, where he’d kiss you breathless and cradle your face between his palms, as his fingers would delicately explore beneath your clothes, as his broad shoulders would slot between your thighs, as his hips rol–

And maybe you aren’t stupid, but Chan seems determined to prove that he sure as hell is. He came to pick you up from work the day after the party like nothing had happened, and couldn’t figure out why you said you would rather walk home in the rain than get in with him and stormed away without any further explanation. Then, he showed up on your doorstep on the morning of your day off with your favourite coffee and a breakfast bagel, asking if you could talk. He still didn’t realise what he’d done to upset you, so you slammed the door in his face. Finally, just earlier today, he ran after you in the mall, persistent as you’ve ever known him to be, and laid a hand on your shoulder when you didn’t turn around to just the sound of his voice calling your name. 

You pushed him off so hard he almost fell over. 

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?!” You had barked, shrugging your shoulders to try and realign your jacket. “I don’t want to talk to you. What’s not clicking?”

His face resembled that of a scolded pet when he took a step back and frowned at you. “I just wanted to–”

“I don’t care what you want, Chan,” you spat. “Give it up. I’m done.”

You could see the desperation swimming in his eyes as he scrambled for what to say and your heart felt like it was being weighed down all the way into your stomach. You supposed that was the part of you that was causing all this ache in the first place, and further that it was to blame for your current state of misery. But you steeled yourself and stood your ground nonetheless. He wasn’t going to win you over with puppy eyes and a pout. Not this time.

In his silence, you only then noticed how hard your breaths were coming, each slow and long but still dangerously unsteady. You lowered your voice, top lip curling at him as you muttered, “You’re embarrassed of me enough to lie to your friends? Fine. I don’t give a–… but shit, next time, tell a girl that to her face instead of behind her fucking back.”

It’s been seven hours, and you keep replaying the last thing he said to you as you stormed away (how his voice got quieter when he realised you weren’t turning back; how he sounded so hoarse, so sorry). 

‘I’m sorry if I hurt you - I— I never meant to.’

If. If. If. Were you not making it completely fucking obvious that he had, most definitely, hurt you? Part of your brain is even now starting to go down the route that he’s doing this on purpose, that it’s some twisted sort of damage control, that he hopes maybe if he plays dumb for long enough, you’ll forget what you were mad about or maybe start to second guess what you heard. But if that’s what he thinks, he obviously doesn’t know you very well at all. That’s never going to happen. 

Hell, for someone you were being so careful to keep in the appropriate lane in your head, Chan really has you thinking yourself in circles. You’re sick to your back teeth of him, and his stupid voice and his stupid smile and his stupid –

Clink.

Stupid. Fucking. Stones.

A groan loud enough to definitely catch the attention of your roommate sounds from deep within your chest at this interruption to your spiral and you finally, finally concede. Whatever argument he’s so clearly longing to have at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night? Fine. He can have it. If it means he backs off for good, you’ll give him his one last ruck.

You pull the window open none too gently and lean enough through it that Chan comes into view. He isn’t even looking up, you realise, too busy sifting through the driveway trying to find his next little projectile, and you hiss his name to get his attention. It startles him so much that he drops the indiscernible bundle in his right hand. He blindly scrambles to pick it up, those big, earnest eyes gazing at you as if you’re floating in midair before him.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You ask him, trying not to raise your voice too loud but at the same time, needing to generate enough volume for him to hear. He holds the bundle in both hands, now, and they catch the light of the lamp by your front door. Flowers, you register, squinting to try and make them out, your brows furrowing so much that your forehead hurts. 

Black dahlias.

You choke back a laugh. Ah, the joys of fooling around with the son of a florist. Are they all so damn dramatic? (Or does he just know that they’re your favourites?)

Whichever it is, you tell yourself that’s not going to work. You won’t let it. Through gritted teeth, you say, “go away. I’m serious. I’ll call the cops on you.”

He shakes his head, begging as he steps just a little closer so his face is more visible in the amber light too. “Please–” he hurries, biting his bottom lip. “Please, don’t– just… tell me what I did. I want to make it right. Please.”

He never begs like this. In all the time you’ve known him, you swear Chan has said ‘please’ to you fewer times than you could count on your fingers. Which is by no means a bad thing — that’s just always been the very comfortable nature of your friendship, and later, the -with-benefits tag that you ended up sticking on the end. 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and fighting not to shiver in the cold nighttime air. Note to self: don’t do a Romeo and Juliet in the middle of the fucking winter without layering up, first. “What does it even matter?”

“What do you mean, what does it matter?” He asks, looking down at the bunch of flowers in his hands, then back at you. “I-... you know I’d never hurt you. Not on purpose. Please, just… if I did something–”

“There’s someone else,” you echo, fed up with his pretending. He’s a fair actor, you’ll give him that – he might even have been able to convince you, if you hadn’t already heard the other half of this tale he’s doing his best to spin in his favour. 

His face screws up, thinking he’s misheard. It’s his turn not to understand now. If you’re telling him you’ve met someone else, he’s got questions, because you’d promised to be open and honest with each other if that ever happened, so that you could call things off and go back to being just friends without it becoming a big deal. That was always supposed to be a calm conversation, not… whatever this is. You talked about it, right at the start. But… those are the words you’re saying, aren’t they? And why would you be mad at him if you were the one whose circumstances had changed? 

“What?” he asks, finally. “What do you mean?”

“God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen. Besides, there’s… someone else!” You raise your voice without really meaning to, before swallowing hard and glancing back inside your room. “You said that, Chan. Don’t piss me off by coming here and pretending like you didn’t.”

Chan starts to look like he’s trying to figure out an algebraic equation in his head while only having half the required information; his eyes fall down to the gravel, his lips move without any sound coming out of them, his features tighten until there are definite lines between his eyebrows. Then, it clicks. The lightbulb moment. He slaps one hand to his face and shakes his head furiously, and you just know he’s going to wake up with an ache in his neck tomorrow because of it.

“Oh fuck,” he curses. “No, no, no, no, no – that’s not–”

“What did I just say?” You spit down at him. “Don’t piss me off–”

“Listen!” He shouts, and you gesture with your hand for him to lower his voice, interrupting his flow of thought and rendering him silent for a moment. “Fuck, please. Come down here and talk to me. That’s not what you think it is.”

You’re in every mind to slam your window shut and leave him out there in the cold. It would work if you got out your headphones to drown out the sounds of him trying to get your attention, which you have absolutely no doubt in your mind that he would do. And maybe then he’d get the hint; maybe then he would understand that you’re not just some pushover who he can just pick up and play with when it suits him. 

But he’s still holding those fucking flowers like they’re a lifeline, still looking up at you without a single lick of anger on his face. Not stress at having been discovered, which you would have expected him to be swimming in right about now. He looks… kind of beside himself, as if nothing could possibly be worse than what you’re threatening to do.

All this, for you? It just doesn’t make sense. 

“Please,” he says again, quieter, weaker. For the first time, you pick up on the hint of a shiver in his voice, and you swallow. Whether you’re gulping back your pride, or your resolve, or the last remnants of your sensibility, you don’t know. 

Does he deserve for you to hear him out? You’re not sure.

But does he deserve to be stuck out in the cold in just his stupid leather jacket and a pair of jeans? 

With regret, you think, no. He doesn’t.

All you give him is a scowl before you disappear from view entirely, pulling the window closed and drawing your curtains again. Faster than you think you ever have before, you throw on a sweatshirt over your pyjamas, grab your keys, and hurry down the stairs as silently as you possibly can. 

He’s stood in exactly the same place when you edge outside and pull the door closed behind you. Up-close, you can see the tiredness on his face: this is a man who has exhausted himself in worry, you think, and yet he still smiles a little when he sees you in full. He still holds the flowers out for you to take. He still purses his lips and blows out a stuttered cloud of air. Nervous, and not in the way you think he ought to be. So when you walk straight past him and don’t take the dahlias out of his hands, instead standing by his car and waiting for him to unlock it for you, you start to feel overwhelmingly guilty. 

Chan is many, many… many things. But he really isn’t this good of a performer, no matter what you’ve been telling yourself all week. For God’s sake, why is it so much easier to be angry at him when he’s not standing right in front you?

You slip into his passenger side as he fumbles to set the flowers down on his backseat again, and he joins you up front just a few moments later. His hands are shaking when he sets the keys into the ignition. His whole body is. When you cast a real look over at him, the tips of his fingers are pale and his lips are lacking their usual rosy, pink hue. Your own teeth are chattering despite only having been truly exposed to the cold air for a matter of seconds; you dread to think how frozen he must be.

“Are we driving?” You ask to break the silence. Since he got into the car and fiddled with the heating settings to try and warm things up a little, he hasn’t said a word. It’s awkward. It’s horrible. You already miss the comfortable way you’ve been able to sit for hours together, barely talking, just watching the lights of the city and the cars travelling through it. 

You already miss him. Which is a strange thought, seeing as he’s only about ten inches away. 

“If– if you want,” he says, stuttering through the frost in his lungs. “We can go—...”

“Drive, Chan,” you say. It’s not just because you want him to stop falling over his words – which, to be fair, you do. Chan has always been very confident, carrying himself with the air of someone who knows exactly their worth. It’s one of the things you treasure about him. So this? Is fucking weird. But a big part of it is that you know his car will heat up faster if it’s in motion, and right now, you think maybe he’s at risk of losing a finger or two if he doesn’t get some circulation back.

He steps on the gas and the car pulls away from your home. It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his car without there being some sort of music playing, whether that’s historically just been the radio or a tape he put together with the help of one of his older friends. (The tapes that always had your first initial on them. The tapes that he never failed to ask your opinions on when he dropped you home – as if he’d compiled them with only you in mind.) The silence feels jarring and you can hear every rumble of the engine, every squeal of the brakes he definitely needs to get serviced. 

But the car does warm through, and you sigh out relief as the bones in your hands move a little easier, as your fingers curl and uncurl to less resistance from your taut muscles. Chan feels it, too; his body relaxes, his breaths stop coming out in fractions, his face gets some colour back. The timing feels a little less awful when you finally say, “go on, then.”

Chan glances over at you as he drives down an unlit street. Only for a second, like he’s checking you’re still there, before his eyes train back on the road. He’s going to one of your favourite spots. It isn’t a lookout – it’s somewhere completely shut off from the rest of town, hidden by the trees near the railway tracks, somewhere you’ve never had to worry about being seen or heard. Maybe he’s anticipating a screaming match. Maybe he’s expecting something else. Maybe, even, he just cares about how much you love it there. 

“I didn’t know you heard that conversation,” he starts, sheepishly. You want to roll your eyes, reach over and thump him, ask if that makes what he said okay, but you don’t. You stay looking out the front windscreen too. Waiting. “I… all right. I was out of my ass drunk.”

You click your tongue, pressing it afterwards against the inside of your cheek, but again, you stay quiet.

“I don’t think you heard what you thought you heard, though,” he goes on to say. “‘Cause– ‘cause it wasn’t…”

But you can only be quiet for so long in the face of this mess. Especially when he’s apparently working towards a doctorate in beating around the fucking bush. “I heard you tell your friends that it was never gonna happen with ‘movie girl’.”

Chan’s face brightens, and you can’t help but wonder what on Earth is wrong with this man. Why does he find that funny? Why is his chest moving like he’s trying not to laugh?

“And you… thought you were movie girl,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Okay – shit. I’m sorry.”

You look at him properly, now, as he indicates to the right and takes the turn that leads him down the lane to your spot. “What are you talking about?”

“I get it,” he says. “You work at the–... but you’re not movie girl. Not that movie girl.”

“Stop talking in riddles before I get out of this car, Chan. It’s too late for this shit.”

He holds a hand up as if to apologise and settles back against the head cushion, suddenly looking far more comfortable than he did thirty seconds ago. He clears his throat, running his tongue over his lips, before sucking in a breath and letting himself go on.

“You’re not movie girl,” he says again, successfully clarifying nothing. “There’s this chick I used to dance with — years back, before… God, when we were in school, like, forever ago. She moved away when we were sixteen.” As he talks, he reaches your destination and sets the car into park, before he unfastens his seatbelt and turns to face you. You do the same, shifting your weight to tuck one leg up beneath you, and with your undivided attention, he goes on. “I ran into her recently. She’s back in town now, I guess. It was like, two weeks—?”

“I’m gonna be all-over grey by the time you finish telling this story,” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “Can you please give me the short version?”

“Not if you want it to make sense,” Chan shrugs. Begrudgingly, you let him keep talking. “She said it would be cool to hang out, maybe catch a movie or do lunch or something — and look, I didn’t know she was asking me on a date, I thought she was just being nice, y’know? Trying to be friends, but… you weren’t working that day, it was when you had that… that stomach thing going on? And I brought you the soup my mom made, remember?”

You nod; of course you remember. At the time, you wondered why on Earth this grown man’s mother was making you food — you asked yourself whether he’d told her about you, or if she thought it was for someone else. In the end you decided he must have just been bringing you leftovers. But you’d been too worn out to start asking questions; instead, after you’d eaten, you let yourself fall asleep with your head in his lap as he patted your hair and hummed his favourite songs. You hadn’t let yourself think too deeply about it since. 

“Anyway. We were sat watching the movie and she, uh,” he glances down at his lap, tips of his ears burning pink. “She put her hand, sorta, on my thigh? And then I was like, shit, I didn’t read this right, like… at all. So I moved it off and she took the hint — and after it ended I said to her, you know, I was flattered, right? But I wasn’t interested. And then I went home and got that soup and—… yeah.”

He came straight to see you. To look after you. Hell, you didn’t even fool around that night; in retrospect, it was all uncharacteristically domestic. And slowly, the pieces you’ve spent days struggling to fit together start to fall into place. It makes sense. The only question that remains is do you believe him?

Well, tell a lie. 

There is one more. 

“You said there was someone else,” you add quietly. 

You’ll die before you admit it, but this is secretly the part that was hurting you the most. 

You can’t even look him in the eye, right now; your cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of even caring. As much as you want to tell yourself that the only reason you’re pissed is just because of the dishonesty, you can only stare at yourself in the mirror and point-blank lie so many times. Someone else. You hate it. 

Just the thought of him seeing somebody else, taking them out on dates, smiling at them, laughing with them, kissing them the way he kisses you, touching —

A shiver runs the length of you and you cross your arms, thrusting your sleeve-covered hands under your armpits. 

Chan takes a deep breath in and exhales it slowly, like he’s blowing smoke out of his lungs. “There is,” he admits, nodding slowly, avoiding your eyes, too. “There is someone else.”

“When were you going to tell me?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t respond straight away. You don’t notice, but eventually his eyes do land back at you; it’s only when he clears his throat to get your attention that you look at him long enough to realise he’s quite deliberately staring. His lips are lifted on the right in a lopsided smile, his eyes soft as he reaches across the seats towards you. You stare blankly down at his hand until he wiggles his fingers, and you think briefly that this is the most fucked up ending to a situationship you’ve ever been through. 

You drop one of your hands down and let him hold it, though, staring at his face as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and you wait for him to finally say it out loud. For him to announce that he’s fallen for somebody and that he can’t see you anymore. To put the nail in the coffin. Don’t tell me their name, you think. I don’t want to know anything about them. Please, just don’t.

“For someone so frustratingly smart, you’re really fucking dumb,” Chan says, finally, swallowing around his words and squeezing your fingers. Whatever stoic expression you had forced onto your face at the start of this conversation dissolves into irritation and you snatch your hand away from him again, letting his own fall and collide with a thunk against the handbrake. 

“Oh, sorry that I didn’t realise you were sneaking around behind my back when that’s the one thing we promised we wouldn’t do,” you snap. “God. The only stupid thing I’ve done here is get involved with you in the f—”

“You’re the someone else.”

Oh. 

Oh.

“I’m—?”

“You.”

The admission hangs heavily between you, as does your nonsense, unfinished insult. Neither of you really know what to do with yourselves except sit perfectly still and try to somehow deal with your increasingly dry throats. When Chan moves, it’s only to turn down the heating dial when his cheeks burn a bit too hot; you appreciate it, in part due to the bead of sweat currently running down your back, but you don’t say so. 

“You could have started with that,” you say weakly, wrestling with all your strength to keep even some of your cards close to your chest. It’s not working though. Your attempt to conceal your elation is a bit like throwing a single leaf on top of a bison and calling it camouflage. 

Chan commits to laughing, finally, your sentiment breaking him too. Now, you do crack that smile, albeit mostly just at the sound that comes from him. It’s bright and airy, lighting his whole face up as he drops all the way back and leans against his car door, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I was trying to build to a moment! It’s not my fault you hit every branch of the anti-romantic tree on your way down.”

“I am not anti-romantic,” you scoff in protest. 

“Yes — you are.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“No, you’re just an idiot.”

“Says she who didn’t realise her fuck-buddy had feelings for about six months, Jesus.”

“Chan—” You start, your voice laced with a playful warning. 

“Here I was thinking I was making it completely obvious,” he rambles on. 

“— oh my God, just shut up and kiss me.”

“Dropping hints left and r—” … “Huh?”

He stops short a fraction of a second after you finish, stumped and silent, frozen with everything but a little buffering symbol above his forehead. Kiss me, you said. Chan, […] just shut up and kiss me. All right, you’ve asked him to do that before, but not like this. Not as if you’ll wither away should you not get a taste of his lips this instant. It takes him some time to process it, but he does move in first, eventually. The way he always does, closing the distance between you like he’s been shot out of a cannon, one hand either side of your face, crashing feverishly against your mouth. 

Every now and again, he’ll be happy to let you take charge and set the pace: mostly just if he’s feeling lazy or especially generous. Tonight isn’t one of those times, however. He holds you and kisses you possessively, like you’re his, like this is how he finally gets to lay claim on you, licking between your gasp-parted lips after he moans straight into your mouth. He’s spearmint sweet, edged with that one cherry flavoured chapstick he stockpiles as he grins up against you, rolling his body fluidly with every separation for air, every changing angle. 

He pulls your sweatshirt up over your head and throws it down into the footwell on the passenger side, straight away hurrying to kiss you hungrily again, hands cupping your neck. His tongue is in your mouth once more, there’s no way you could possibly differentiate your breaths from his: you’re one, in every way you can be with your clothes still on, but it’s not enough. 

“Want you,” you whimper as he nips at your bottom lip and pleasure rushes through you from head to toe. 

“You’ve got me,” he groans with his eyes still closed. “I’m all yours.” 

“No,” you insist, whimpering when his cute little nose drags across your cheek until he’s pressing hot kisses to your jawline. “I— fuck—”  He suckles on the sweet spot below your ear and your spine tingles, head tilting to give him better access. “Chan, I want you.”

Chan settles back from you, his usually bright, sparkling eyes now darkened with desire. All he gives you is a singular glance sideways, but you know exactly what he’s suggesting. You nod, breathing deep, biting the inside of your cheek; he turns off the headlights and it’s all systems go. 

There’s a rush to scramble into the back of the car. Chan takes the keys out the ignition and climbs through the gap in the seats; you opt for the less hazardous approach of getting out of the vehicle entirely and re-entering it instead. Not that it bothers him — no sooner is the door closed behind you, Chan’s hands are on your hips and he pulls you on top of him, your leg knocking the dahlias off the leather and onto the floor in the process. You gasp and glance down but he averts your attention with two fingers under your chin, guiding you to look back at him. 

“What? You think this is the last time I’ll bring you flowers?” He asks, capturing your lips as he leans up to you; at the same time, his hands drop low and he starts to slide open the buttons down the front of your pyjama shirt. “Baby, m’gonna get you so many more.” 

You sigh at the affectionate name, at the change in its use; until now, Chan has only called you baby while he’s buried inside you, bruising you inside and out with sharp thrusts and rough-gripping fingers. But as much as you can feel him growing hard against the inside of your thigh while you try to get comfortable, one knee planted either side of his hips, you can’t help but feel as if this time, it means something different. 

(He’s had feelings for six months: it always meant what it does, now. You know that, deep down.)

Somewhere in amongst the never-ending sloppy kisses and constantly travelling hands, you manage to strip both his jacket and T-shirt off him and you’re pressed bare-chest-to-bare-chest with Chan, feeling every little hitch of his breath in his lungs, every thump of his heartbeat, every tiny increase in the temperature of his skin. Your desperate search for friction between your legs has you rolling your hips down against his hard-on, drawing grunts and making him squeeze at your tits when you rock against him the right way. His head eventually drops to your chest and he replaces one hand with his mouth, freeing his fingers to slide down the front of your pyjama bottoms. 

It’s honestly rarer for Chan to get straight to the point than it is for him to tease you a little first, so when he flattens his palm against you and brushes his fingertips over your already aching clit, you let out a squeak of surprise. He shivers, releasing your nipple from between his teeth for a moment; once he’s collected a little more arousal to ease the friction, he continues to rub at the bud, slowly building the pressure inside you.

“No panties?” He asks, struggle clear in the roughness of his voice. 

“I was in bed,” you gasp, eyes rolling back. It’s for the best that it happens out of pleasure, really, because you’re not sure you’d be able to stop yourself rolling them in exasperation at his remark otherwise. You shuffle a little, lifting yourself up on your knees more, breath hitching when he uses the newly granted space to dip his hand lower and press a finger against your hole. “Please, Chan — this can’t be comfy— just…”

“S’fine” he argues, shaking his head, despite the fact that the angle of his wrist is actually kind of painful, right now. The truth is that he can’t bring himself to care: not when he can smell your fabric softener on the shirt still hanging off your shoulders, the shampoo in your freshly washed hair, all so pretty mixed with the damp scent of your desire. Not when you clench around him as he slides his finger in and out of your cunt. Not when he could get you to soak all the way through these pretty satin pants. 

Your arms snake around his neck as he dips a second finger inside you to join the first. The way your thighs tighten around his hips could — should — be embarrassing, the fact his sturdy lap holds you open enough for your pussy to be toyed with even more so. You almost always do this too music, too — for what might be the first time ever, you can hear every single wet sound your body makes, every hitch of your own breath, every grunt he gives even though he’s not the one being pleasured. 

You don’t even realise how you’re rocking up and down against his hand until Chan licks from the base of your neck to your jaw, smirking over your pulse point and says, “gonna ride my cock this good too, baby?”

And if it was anyone else talking to you like this, you would be embarrassed. Mortified, at being so needy you’re here doing all the work for him. At the cry you give as he splits and scissors his fingers to stretch you out. But instead? You feel another rush of arousal drool out of you as you press your nails into his shoulders and nod, bouncing harder and watching how his bicep tenses up solid with the effort of keeping his arm steady for you to use. 

“Wanna,” you gasp. “Want it so bad, Chan—”

Despite your pleas for this to move further, when his hand pulls back out of the elastic of your waistband, you feel like you could throttle him. The urge ebbs away when his soaked fingers press to your lips and he quirks an eyebrow at you, though — you end up suckling them clean, licking up every trace of your own slick. You lock eyes with him as you do, slumping on your thighs so your drenched core sits right over his tweaking length, the seam of your pants giving just enough friction to your clit for it to feel good as you grind down on him again. 

“Get those off,” he instructs, trying to sound hard and dominant. Which would work, perhaps, if his voice didn’t crack in the middle of the sentence. “Now.”

Even though you’re overcome with a need to tease him, the desire you have to be split open on his length outweighs it, so you do as you’re told and hold it in for later. It’s not easy, but you manage to manipulate yourself in his lap to work the satin down your thighs and past your knees. He helps you tug them the rest of the way past your ankles and feet, shoves them onto the floor — Chan’s hands settle back on your hips and yours skim down his stomach at the same time, fingers grazing over the little hairs that trail from his bellybutton down into his jeans. 

“Can I?” You ask, playing already with his belt buckle. 

He hums assent and you slip it all the way open, tugging as he moves his hips underneath you so you can pull it free from the loops. Between you, you manage to get his jeans unfastened, to pull both them and his boxer shorts down over his ass and to his knees; finally, fucking finally, his cock sits pretty and leaking and free between your stomach and his. It’s getting cold in the car now the heating isn’t on, but you’re already burning up in anticipation for him to ruin you; the way his abs ripple as he takes his shaft into his hand and strokes himself a couple of times to prepare tells you he’s in the same boat. 

It’s like clockwork, from here. You shift into position as easily as you settle into bed after a long day. Chan rubs his tip through your folds, feels the warmth of you and hisses through his teeth with fluttering eyes. Just like always. This never changes. He can’t ever get enough of that first feeling of his cock against your pussy: it’s like the first hit of a blunt, like the first sip of a cold beer, the first full-body stretch early in the morning. He’s sure it’s what arriving at the gates of heaven must feel like. 

You sink down onto him slowly, fluttering around his tip and stilling to give you both a moment to get used to the feeling. He’s thick inside you. Thicker than his pretty, dainty fingers have ever been able to stretch you enough for. Even as wet as you are, you still need to suck a deep breath into your lungs before you can relax your hips further and let your heat swallow him all the way to his base. 

Chan’s head is tipped back in pleasure, he’s biting his lip at the sting of your nails pressing hard into the back of his neck. He loves it, though — loves how the pain shoots in waves down his spine, how it tingles in his brain, how he knows you need to anchor yourself this way or you’ll lose control. He kneads at your ass as you sit against his thighs, listening to you whimpering at how deep he is inside you.

“So fucking tight around me still,” Chan groans, focusing all his willpower into keeping his hips down on the leather beneath him. “Shit, baby — you feel so good…” His neck softens and his head drops forward again as you start to move, rising and falling over and over. He kisses your throat and down to your collarbones while you work up to a rhythm, sliding his palms up your back, hugging you close to him. 

He isn’t even the one putting in the hard work, but within minutes of this, his soft, fluffy hair clings to his forehead. A light sheen of sweat makes him radiant under the moonlight breaking through the trees. He’s breathing heavily, the top of his toned chest painted a soft pink — you don’t think he could possibly look prettier. Not until he cups your jaw with his hands and you look upwards: you land on his smiling face, those plush, swollen lips, his devilish but sweetly glittering eyes. The sight of him, looking at you like you’re some kind of Goddess, makes your pussy tighten and your tiring hips stutter. You slip your pyjama top all the way off your arms and curl your fingers into his hair, meeting him in an open-mouthed kiss, through which you’re both just beaming. 

You’ve never kissed him this much. When it all started out, you sort of had a rule against it, but now? Neither of you can stop. As he starts to fuck up into you, taking the reins and letting your burning thighs rest, he keeps your face steady with his hands and freely allows his lips to slide against yours. It’s not refined. It can’t be. Not with how hard and fast his movements quickly become, not with the onslaught of curses and moans and babbled praise coming from the both of you. One particularly sharp thrust makes you yelp out a squeak of his name and he just swallows it down, making a point to keep aiming for— and hitting— that same spot inside you. You’re a mess. 

He could do this all night. When your orgasm bubbles inside you and he starts pinching at one of your nipples, sending you over the edge, he’s nowhere near finished. Even though your cunt massages at his length, throbbing and pulsing through your climax; even though your voice is so high by now that only dogs can hear you; even though you nearly collapse on top of him with almost all your weight in his lap, and he has to work twice as hard to keep this going, he barely slows. He definitely doesn’t stop. 

“You can gimme one more, right sweetheart?” He asks, grunting into your neck. “Always feels so fucking good when you come.” You choke up an ‘mhm’, to which he responds by slipping a hand between your bodies and down to where you’re connected. His thumb presses against your clit again — not moving, just applying enough pressure to make you stutter when you say his name. 

Your thighs are still twitching when you try to lift yourself a little, try to meet his movements as he chases his orgasm too. The “problem” with Chan is that his stamina is otherworldly. You couldn’t keep up if you wanted to. 

“Relax,” he says, tensing his jaw, doing the opposite himself. “Fuck — lie down.”

It’s pretty cramped and hard to move, but you lift yourself off him and only slightly lament at the sudden emptiness between your legs. There isn’t time to get too upset, however: moments after you get comfortable on your back, Chan shoves his jeans the rest of the way down and stands with one knee planted on the seats, lifting one of your ankles up to rest it on his shoulder. He slips back inside you easily then, gripping around your calf to keep you both steady. From the word go, his pace is relentless. You scrabble around for something to hold onto but the entire car seems to melt away; you ball your hands into fists at your sides instead, your eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

“Mm-mm. Look at me,” Chan hums, tightening his grip on your leg. “Wanna see those pretty eyes.” 

You obey, opening your lids to look up at him while he pounds into you hard enough to make the car shake. Over, and over, and over, and over. Rougher. Faster. For how long? Who even knows. All you’re truly aware of is how good it feels. How the windows grow foggy with the  steam of your laboured breaths. How his sweat mingles with your own. 

When his fingers on the other hand get reacquainted with your clit, when he bites down on his bottom lip, when his thrusts start to get messier and more erratic and the veins in his arms start to bulge out, you know he’s getting close. He doesn’t need to tell you out loud. The smirk he wears speaks for itself. 

“Where d’you want it, baby?” He asks you, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. 

“In— mmh, in-…side me—” you stammer, hips jolting as you near your second orgasm to match his first. “Please, Chan — want it all…”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah—”

Well, he must’ve been holding himself back something spectacular, because a few thrusts later you watch all of his muscles contract as he tips over the edge, and you go hurtling with him. It’s all so much. All your nerve endings feel like they’re on fire and your vision starts to blur at the edges; it’s not long before you have to close your eyes to shut one of your overworked senses out, completely. Your muscles are sore. Your throat hurts. Even your lungs ache. 

God, he hasn’t gone that hard in so long, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You can barely speak — it’s going to take you a week to recover from this, minimum. 

He stills deep inside you, feeling his cock throb with the last pumps of his release. Your leg slips off his shoulder and your foot lands down with a thud onto the car’s (thankfully clean) floor; he bends forward to kiss you, still breathing heavily against your lips. You’ve come over completely boneless and reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair again feels like running a marathon at sprint pace. You’d fall asleep right here, right now, if you could, but with sweat cooling rapidly against your skin, you know that’s probably not up there as one of your finest ideas. 

“You really think getting involved with me was stupid?” Chan asks, nudging your nose with the tip of his own. He’s never been less serious than this in his entire life, which stops you feeling too bad when you lightly slap at his rock solid chest and try to push him off you.

“Yes,” you lie, attempting to reach to the ground for your pyjama shirt while he grips your chin and attacks you with tiny little pecks all over your face. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

(Chan chuckles to himself and thinks that he’s quite happy to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, really. He can stay that way, as long as you promise never to stop.)

thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed it - likes, feedback, comments, reblogs are all so appreciated.<3

[qu1cks1lversb1tch]

A Deal | Vox x Gen Z Reader

A/N— Decided to turn my little drabble into a little series of one-shots based off of ideas I come up with and any requests y'all may have for it 💅🏻 ALSO a huge thank you to @writteninlunarlight-years for the idea that inspired me to kickstart the series! It's very much 'enemies to lovers' core (kinda, I guess?), but I have no idea how far this will go lol. Hope everyone enjoys this — sorry it took so long :)

Warnings: Reader is implied female, Valentino existing, mentions of souls being owned, reader is close to being an overlord

Word Count: 1,724

Summary: You were a growing threat — and what better way to keep an eye on said threat, than to have you start living under the same roof as three of the most influential overlords in Hell? This is only the beginning. . .

Since your arrival to Hell, things had been nothing short of interesting — from your offers that couldn't be refused, all the way to the demon's that warily approached or backed off when you were near.

It was quite the spectacle.

You were quickly rising within the ranks of Hell, from a mere sinner to damn near an overlord — for all the souls you claimed in a few short months. It was noticeable — your social climbing.

What you hadn't expected was two overlords reaching out in the same day, both itching for some sort of deal.

You'd heard whispers of the feared Radio Demon and practically laughed at the thought of people being scared of him — sure his smile was off-putting, but other than that, you didn't really see the hype.

So when he approached you outside of the Café you'd began to frequent, striking up casual conversation as if you were old friends, you quickly understood what was going on.

He was powerful. You were becoming more powerful. He offered guidance and you knew there was a 'but' coming.

When it dropped, you sighed, before sipping on your warm beverage.

"I can offer you guidance, and in return, I want your soul as a pledge of undying loyalty, my dear!" He made a hand motion, as if he planned on writing your name in the stars — could you even see the stars from Hell?

"I'm sorry — but other than guidance, what do I get out of it? I've done well on my own for the last six months."

Protection. Respect. Free housing. It had almost been tempting — especially the free housing, especially in that economy. . . But in the end, you had told him that you'd think about it.

In reality, you wouldn't.

Giving up your freedom for half the shit you could get on your own? He had you fucked up.

Then there was Vox; the wide open rival of Alastor. You'd actually seen him around, having been in a couple clubs he was coincidentally visiting at the same time.

When he approached you, it was three hours later and you were actively sending a message to the group chat of demons whose souls you owned, over Sinstagram. You were simply reminding them of the consequences if they took the food that CLEARLY had your name written on it.

You didn't care that you were sitting in a restaurant — if any of them touched that leftover sub quarter, you'd kill them, and not in a funny or ironic way. You'd actually kill them double dead with no return. 

When you looked up, he questioned your business with 'the fossil' and was met with a blank stare rather than words.

He clarified that he meant Alastor.

"Oh. I don't have any." You replied simply, reading the few messages that popped up on screen.

At the revelation, he was pleased and began listing off all of the things he could provide that Alastor 'would fail miserably at'.

Money. Protection. Respect. A sounding board for ideas. Anything your heart desired. All at a small cost of being under his surveillance almost 24/7.

That snatched your attention away from the two demons who began arguing in their native languages. Did you understand them? Fuck no. Would you be translating that later? Abso-fuckin-lutely.

"And what's in it for you?" You asked the TV demon. You didn't like the thought of being under surveillance and having little to no privacy, but his deal had already been sweetened by Vox not wanting your soul.

"Power all the way around. With my influence, you can be a billion times better than that staticky prick. You'll practically have demons begging on their knees."

"Tempting." You admitted.

"What do you think?"

"Eh, fuck it. Why the hell not?"

From there it was a flurry of events — you remembered eating, but then you were leaving with Vox and then quickly found yourself in a meeting room with the other Vees and shit you had to sign, stating that you wouldn't spill any details of the inner workings of any of the three companies.

Who did he take you for?

Once you read each document thoroughly, making sure it wasn't a contract for your soul, you signed your name on the tablets screen and sat back in your seat, pulling out your phone to begin translating the argument from the beginning.

"Great! Ground rules — our private spaces are off limits unless we explicitly tell you otherwise, that includes bedrooms, offices, and basically everything that isn't a —"

"Uh-huh, got it." You mumbled — snorting at the beyond creative insults that began to flood the screen in English.

"Listen—"

"It's my nap time, TV boy. If you can put this conversation in a text, do it." You sighed, stretching your limbs. They popped as you stood — who showed these fuckers how to make gifs of each other?

Oh.

You did. HA!

"You know I can kill you, right?" Vox questioned, his claws digging into the table.

"So could a really motivated duck — or a Canadian goose. Those things are straight out of Hell, Box."

"It's Vox." He growled.

Ooh spicy. "Whatever —"

"Can you be serious for five minutes?"

"Ok boomer."

His screen glitched and his claws dug further into the desk as he stared at you.

Velvette barked a laugh and looked away from her phone long enough to see Vox on the verge of malfunctioning, a smirk slipping onto her face. "Can we keep her? I like this one."

"This one's more tolerable than the last." Valentino mused, blowing his smoke into the air. He leaned forward in his seat, uncrossing his legs. "And we don't even know her name."

"The name's Y/N. Don't wear it out." You winked before turning around and exiting the door you had been ushered through, however long ago. The moment the door closed, you heard Vox angrily talking with Velvette and Valentino, who were much calmer than the TV overlord.

Oh, this will be fun. A good idea, for sure.

Thirty minutes later, when you were in the room Vox had told you was yours, both Velvette and Valentino followed you on Sinstagram before adding you to the Vees official group chat.

Your first week living with the Vees went by rather quickly — of course, you respected their privacy as requested, spending most of your time in your room or the common areas which mostly consisted of the kitchen, living room, and game room.

Still, you'd managed to piss Vox off three more times, and got Velvette and Valentino to join in without trying.

Velvette quickly picked up your terminology, calling Vox a boomer at any given opportunity. It pissed him off to no end. Valentino had only done it twice, mostly because they both spent a lot of time working and only interacted with Vox when he had the time to.

Within the first seventy-two hours, you noticed the weird obsession Vox had with Alastor and you sarcastically quoted a scene from a movie at dinner that night.

"Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

And he had looked at you weirdly, pausing mid rant. Later you had to explain to the other two that it was from a movie — and who Agent Romanoff was.

Vox avoided you mostly, which you chalked up to him thinking you were annoying. Good.

By the end of the first month, Velvette had you chilling with her while she worked, usually with you being the sounding board for her ideas.

More often than not, you had good ideas.

That little fact prompted her to throw you a sketch book, telling you to get to work.

You were getting paid to be there, so whatever.

When you weren't with Velvette, you were declining Valentino's countless invitations to sit with him while he worked — you wanted nothing to do with that. Porn wasn't really your thing, even when you were alive, but you had a bunch of friends who were super into it.

Instead you went out alone, claiming you were getting lunch for yourself. You'd get lunch, after making a few deals with wayward demons who would thrive under your influence.

That one particular day, you hadn't noticed either presence behind you, until a fight broke out, causing you to turn around to see Alastor and Vox going at each other's throats — and not in an interesting way.

You somehow broke it up just after Alastor cracked Vox's screen.

"Why the fuck are you here?" You bit out harshly, directed at the two overlords who now stood three feet apart like scolded children, neither pleased to be there.

"You left without saying anything." Vox crossed his arms.

"You hadn't reached out, my dear." Alastor hummed, distastefully glancing over at the TV demon.

You groaned, throwing your head back. "Listen, get the fuck over yourselves! At this rate, I answer to Velvette, not the two of you boomers. Got it?"

Alastors eyes began to twitch as static filled the air, whereas Vox's cracked screen glitched as you walked away.

Later, when Vox approached you, you noticed that his screen was fixed. That was good.

"Got a minute, [Y/N]?" He questioned.

You looked up from the sketch book in hand and nodded, mumbling 'sure' as you closed it. You were tired from the long day.

So his next question caught you off guard.

"Why do you do this to me?"

"Do what?"

"Why do you purposely piss me off? You get along with everyone else, yet you call me names and disrespect my entire existence. Why?"

You sighed, not really having a real answer. "That's just the way I am, how I've always been. . . And in my defense, I call everyone names. . . Not just you. So, don't think you're special, Box—"

"— Vox —"

"I'm a bitch to everyone, just most don't realize it because their bitch scale broke a long time ago. Now, go. I have shit to do that doesn't involve stroking your fragile ego."

Vox wasn't sure what it was, but he knew he was going to keep a closer eye on you. What was so different about you?

You were close enough in biological age to Velvette, yet while there were similarities, there were so many differences. . . He wasn't sure what to think about any of it. Especially with you climbing up the power ladder.

[estxkios]

ROAD HEAD ੈ✩‧₊˚

2007 tom kaulitz x fem!reader

summary: tom is annoying the shit out of you on a road trip so u teach him a lesson :3

warnings: sub tom, risky, semi-sublic blowjobb

-------------------------------------------------------

your boyfriend was annoying the shit out of you. you had been in the car with him for thirteen hours at this point.

he thought it would be fun to go on a road trip instead of a plane, saying, “It will be a new experience!” and, “It would be a good time for us to bond!”

“we aren’t already bonded enough?” you would retort.

and now you are here. in the passenger seat longing to get out of this hot, crammed car.

you don’t know how you can last six more hours in this enclosed space with him.

you asked him for aux?

ignored?

you ask him for some of his candy?

he shoves it in his mouth, smiling at you as he finishes the last bite.

what has gotten into him? was it the lack of sleep from the previous night of driving? was it the coffee from the hotel?

“tom you are so fucking annoying today!”

you shout over his loud music as he had turned it up the last time you asked for him to play a different song.

“suck my dick!” he shouts between the lyrics he was obnoxiously singing.

he dances around playfully in his seat and you huff, turning away from him and crossing your arms.

your thoughts start to linger as you stare at the open road, your eyes following cars as they pass by.

what would it be like to suck toms dick right now? would it suck the annoyingness out of him too?

jesus christ, maybe the hotel coffee was getting to you too.

or maybe it was just the urge to fuck your boyfriend.

“do you really want me to, tom?” you spoke over his music.

“do i really— what?”, he turned to you for a moment, giving you a perplexed stare and turning the volume of his music down before looking back onto the road.

“do you really want me to suck your dick?” you blatantly said, staring right at tom, who kept his gaze fixed on the road in front of him.

“babe— what?” he repeated.

“jesus christ you are fuckin’ deaf,” you let out a breathy laugh to yourself at toms confusion, “let me just show you—“

unbuckling your seatbelt, you climb over the center console and snake yourself towards toms seat, situating yourself under the steering wheel, between toms legs.

tom was shifting in confusion as you did this, muttering small what the fuck?'s under his breath.

“babe, what’re you doing..?” his voice trailed off as he connected the dots.

you grabbed the waist of his sweatpants, he lifted his hips up to make it easier for you to take them off, he was very compliant for someone acting so confused.

“what if someone sees us?!” he diverts his gaze away from the road as he says this.

“they will get jealous that you have such an amazing girlfriend.”

he scoffed.

you took his boxers off.

-

tom gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles so white they were nearly blue.

he sucked in a shallow breath between his teeth and swallowed thickly, the sight of your pretty mouth wrapped around his cock was enough to make him cum.

you kept up your fast, desperate pace with your mouth.

he tasted so fucking good.

you moaned around toms beautifully hard cock as you moved your head forward, taking tom all the way.

he took one hand off of the wheel, bringing it down the back of your head and taking a fist full of your hair.

he held your head down on his sweet cock, making your muscles constrict around toms cock as you gagged, your eyes watering.

he let out a guttural moan as you fully took in his pretty length.

“f-fuck baby im s’close!” he takes his hand off of your head, too lost in the pleasure to hold it there any longer.

he tried to keep his eyes open as his climax neared.

you take your mouth of off him with a ‘pop!’

“why’d y’stop?” he whined, looking down at you then hastily looking back up. “you tease me too much..”

“aww, sweet boy can’t take a little bit of fun?” you chuckled, looking straight into his eyes which stayed on the road. you couldn’t tell if it was because he was actually focusing on driving, or if he was too embarrassed to look you in the eyes.

but your attention quickly diverted from his eyes onto his cock as it twitched, just longing for your touch.

tom bit his bottom lip, fidgeting with his lip ring.

his hands kept a tight grip on the steering wheel, which he tried so hard to keep from snaking down towards his cock and pleasuring himself. 

you couldn’t help but smile at how patient he was being.

“hey, tom.” you said casually, “look at me.”

he did as you said, reluctantly “wha-?”

you quickly gripped his cock and brought it towards your mouth, using all the strength in your body to suck him off perfectly.

you swirled your tongue around him, flattening it out every so often.

“holyfuckingshit!” he breathed, “im so fucking close--! mphh- please!”

he was so sensitive he could cum any second now.

you knew it.

he definitely knew it.

you pushed the most of toms cock in your mouth as you could, and with one final moan of your name tom shot his hot seed right into the back of your throat.

the pressure of the seatbelt on toms abdomen as he strained his hips made him whine as he rode out his intense high.

he threw his head against the seat, jaw hanging slack. 

his body bucked forward as you took your mouth off of him.

“so if i want head like this again, all i have to do is annoy you?”

--------------------------------------------------------

hope u enjoyed :p

[joeys-babe]

Joey B Imagines: I’m On Fire*

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Summary: When Joe mistakenly leaves his JB9 iced-out chain while at an away game, you bless him with a little photoshoot while you're hours away in Cincinnati.

Warnings: Smut

Paring: Joe Burrow x reader

Imagine universe: Just the Two of Us

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*No specific date for this fic!*

(y/n’s pov)

Joe had just left the house for an away game, and due to some work-related stuff, I wasn't able to go with him.

The pouty expression he gave me when we were standing at the front door just a little bit ago made me want to climb into his bag. His lower lip sticking out was oddly convincing, along with his blue eyes.

“Joe, you know I can't go, baby.” - you

“Please… I want you to go with me.” - Joe whined

“I wish I could go too, but I can't, J.” - you

Joe whined once again, but this time, it made me roll my eyes. My annoyance didn't last long, though, as he hunched over and laid his head on my shoulder.

“I love you.” - Joe mumbled

His face being pressed into my neck made his words muffled, but it was oddly adorable.

“I love you too, but if you don't leave now, you're going to be late.” - you

I laughed when he stood up straight and groaned.

“I'm gonna be so lonely by myself in my hotel room tonight.” - Joe

“We can Facetime, goofball.” - you

“Not the same.” - Joe whined

“Okay, enough whining. Goodbye, Joe.” - you

Joe stared at me for a few seconds, trying to come up with a response that didn't show how annoyed he really was.

“Bye…” - Joe mumbled

I stood up on my tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Joe’s lips. When I pulled away, I giggled at the look of his flushed cheeks.

“Love you, sheisty.” - you

“Love you too.” - Joe grinned

——

Hours later, I was bored out of my mind, all alone in this big house.

I had cleaned almost the entire house, scrolled through Pinterest, made a dinner recipe I had pinned, and finished a show I had been binging - Fool Me Once.

There was pretty much nothing to do.

All I was doing right now was lying in bed, watching the ceiling fan turn, and feeling kinda sad when I got a whiff of Joe’s scent off of his pillow.

I missed him, and I saw him just hours ago.

That's what happens when your boyfriend turns into your best friend, I guess.

Joe’s game wasn't till tomorrow, but they'd probably just landed at their destination.

Maybe I should text him?

After thinking about it for a few minutes, I made up my mind and texted Joe.

hiiii

Ew, no. Sounds desperate.

What am I even talking about? I've been with this man for six years.

I had almost deleted my message, but Joe answered before I could.

HIIII! 😁

He's such a dork, I thought to myself with a giggle.

Wyd?

Nothinggg, hbu??

Do I tell the truth or make a lie to seem productive? In the end, I told the truth.

Missing you.

My heart warmed at Joe’s message back.

I miss you too. ☹️

Are you at your hotel yet?

It took Joe a few minutes to answer, but his reasoning was ironic.

Just got back from checking in actually. Imma head up to my room, take a shower, and then ft you.

Okay, I'll talk to you then! 🫶

Talk to ya then, I LOVE YOU! 🥰

I hearted his message and than sent the sentiment back.

Love you more, baby. 😘

The conversation ended after Joe’s simple but butterfly-inducing text.

Not fuckin’ possible.

——

We were on Facetime for way longer than we should have, but neither of us cared.

The call ended with the usual “I love you more” back-and-forth playful argument.

Joe won in the end, and I can't say I’m surprised because he always did.

After the call ended, I was just lying in bed, my head on Joe’s pillow, just to smell his scent.

I got bored eventually and decided to play around in the closet. Joe always forbade me from trying on his chains, but he wasn't here.

My eyes immediately widened with excitement as I opened the top drawer on Joe’s side of our walk-in closet.

Everything was cleared out except one chain, he probably took them all with him to have options for his fit tomorrow.

“Damn, this is heavy.” - you mumbled

It was the JB9 Nike check chain Joe wore for the AFC Championship in 2022.

One of my personal favorites out of his collection but too iconic to be worn again.

God, he looked so hot that day.

I stared at myself in the mirror, the chain of my boyfriend’s initials and number adorning my neck.

That's when I got the idea.

——

Settling into my bed for the night, I grabbed my phone and giggled to myself as I looked through the pictures recently taken in my camera roll.

Nothing but black lace and that iced-out chain.

——

Next Day

Joe won his game, and sure, I was happy to see him win, but being miles away from him and unable to celebrate with him put a damper on my mood.

I watched the game by myself in the living room, and then proudly watched his post-game conference.

Just a minute after Joe left the media room, I received a text from him.

Did you watch the game?

Of course. Watched your conference too, baby.

Joe didn’t answer for a few minutes, and I thought he might've gone to take his postgame shower, but his text back made me laugh.

I just got made fun of because I was blushing from your text. “You texting yo girl?”

What did you say back? 😂

I proudly said yes. 😁

A few seconds passed before another text vibrated my phone.

Hey, I gotta go shower, though. We're set to get home late tonight, so don't wait up on me.

What if I want to?

You'll wake up with me next to you in the morning either way, so no need to wait for me to get back.

He was right, so I left him alone to go shower.

——

It was around ten o'clock, and Joe had texted me just a little bit ago, saying they were on the bus to the airport.

Out of nowhere, with no context or caption with it, I sent Joe my little experiment earlier.

Attachment: 10 images

When I was left alone with Joe’s chain earlier, I took a little photo shoot with some black lace lingerie and Joe’s chain.

He'd usually take a power nap on his way to the plane, so I was surprised when his response was quick.

Joe sent a picture of himself with his eyes wide and mouth dropped open in shock.

The silly reaction picture made me giggle, but I had no idea that Joe had just pulled his bag onto his lap while on the bus in an attempt to hide the stirring between his legs.

Fucking shit, y/n. I'm getting so hard right now that I might have to rub one out on the plane.

No. 😘

Wdym, no?

How do I word this?

You always get pissed when I get off without you, how about a taste of your own medicine?

I don't get pissed…

Joe, honey.

Please, baby.

No.

Joe sighed and put his phone on his chest, discreetly slipping his hand down his sweatpants to rearrange the erection in his boxers. He's so hard just from the sight of nothing but lingerie and his initials in the form of diamonds on your body.

He so wished he was with you, inside you.

——

When Joe got home, it was really late.

You were already sleeping, so when Joe slipped into the bedroom he made sure to be quiet.

Joe stood there for a few seconds, just admiring how peaceful you looked while sleeping.

A small smile found its way onto his face when he noticed you were wearing his t-shirt and snuggled onto his pillow instead of yours.

After staring for a lot longer than he anticipated, Joe put his bag down and took his sweatshirt off before crawling into bed beside you.

You stirred for a bit, feeling the presence of someone else near you. After moving around for a bit, you were met with a hard chest, but you knew it all too well.

Joe grinned to himself when you snuggled into him, your face against his pec. He ran his fingers through your hair, and soon, you were peacefully sleeping again.

Feeling tired but unable to sleep, Joe discreetly grabbed his phone to see the messages he wasn't able to answer on the plane and his drive home.

You sent him a video?

Joe made sure his volume was down before pressing play on the video. His eyes went wide when he was met with the sight of you fingering yourself.

All at once, Joe’s heart rate picked up, he started sweating, and his cock stirred in his sweatpants.

He didn't need volume to know you were moaning his name with each thrust of your fingers. Joe was able to read your lips.

The sight of your head thrown back, bare chest, and your sweet heat swallowing your fingers had Joe fully erect in a matter of a minute.

He needed you badly.

Joe can admit he was thinking with his dick and not his brain when he shook you awake. In his defense, most of his blood supply was in the wrong head.

“Joey?” - you mumbled

“Shit- sorry I woke you up…” - Joe

“I missed you…” - you

His heart fluttered, and he hoped you wouldn't shift around and feel him. Please just go back to sleep.

In all honesty, Joe felt guilty waking you up with his sexual needs in mind. He felt horrible and selfish.

“Missed you too, baby.” - Joe

You moved around and Joe’s eyes went wide. Please don't feel it. Please don't feel it.

Abruptly, you paused your shifting and looked up at Joe’s face. Maybe she just found a comfortable spot?

It was hard to make out Joe’s features in the dark, but you could see his piercing blue eyes easily.

Unbeknownst to Joe, you'd felt his hard-on as soon as he got it, but you wanted to mess with him, make him beg for it.

Slowly, you reached your hand out and palmed his bulge. Joe bit his lower lip to stop an audible reaction as you started rubbing him.

“He missed me too, huh?” - you giggle

“Fuck- so much.” - Joe

“Take your pants off, Joe.” - You

Joe shed his pants and boxers off faster than the speed of light, all because his girl asked.

Now that he was completely free from restraint, Joe got even harder, and he didn't think that was possible.

You spit into your hand and firmly grasped his cock, a plan forming in your mind as you started to jerk him off.

Joe was a groaning mess, relishing in the feel of your hand around his length because he'd needed this for days.

Precum was beading at Joe’s tip, so you maneuvered yourself around to take him into your mouth.

“Sh-it.” - Joe moaned

He was close, so close.

“Baby- I'm gonna… cum!” - Joe

You pulled off of him, trying to follow your plan of edging him until he couldn't help but beg for you to finish him off, but Joe was too close to stop his inevitable orgasm.

With a loud moan, Joe shot his load onto your face, some making it into your mouth.

Both of you were surprised when it happened, looking at each other with wide eyes.

“I- I'm sorry…” - Joe

“No, don't be.” - you

You reached out and put a hand on his chest, rubbing comforting circles on it.

He grabbed a tissue off of his nightstand and wiped his cum off of your face.

“That was kinda embarrassing…” - Joe

“Why?” - you

Your voice was soft, a little sad yourself that Joe felt embarrassed.

“I don't know, I couldn't stop it from happening, but it happened so fast. Like under three minutes? That's embarrassing.” - Joe

“Joe, don't be embarrassed. How long you last doesn't matter to me at all, I just wanna make you feel good.” - you

He nodded but bit the insides of his cheeks.

“I think it's kinda hot that I can get you off that fast. Makes me feel good about myself.” - you

“Really? You don't think it's funny or embarrassing?” - Joe

“No, baby.” - you

You leaned up and pressed a big kiss to Joe’s lips, one of his legs slotting between yours, causing you to grind down onto his thigh.

“Mmm, Joey baby.” - you moaned

“That's it.” - Joe

——

Next Morning

You woke up with a grin on your face as you replayed last night's events in your mind.

Joe had gotten you off twice with his fingers and tongue before he filled you up with his thick cock.

In the back of his mind, he was still feeling a little self-conscious about his first orgasm of the night, but he wouldn't let it show.

When you two were in the shower cleaning up, you could tell something was on Joe’s mind and that something was what had happened earlier.

Without saying anything, you dropped to your knees when his back was to you. He turned around and looked down at you, his dick stirring to life at the all-too-familiar position.

Despite the fact you two had just gone four rounds, Joe’s craving for you was never-ending.

You'd slowly reached out to stroke him, and you finished him off with your mouth.

He manhandled you back to your feet before pressing you against the shower wall.

“If you want me to stop, I will, but you started this.” - Joe

The feel of his thick length against your behind, and his hands holding you in place was getting you worked up all over again.

“Fuck me, Joey.” - you

You two ended the night giggling in bed as you counted up the number of orgasms shared between you two that night.

“Four for me, four for you, gah-lee!” - Joe

“I’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow morning.” - you

“Fuck I might even have a limp.” - Joe

You were pulled out of your fantasies when Joe walked into the bedroom. Toes curled at the sweet sight of him.

Joe wore nothing but a bashful smile, a pair of sweatpants, and raging bedhead.

“Hi.” - you smiled

“Hi. How'd you sleep?” - Joe

“Good. Get in bed with me?” - you

He did as you asked and curled up in bed beside you, pulling you into his chest in the process.

“Where were you?” - you

“Uh… nowhere…” - Joe

You sat up and looked at him, giving him a skeptical look as you narrowed your eyes at him.

Joe sighed and broke your eye contact.

“I was doing something downstairs. It was supposed to be a surprise after you got ready, but you can come downstairs now.” - Joe

You excitedly jumped out of Joe’s arms and ran out of the bedroom, your hand grabbing his as he followed you.

When you two got downstairs, you saw the dining table set up like a date. Breakfast on both of the plates and a bouquet of roses between them.

Joe walked away from you for a second and grabbed a rose.

He walked back up to you and held the flower in front of his bare chest.

“Go on a date with me?” - Joe

You grinned at your boyfriend so big that your cheeks hurt.

“Of course.” - you

Joe handed the single rose to you, and you stood up on your tiptoes to place a kiss on his smooth cheek.

“Thank god, woulda been really awkward if you said no.” - Joe

“I'd never say no to you.” - you laughed

The blush on his cheeks went deep, almost to the shade of the rose he gave you.

You spent the rest of the morning laughing with the handsome man you loved so deeply, wondering about how you got so lucky, and thinking about your future with him.

You were so grateful to have a man you could laugh with, share secrets with, tell all the drama to, and have intense intimate moments with. Sometimes, all within the same day or hour.

It was scary to realize how much of yourself you put in Joe’s hands, but you trusted him more than anything.

The sweet thoughts and realizations were swirling in your mind and making you smile. You'd been staring out of the window, but your thoughts were abruptly interrupted…

*BURP*

Your wide eyes snapped over to Joe, who was holding a hand over his mouth and shared the same wide-eyed look.

“Sorry, didn't expect it to be that loud.” - Joe laughed

“Gosh, I love you.” - you laughed along with him

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Authors note: GOT IT OUT BEFORE MONDAY! 😆

Request for this fic;

Hope you enjoyed! ❤️❤️

[witchpassing]

interview_3aC

I got into piloting during the Third Generation. For the historically illiterate, that’s before the breakpoint, not after. Summer Offensive, Chelsk Offensive, ‘81, ‘82… All that shit.

When you say pilot now, people get a certain mental image. It wasn’t like that, back then; end of the day, a G3 frame is basically just another kind of tank. Hot like hell inside and full analogue control. You had to think five, six, seven seconds ahead sometimes, because that’s how long it’d take you to string together the inputs for what you were doing next.

I was good. I mean, I’m good at my job now, sure, but… you should’ve fuckin’ seen me then.

... Anyway. Long and short of it is, I got unlucky. Everyone does, sooner or later. Coterie railcannon caved in part of my cockpit, crushed my leg to dogmeat, and that was that. A few years later, they’d have amputated, plugged in a spare, and sent me back in, but this was ‘83, the tech wasn’t there yet. We were hearing about it, you know, shit on the grapevine about the brain-machine barrier, weird tests underground out in Lysk, but I don’t think any of us really believed in it.

I wanna say I knew what was coming, but I didn’t. Nobody did.

So. Cockpit breach. Fucked leg. They did a lot of work, got it to where I could walk on a good day, but it was obvious I wasn’t gonna cut it any more. Took my pension, checked out, spent eight years in the worst dyke bars I could find. Don’t really wanna talk about that part. That’s not what you’re here for, anyway.

So I’m a few years down the line, losing my mind somewhere in Sengrade, and I get a call. It’s this guy I used to know, I never really nailed down what he did, Information maybe, and he’s telling me about this program they’re spinning up over in Lysk, and sure that rings some alarm bells but what am I gonna do, say no? I don’t even need to hear the specifics, he’s trying to tell me it’s the next big jump in frame tech, it’s gonna win us the war, whatever, I’m already halfway onto a train.

The job turned out to be the Fifth Generation. Not only was the brain-machine barrier real, but they’d smashed clean through it. I said a G3 is basically a tank, right? So I was expecting an iteration on the form. Sharper, sleeker sure, but at the end of the day just a prettier-looking tank.

Well, I was dead fuckin’ wrong. Seeing something that size move that way, it’s… I don’t think I can put it into words. Go find a poet or something. Ask them what they think about Gen 5.

… Didn’t come for free, of course. The neural throughput on a machine that size will cook an unprepared brain like a fuckin’ egg. You need to be dosed to the gills on a whole cocktail of ten-syllable shit to take it for more than a few minutes, and the drugs make you weird. Horny, mostly - I’m sure you’ve heard about that - but you’re also looking at impaired impulse control, difficulty with long-term thinking, emotional disregulation, mania… Plus, there’s something in the cocktail or the link or both that is bastard habit-forming. You see them counting the hours between sorties. They adjust to the hyperstimulation, get calibrated to it, and then everything else is just too god-damn quiet.

Think maybe it’s carcinogenic, actually, but you didn’t hear that from me.

So, yeah. Weird. Command doesn’t want weird operating superweaponry. Weird doesn’t make sound tactical decisions. Which means all the shit that makes somebody a functioning soldier - the long-term decision making, the impulse control, the ability to give a fuck about the rules of engagement - it had to be outsourced.

The term they used at first was “special consultant”. Then “special consulting officer”, once we hit field testing. It wasn’t “handler” until later.

The first crop of us - I’m just gonna say handlers, I know how you’re gonna wanna spin this, I get it - were all ex-pilots. G3, mostly; Gen 4 didn’t leave a lot of material to work with. I guess the idea was we were the closest you could get to a G5 candidate’s frame of reference, but it was pretty clear within the first few months that that was bullshit. Some of us took to it, some of us washed out. A lot couldn’t take the wetwork, which I guess I can sympathise with.

Me, I handled it fine. Better than I should’ve, maybe. Being a tanker didn’t do shit for me, but my dad, he was a dog trainer, and… Yeah, well, you get the idea.

… No, no. The other kind of wetwork. You know what I mean.

…

The leg? Ha. Yeah, they offered me a prosthetic. ‘Course they did. But, call me a hypocrite, whatever you want - by that point I was six months in and I knew with total fuckin’ certainty I didn’t want the link. I spend enough of my time helping the military put their shit into peoples’ bodies, you know? I don’t want it walking home with me.

… No, I don’t understand why they keep signing up. Early days, sure, nobody knew what it did to you back then, but there’s been leaks, people’ve talked - hell, I’m talking right now. You can find our burnouts in any dive in the country, or what's fuckin' left of them. The candidates now, they know what we do to people here, and they just keep coming, and coming…

Though, you know… I think sometimes about the first time I saw a Gen 5 machine take off, that first day on the program. The way it moved against the blue-black of the sky, like it weighed nothing at all. And I almost get it.