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getitoutofmymindwrites · 1 month

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The landing | joel miller x f!reader, 13.2k

Summary: You feel him before you see him. He’s still taking up space in your micro-universe. His sole presence creates ripples through the atmosphere as he walks towards you, softly nudging you to turn your head from your spot to look behind you. Or The one where your orbits finally collide for the final showdown.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, NO SPOILER (read A/N), ANGST, cheater!joel, discussions of infidelity, mention of food consumption, yelling, crying, the briefest mention of smut thoughts, sprinkle of fluff (blink and you'll miss it), as always let me know if I missed anything 👀

A/N: Ok, *deep breath* I know I can't make everyone happy unless I write alternate endings 😅 and I understand that infidelity can be a very triggering concept. I gave them the ending I felt they both deserved, but if you're looking for a story where they are at each other's throats for 13k words, maybe this is not for you and you are more than welcome to kindly move on. I won't spoil the ending in the Warnings, so proceed with caution, you know what the main theme is all about. All I can tell you is that this part of the story is divided into two main scenes because I didn't want to drag it out with one little scene after another. *she says after spilling 13k words🙄sorry about that👀* As always, I would love to read your thoughts on the last part and please keep in mind that writing is almost always self-indulgent.

P.S. I want to thank each and every one of you for the love I received for this mini-series, I never thought it would engage so many people. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You've all been so kind and sweet to me, so this journey filled my heart with joy! I love you all, take care of yourselves and I'll see you -hopefully- in the comments! Oh! My asks are always open if you want to know more about their story. I could even write drabbles or one-shots about anything you'd like to know in particular. Ily, bye 😘

P.S. I deliberately left the last two lines without clarification of who says what, I leave that up to you. 🤍

Dividers by @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics @plum98

previous |

FOUR YEARS AFTER THE FALL

Are you still falling?

You’re not sure anymore. Maybe you’re just used to it. Or maybe you just learned how to fly. It certainly feels like everything has slowed down. Sometimes it feels like floating. As if you’re a feather, so lightweight, swirling around aimlessly. But you can never touch the ground. Gravity can’t quite pull you down. Every time you feel like you’re finally landing, a force of nature pulls you back up.

Maybe it is a soft, warm, summer breeze, a memory of Joel.

Maybe it is a whirlwind, a contact from the lawyers.

Maybe it is a snowstorm, sign the papers, please.

Maybe it is the whispering of a gentle wind, the possibilities of what might have been, or the lack of real closure.

But it’s nice here. Even between the earth and the sky.

You never thought you’d enjoy leaving the big city and making a home for yourself on a ranch. But you loved it. You loved the peace and quiet, you loved this new community of people, you loved taking care of the horses, riding them, being around them. And then there was the house. A place you could almost call home. It was beautiful, rustic, warm, inviting, lacking none of the comforts a modern house needs, because you can’t quite get the big city girl out of you. The entire land had a soft, yellow-golden light enveloping every tree and every rock, everywhere your eyes reached, as if the sun shone differently here.

The days are easy. The chores are more than enough to keep you focused, there’s always something to do around here. It feels good to be busy, to keep your mind from dwelling on the past. You welcome the exhaustion of a full day’s work that accompanies your body when night comes.

Evenings are mostly good. You shower the day off, you cook, you chill on the couch with a good book or a film and more often than not, as the time passes and you feel more comfortable sharing the privacy of your home, you have friends over for dinner and drinks.

Nights though, nights are hard. At night, you pray that you are tired to the point of exhaustion so that you can sleep through it peacefully. Sometimes it works, but most of the time, not so much.

Time has intensified and lessened your emotional burden simultaneously.

The sharp pain that feels like thick acid being poured into you mellows in an inexplicable way. It still hurts, the pain oozing out of your every single pore even in a physical way. Only now, it has transformed into a sweet, slow poison conquering every hollow of your body, every vein leading from your heart to the ends of your limbs.

It’s almost a welcoming feeling, this pain, reminding you that you’re still alive, that he was real, that everything that happened was real. Because sometimes, sometimes, when you let yourself relax, when you let your guard down, all of this feels like a dream. Sometimes, you wake up in the middle of the night, confused, reaching with your hand for the other side of the bed and finding it empty. And for a split second you get that feeling. The feeling of how it used to be with him next to you.

Then you remember.

You know why this is happening and who’s responsible for it. This is a mix-up. This is what your treacherous brain does to mess with your resolve. It blends the bad stuff into the good, creating the strangest of concoctions. The clear image of black and white, neatly and perfectly hung in the center of the walls of your mind is now splashed with colorful memories from your life together, like a Pollock painting. You do your best to resist, to bring back scenes from all the vivid recollections of the night your life changed forever but your uncooperative brain pops another memory up, a good fuckin’ memory, like a projector, illuminating those bare imaginary walls with laughter and touches and whispers and scents and warmth. It’s relentless.

This dichotomy creates an uneasiness inside you, you choose to reject and pretend not to notice. Which in turn leads to self-contempt because, as always you can’t lie to yourself. You may lie to others but deep in your core you have to be honest with yourself. That is something you’re owed. To be aware, present in the reality of your life. So, you know, you know, you just sweep things under the carpet as a copy mechanism. You know what you should do.

You should confront him. You should demand answers and then finally say what you need to say to him. Not for him, not for his sake, but for yours. But you can’t. You've lost count of how many times you've picked up the phone and your thumb hovered over his contact to call him but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. And every time you tried to text him, to start a conversation, it felt too awkward. The only acceptable subject of discussion initiated by you was the progress of the divorce papers. You were unable to even remotely insinuate a more meaningful encounter. And he didn’t make any advances either. Not that you gave him any room to try and talk to you, but still, he seemed more settled with that, rather than not.

Maybe that fact itself was your cue to let it all go. He’s probably moved on. You don’t cheat on someone so blatantly and then want them back. Obviously, this whole delaying of the divorce is a power play, like everything else, it seems.

Good, yeah, that’s it. That’s it.

Now, let go. Move on. You solved it. Let go.

But this annoying little voice is scratching the walls of your weary brain, nudging the limits of the carefully made up serenity that’s hanging by a thread.

You should confront him. For your peace of mind, for your equilibrium.

But it’s nice here. Even between the earth and the sky.

Joel, will you please sign the papers?

It’s early in the evening and you’re in the garden in front of the house near the porch, on your knees, plucking a few weeds from the ground. The fatigue of the day’s work has begun to take its toll on you, your shoulder is slightly trembling as you rest your weight on one palm to dig around with the other. Sweat covers your torso, rolling down between the valley of your breasts and the hollow between your spine, leaving your t-shirt clinging to your skin, your hair sticking to your forehead, which is lightly covered in a thin layer of dirt at some places as you keep wiping your forearm over the little beads of salty water that concentrate over your brows.

You feel him before you see him. He’s still taking up space in your micro-universe. His sole presence creates ripples through the atmosphere as he walks towards you, softly nudging you to turn your head from your spot to look behind you.

There's an overload of sensations before you shift your body around to confirm what you already know in your bones. You can smell him, taste him, feel him on your suddenly tingling skin, all at the same time.

You turn slowly and your breath hitches on your throat. You just stay in place, frozen, time infinitely stretching as you take him in from where you kneel on the ground. He stops abruptly the second his eyes meet yours and you could swear he’s holding his breath, his face completely unreadable.

He looks.. he looks like your Joel and nothing like him simultaneously. Soft yet imposing. Handsome yet battered. Determined yet lost. His clothing is simpler, dark jeans, green flannel over a black t-shirt and laced boots, as if he just returned from a working site. His curls are longer, framing his handsome face in a ridiculously good way, more white hairs nestle in his beard that is not that trimmed. Neither of you speak quite yet, taking each other in.

Your mind, your bizarre, ridiculous mind is working on figuring out what day it is. Why does it matter? Did you have an appointment? This is unexpected and a long time coming all at once, regardless of the day of the week. What comes next? Do you draw up an astrological map to determine if it's a compatible date for you to meet? Get it together.

Your facial expression must be pretty funny because Joel smiles awkwardly while scratching one side of his bearded cheek; hey, it’s me.

No, shit, you mentally respond, as if you could ever forget him. Furious is the word that best describes you because these are his first words? Hey, it’s me? And that feeling escalates into an explosive retort because you now realize that you had expectations. His first words? Who cares what his first words are? Were you expecting a tearful reunion, masterfully staged and executed like a romantic film? The guy betrayed you in your own house, sorry, his house. Wake the fuck up.

“Did you sign the papers?” you spit as you rise from your spot and he reacts as if you have punched him in the stomach. His face falls; you see a series of micro-expressions pass over his features before he settles on the last one. Has he been hurt? Did you hurt his feelings? Did he also have expectations?

“Uh-”, Joel raises his brows in genuine surprise, things probably not going the way he expected or hoped.

“It’s nice to see you, too.”, he replies with mild mockery.

Your eyes snap shut and you laugh in anger, lowering your chin to your chest and then looking back up at him, your eyes blazing, your brows mimicking his previously surprised expression, “Are you serious right now?” you cross your hands defensively over your chest.

You stare at each other for a good minute, both of you taking a moment to compose yourselves and regain your balance.

You break first, dropping your head back to your chest, looking down at the heel of your shoe scraping the ground beneath you, exhaling audibly.

“Hey,” Joel tries again, after speaking your name tenderly, your name on his lips, his head dipping down and to the side to try and get your attention back to him, his gaze filled with a mixture of warmth, regret and fear, “hi.”

You shake your head from side to side in repentance, what a great start this is, you keep thinking, “Hi.” is all you give him, still not looking at him.

“Hi,” he repeats, “it’s really nice to see you, bab-, shit, sorry.”, he winces, covering his mouth with his palm, embarrassment creeping into his features. You let out a quiet laugh, exhaling through your nose. You don’t comment on the slip of endearment that leaves his mouth, you don’t correct him, accepting privately that you liked it, you missed it, you longed for it.

Joel studies your face, but makes no comment on your silence. “You look...” he pauses for a split second before deciding to continue, “you look really good.” He hesitates, he doesn't want his compliment to come across as a feeble attempt to patronize you, because he really means it. You do look good, all sweaty and muddy and human and real. You are real. If he took a few steps forward, he could actually reach out and touch you, feel your skin under his fingertips, smell your heady scent, perhaps discreetly lick the remnants of your sweat from his thumb after carefully removing the strands of hair sticking on your forehead. But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do any of that.

You don’t quite know how to respond to that, any answer crossing your mind seems stupid or cheesy or dismissive. How do you respond to a compliment from the man who made you worship in his altar, only to have your faith ripped out of your heart?

His eyes keep roaming over your face, your figure, memorizing everything he can, like a blind man who has finally found his light, while he fidgets with an envelope in his hand which reminds you-

“Did you sign the papers, Joel?”, is what escapes your lips before you can think twice.

“No.” and now it’s his turn to lower his head, his eyes avoiding your gaze, as he looks down at his feet.

“Joel!”, you exclaim infuriated, rolling your eyes at him, knitting your brows together in a sign of frustration.

“No, no, it’s not like that. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”, Joel raises a hand in your direction to stop you from what seems to be a fair assumption, his palm up, facing you in an unspoken surrender. “I thought that- me, not signing, was a way of showing you how deeply sorry I am, how much I wanted to fix our marriage, but I understand now,” his voice wavers slightly, “that I need to respect your wishes. It’s the right thing to do. If this is still what you want, I’m gonna sign it.”

You don’t reply to that last part, only pointing out that “You didn’t have to come all this way to tell me that.”

“No, I didn’t.” Joel agrees.

“Then why are you here?” you insist, reluctant to entertain the idea that he has actually come all this way to apologize.

“Because I owe you an explanation.” is his honest and direct answer, sending little jolts of electricity through your nerves.

“Joel..” you sigh in exasperation. Not in warning or frustration, not really, but in something else. A feeling you can’t really put a name to, the closest you can come to describing it is that of a burden, woven deep into your heart, blossoming rapidly with each beat. There are so many things left unsaid; it makes you feel helpless, like you’re drowning. You want the dam you’ve built around your soul over the years to break so everything you've been holding back can finally pour out of you, but there’s just so much of it, of everything, that you’re terrified. Will the overflowing tank of emotions be completely empty? Will there be anything left unsaid? Untouched? What if the remnants left behind keep licking around your wounds, their waves pushing, shaping what’s left of you into something new, unrecognizable?

And what if, the tank will indeed be completely empty? What you’ll be left with, then? Nothing? Just.. empty? Will you remain empty? What, if anything, will take its place? Will you recognize your new self? Will you like yourself? Will you be able to live in harmony with this shell of a person? This you; you know. You hated and pitied and caressed and comforted and forgave and nurtured you into some version of a new you. But this? Everything will be torn apart, the wounds will be freshly opened, accessible to be examined in detail, plucked and bled and bruised in an all-too-familiar way.

Joel’s voice snaps you out of your trance, “No, I do. I owe you more than that, actually, but that’s the least I can do. And I wanna do that while I’m still your husband. I want to explain myself as your husband. Apologize to my wife, as her husband. Then I’m gonna sign anything you want me to.”

“And if I don’t wanna hear what you have to say?”

“Then I’ll just sign the papers and leave you in peace.” Joel confesses in all his honesty.

You just nod, looking down on the ground. You take a deep breath to ground yourself. You can do this. You want to do this. You need to do this.

You walk towards the house and sit down on the steps of the porch, as he looks at you awkwardly, not knowing where to stand. You gesture with a tilt of your head for him to come sit next to you. You can do this. You realize that you didn’t invite him into the house and you feel a bit rude for that, but it's beyond your empathetic capacity to deal with him being here and to let him into the house as well. “I just like it out here, it’s calm and-”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, whatever makes you feel comfortable; I know you don’t want me here any longer than I have to be..” he interrupts you as he sits down next to you, his one side pressing against the end of the stairs, where the railing begins. He places the contract between your bodies, on the wooden floor.

It makes you uncomfortable, his statement, you always want people to feel welcome and relaxed around you. You internally chastise yourself for worrying about his feelings instead of yours, but you can’t help it, it’s embedded in your DNA. “It’s OK, Joel, I don’t mind, we can talk.”

Joel nods, but he remains silent. You don’t break the silence, giving him time to collect his thoughts. He chuckles defeated, shaking his head while rubbing his hand over his face.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, you don’t look that mighty to me anymore.” you blurt out before you can stop yourself and you immediately regret it. It didn’t sound so insulting in your head. You only meant to say that he doesn’t intimidate you anymore. Which is sort of a lie and a truth at the same time. You used to find him imposing, even his mere presence had the ability to make your skin crawl, your heart flutter and your words get catch in your dry throat, you were in awe of him. Every time you laid your eyes at him, even when you were straddling his lap or gazing at his profile as he slept beside you, you always felt as if you were looking up. You admired him.

His heart loses several beats to that. He can read between your lines now. He has lost your respect. Your admiration. The time when you looked up to him in awe is long gone.

“You know, my therapist warned me about this.”, he chuckles bitterly.

“Your-” you can’t hide your shocked expression from him as you search his eyes for any sign of him joking around, but you find none. “You’ve been in therapy?”

“Yeah, I-, I spent two years hating myself,” he chuckles deprecatingly, “and then I realized it was time for me to stop being an arrogant prick, so I spent another two doing it all over again with the help of my therapist.”

You laugh wholeheartedly at that and it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen in his entire life. “OK, somebody’s off to a good start. Go on.”

“You mean about the therapy?”

“I mean about you admitting you are an arrogant prick”, you say playfully.

He really laughs now, his eyes crinkle up at the sides. You used to love that. You feel your heart warming up. “You can thank Maria for that.”

“For what?”

“For kicking my ass and pushing me to help myself.” Joel admits. “She’s a good friend.”

“Yeah, she is.” you agree through your laughter, the image of Maria actually kicking Joel’s ass is priceless.

“I missed that sound.” Joel is looking at you softly, as if his gaze could break you.

“Hm.” you simply smile at him, not finding it in you to respond with a snide remark. The time for that feels like it has passed, like it’s irrelevant at this point. All you really want is to have an honest conversation, irony be damned.

You both look at your feet in silent consideration for a minute or two. “I thought you’d be mad at me.” Joel reveals.

You exhale through your nose, the edges of your mouth turning up in a gentle smile. “Four years is a long time to be mad at anyone, Joel. Even you don’t have that kind of power over me.”

“Good. I have enough burden on my shoulders as it is..”, he mumbles and you decide to change the subject.

How do you admit that you are still mad at him but in a different way? How do you describe the deep scar his existence has carved into your soul making it almost unbearable to even exist without him? How do you explain that you’ll always carry him with you, no matter what? How do you instill in him that you still believe in the best version of him, the best version you know he can be, the best version of him you once lived with. Yes, you’re not mad at him for the reasons he thinks you are. You’re mad at him because the way he made you love him is stronger than any hurt he’s ever caused you.

“So, what did your therapist warn you about?”

“She, uh- she tried to prepare me for this.”

“Oh? What did she say?”

“That I should not be prepared.”, he laughs in earnest. “That I should not obsess about what I want to say and just be open and have an honest interaction.”

“I like her, already.” you say with a straight face.

He smiles softly, looking down at his boots, while he rests his elbows on his knees, one palm encircling the other. “Yeah… I had some digging to do; I still do for that matter and will be for a long time it seems.”

“Anything you wanna share?” you reply, raising an eyebrow as if you had no idea why he was here.

“Oh, boy-” he squirms in his seat, already overwhelmed by the turn of the conversation, his chest almost vibrating with anxiety, he can barely swallow, small beads of sweat starting to form around his temples. You reluctantly reach for his forearm, trying to calm him down. “Hey, Joel?”

His whole body stiffens at your touch and he wishes his clothes would evaporate so he could feel your skin against his. He fixes his eyes on your delicate fingers lightly squeezing his tight muscles underneath the fabric. “The worst part has already happened four years ago, so-” you shrug, “just breathe.” Joel keeps his eyes on your hand, his heart rate dropping slightly; you ground him. You retract your arm and keep your hands to yourself in an effort to maintain a respectable distance between you. You shouldn’t have touched him at all.

“I think- I think I understand now.” he begins, still feeling the ghost of your touch on his forearm. “How I made you feel, what your words meant. You always did that, you know. And I found it so fascinating and so exhausting at the same time.”

You look at him, confused. Joel continues, “You always chose your words carefully. You had a reason for every single thing you said. In retrospect, I realized that you were handing me everything on a silver platter, but I was too self-absorbed to see it at the time.”

You nod in agreement, gesturing with your head for him to keep going.

Joel takes a deep breath, holding it inside his lungs for a while. His exhalation is controlled, measured. “Fuck. Okay. It was not just the fact itself. It was not just the cheatin’.”

Your stomach clenches violently at his words. The time has finally come and although you know what happened, you where there, when the words come out of Joel’s mouth it's as if you're pulled back to that threshold all over again. It really happened. You feel your hands sweating. “Go on.”, you pronounce carefully, already anxious your voice is going to betray you. You can do this.

“I don’t want to sound all full of myself-” Joel hesitates.

“You won’t.” you interrupt him with conviction. The truth has never frightened you. You welcome it. It feels like a form of catharsis, it feels like you’re finally being seen. Every nerve in your body is on fire. You’re ready for this, for the truth, if only he gives it to you. Please, set me free.

“I was your everything.” he whispers, almost embarrassed, his eyes not meeting yours. You don’t respond to that, not until he looks at you, although the admission shoots straight through your heart. You stare at the side of his face, almost forcing him to turn to you. He does.

“You were.” Simple. True. Clear as the light of day.

“And I ripped that from you.”

“You did.”

“In the worst possible way.”

“Hmhm.”, you don’t trust the stability of your voice.

“And no matter what I say, I can never take back what I did. I humiliated you, our home, our relationship, everything. I-” his brows furrow in an expression of disgust, “I disrespected myself. I burned everything down. I left nothing for you to hold on to, nothing for me to hope for, nothing.”

His chin trembles and his voice wavers as he continues. “The words to describe how sorry I am have not yet been invented. And even if they had, they still couldn’t take the pain away; what’s done, is done.”

He closes his eyes and rests his head on the railing. “I don’t know what I wish for anymore. That you had never met me, so you could be spared all this pain? But I can’t. I can’t wish that, because I’m so grateful to have met you. I married you, I had you. That is what has comforted me all these years, what has got me through all those sleepless nights.” He looks absolutely devastated, desperate.

It feels genuine, because he’s not directing it at you, he’s not trying to convince you, he’s not trying at all. “I have not thought about my pain or what I want from all this for a long time. All I pray for is-” his glistening eyes are searching frantically on the ground, his brows knitted together in a painful grimace. You rest your head on the palm of your hand, your elbow on your knee. Watching this moment like an outside observer, you realize that he's trying to live up to your standards, reminding you of a child trying to impress his parents, only to fail regardless of the outcome.

“Look, Joel, couples break up, divorce, all over the world, all the time. And I guess, they all thought their partners were their everything until they finally weren’t.”, you rationalize, putting everything that has happened into some kind of perspective. It is not the end of the world. It is the end of your world. He doesn’t have to carry this burden on his shoulders for eternity. All you need from him is to understand, to acknowledge what he's done to you, how broken you’ve been.

But if he acknowledges that, if he truly comprehends the tremendous pain he’s put you through, won’t all that anguish be transferred to him? Isn't it unbearable for a truly repentant man to know that he has deliberately caused so much pain?

“But, you see; I wanted that, I needed to be your everything.”

“It certainly fed your ego..” you grin at him.

“No, no- I craved that- that look on your face when your eyes were on me, like there was nothing else, no one else around you, but me. You drove me to be better, to move forward; I felt I had a purpose. You were my purpose.”

“Well I didn’t do much of a job then, did I?” you smile defeated.

“No, honey, this-” he’s determined to make you understand that it wasn't your fault, even if it is the last thing he is going to do. He licks his lips trying to formulate his thoughts, “-what happened, had nothing to do with you, I- I was just- I got in my head..”

You shake your head dismissively, “It’s a terrible burden to put people on a pedestal and expect them to-”

“But you see, baby, that’s the thing. You didn’t.”Joel dismisses your comment and if a bucket of ice-cold water was thrown over your head you wouldn’t feel so frozen. You search his eyes for meaning, because deep down it stings to hear that you could give more. Is that what he’s saying? You didn’t love him enough? Joel catches on and rushes to explain. “You-” god this is so hard, he’s struggling, can’t he just rip his heart open and let you examine it? “You loved me so much, baby and you never asked for anything in return. You let me be who I was. You accepted me completely. You set me free.” His eyes are blown wide, burning into yours with intensity. You look so lost, how does all this fit in with what he did then?

“Darlin’,” he expands further, “we live in a competitive world. Everyone aims to control each other, from business partners to lovers and spouses; everyone manipulates, everyone tries to tell you where to look, what to do, how to act, how to fuck, how to love. Except for you. You let me be. You put your heart in my hands and you set me free. And I took advantage of that and I am truly sorry. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know. That’s how fucked up I am.” you look at him dumbfounded.

“I can’t connect the dots; I don’t get it, Joel, I’m sorry, I-” you run your fingers through your hair, scratching your scalp in frustration. What does he mean?

Joel winces mid-sentence because he can’t escape what’s coming. This is his last resort. And he knows it is going to sound cruel and he doesn’t even mean the first part the way you're going to perceive it, but for lack of better words, for lack of the better person he could have been, a person who should have never put you in this position in the first place, here goes.

“She made me feel wanted; you made me feel free.”,

he spits out in a hurry, praying to whatever god is listening, that you won’t even catch it, knowing full well that these may be the last words you'll ever let him speak to you.

You are utterly, completely, perfectly shocked.

Then you feel it for the first time in what feels like ages. That old friend consuming you. Rage. It burns your lungs, twists your guts and pierces your heart like a thousand needles. Everything becomes crystal clear. You’re so infuriated, that your mind goes blank. A million words and nothing at all come to your mind simultaneously.

“Let me- let me rephrase that, because actually it was never even about her, I just-” Joel begins, in a vain attempt to stop the tide from crushing you both.

Your palms become clenched fists in front of your mouth, pressing against it, crushing the velvety skin of the inside of your lips against your teeth until you draw blood, in an effort to control yourself. You inhale sharply, keeping your eyes fixed on the land in front of you, blurred by the tears gathering in your waterline.

“She- what?” are the only words you manage to choke out.

“Baby, it doesn’t matter, it was never about her, she was a means to an end and-” your eyes bulge out of your sockets at the statement, “I know- I know how that sounds- just-” his palms come together in a prayerful gesture, begging you to give him a chance to explain.

“A means to an- what the fuck are you talking about, Joel?” the veins on your forehead swell under your skin, creating a map of the river of wrath flowing aggressively through your body.

“It was never an affair sweetheart, but a transaction; one I initiated. She was only a boost to my ego.”

..she made me feel wanted..

..a boost to my ego..

It's all starting to make sense now, and it's the last thing you expect to be confronted with. You've always imagined either a heated affair, a secret love story, him realizing he had found his soul mate in someone else, or him getting bored with you, finding you too much or too emotional or too unlovable. It turns out that you were accused of the one thing you never were.

“Are you-, oh god,” you can hear your heart pounding in your ears now and it takes every ounce of strength not to vomit, “are you saying that you fucked someone else; you fucked your secretary for fuck’s sake, you fuckin’ cliché of a man, because I wasn’t jealous of you?”. Your throat is so swollen, you try to scream your words at him but they only come out in wrenched whispers.

You stand up abruptly, dizziness causing you to close your eyes tightly as you see a million white dots behind the blackness of your eyelids. Your whole body vibrates with rage. You steady yourself on the railing and then begin to pace back and forth, your hands unable to stay motionless, but moving over your face, through your hair, lowering and squeezing the sides of your waist as you lean slightly forward in a subconscious way to soothe yourself.

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god,” you laugh hysterically now, as angry tears run down your cheeks, as if you've been let in on an inside joke. “It’s my fault, everything is my fault-”

Joel is frozen in place, he’s not sure if he should get up and try to reason with you or stay where he is.. or run for the hills. He’s witnessing the unleashing of a caged animal. His tongue feels heavy and numb in the cavern of his mouth but he dares to speak again, “That’s the exact opposite of what I said, sweetheart,” he tries to explain in vain, “I’m sorry if that’s what I-” but you’re not listening to a single word he utters.

“People kept telling me, urging me on, all my life;” and you slap your palms on the sides of your thighs, looking at his direction, but not really looking, “I should be more controlling, more pushy, more..” your voice begins to fade, muttering to yourself through your teeth. “They warned me, you know, that the lack of pressure in any kind of relationship would be perceived as a lack of interest.”

Don't trust completely; hold something back; men like the illusion of power; show them you need them; make them jealous; be jealous, like a manual to a pre-installed setting.

Do you agree to the Terms & Conditions?

Press ‘Enter.’

“But I didn’t listen. I never listened. Because in what world do we choose a leash over freedom?” You turn to look at him now, addressing him as if you were talking to a third party, an outsider, asking for advise or affirmation.

Maria’s words come back to Joel’s mind, words that he had long forgotten about, finally fitting like missing pieces of a puzzle to the bigger picture.

“Maybe the wrong Miller is on a leash..”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means that freedom is for those who can bear it.”

“I was really stupid, was I not? What on earth made me think that this time would be any different, what made me think that you’d be any different? You’re just- you’re just another man-” you spit your vile angrily as your eyes sweep over him. The look in his eyes is devastated, he feels shuttered, reduced to nothing.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid little girl. When the fuck will I learn? When the fuck am I going to accept that I don't really belong? When?”

Joel is staring at you bewildered, he never felt more helpless in his life. A thousand new thoughts and questions form in your head, things you didn’t even begin to imagine would cross your mind.

“Did you use her?” you ask with renewed vigor, a surge of energy running through your body.

Joel’s cheeks burn with humiliation but he has already admitted it once, what will it do to him to say it one more time? “Yes, I never had any feelings f-”

“No,” you interrupt impatiently, you don't care about his feelings right fuckin' now, “that night, did you use her? On purpose?”

Joel looks lost for a second but the cogs in his head finally turn and “NO! No baby, I wasn’t even aware of you coming home earlier than expected, no. Don’t even entertain this idea; it wasn’t intentional, I swear to god.”

Oh. There’s a new question for Joel. Why did you leave your business trip early? He had never thought about it before, solely focused on everything else that had happened, which now made him wonder, “Did you- did you know?”

“What?” you frown, lost in your own thoughts, not following his line of logic.

“Did you know? Is that why you came back early from your trip?”

You’re still a bit too far gone in your head to think clearly and try to prevent the next question from coming, “Of course I didn’t know, Joel, did it look like I did?” is all you say with a bite, annoyed.

“Then why-” Joel insists, pressuring you for an answer, but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

“I- fuck- I need a minute.” you declare and start to walk towards the house.

Joel waited on that porch for almost an hour, watching the sun set behind the mountain, afraid to move, barely breathing in case you stormed out and threw him back where he came from as if him standing still would somehow make him part of the landscape; as if he belonged.

And you certainly delivered.

He hears the screen door open, his back still to the house. You are standing behind him, your arms crossed stiffly over your chest, your face tilted down, to avoid his gaze. He could see the red-rimmed and swollen eyes of yours, despite your efforts to hide them.

“I can’t do this-”

“Please,” his whole face contorts in agony, “please, hear me-” you both speak at the same time.

“-tonight.”

“What?” his voice matching the look of confusion on his face.

“Maybe another time, but not tonight.”

“I-” he doesn’t know how to articulate his thoughts without sounding like an idiot. He drove all this way, four hours straight, to finally get things straight. His brain has short-circuited, unable to put a plan into action. Should he check into a hotel or a motel or whatever the fuck is around here in the middle of nowhere? Should he go back to his place? Do you really want to talk again? You sort of said you did. You said maybe. Fuck. What does he do?

But honestly, what did he expect? That this would be over in the course of one evening? Of course he would have to come back. His eyes are fixed on yours like a deer caught in the headlights. “I came all this way-” he mumbles, choking on the last part, already regretting the words that came out of his mouth.

“Well, too bad.” you spit emotionless as you turn and head for the safety of your house, leaving him stunned on the goddamn porch.

Joel returned the next evening, but you weren't there. He made the four hour journey and came back empty-handed. And you weren't there the next evening, or the evening after that. But he kept on driving the miles, hot wheels under the Texas sun. He didn’t check in anywhere near your small town. He went back home and then back to you again.

The last time he found nothing but a closed door, he finally got the message, so the next time he left the house, before he turned on the ignition, he texted you, as a sign of respect for your boundaries.

Is it all right if I come and see you?

Backspacebackspacebackspace

Is it OK if I come and talk?

And the answer was

Not today.

So, every day he texted you. He didn’t mean to be intrusive, he just wanted to remind you that you were never far from his thoughts, that he was always ready and eager to finish what he started.

You denied him for quite some time. You couldn’t bring yourself to face him again. The confessions he made have knocked you off your axis. Just when you finally felt like everything was falling into place, he dropped this bombshell, making you rethink everything you thought you knew and had sorted out in your mind. You just couldn’t wrap your head around what you’d heard coming out of his mouth. How could he think like that? Why couldn’t he just talk to you? You used to talk about everything; what the fuck happened? How did you not see that coming?

You were sure that he would give up, that he would stop bothering to contact you at all. Was it the monster of self-deprecation? Was it a deep disappointment in human beings and their general lack of persistence in trying to nurture and repair a relationship, or at least trying to give it a proper closure? You didn’t give it much thought afraid of the answer you might get. But you kept saying Not today, until one day, for some reason-

Can we talk?

Yes.

Joel’s heart is beating through his chest so rapidly, he has to cough to regain some of his composure. He almost drops his phone, trying to confirm the most convenient time for you before you change your mind.

That was the first Yes after the day you saw him again. You weren’t sure what you wanted to talk about; if you could pick up exactly where you left off. You weren’t even sure you could look him in the eye again, but you had to see this through.

When you hear the sound of his engine and tires on the dirt road, you take a deep breath and walk out of the house to wait for him on the porch.

“Come on in, I’m cooking dinner.” you announce as you open the screen door for him to enter the house.

“Are you sure?”, Joel is taken aback, he thought the inside of your house was strictly off-limits to him. You were also cooking dinner as if he was an old friend visiting you. He couldn’t help but wonder if he should lower his defenses or not but with the way you looked tonight you didn’t give him much of a choice.

You’re wearing a pair of warm cream jeans, paired with a white front tie shirt, the first few buttons left open, giving him a glimpse of your tanned sternum. It almost looks like a man’s shirt, just messily tied up over your soft skin, revealing bits of your stomach. Could it be another man’s shirt?

You are barefoot. The nails of your toes are painted in a fresh glossy black color. Your hair is casually tied up in a messy bun, loose strands falling around your beaming face. Joel has to restrain himself from pushing you against the wall and fucking you on the spot, by clenching and unclenching his fists. His mouth is salivating at the sight of you, excitement building in his groin. It's been so long since he's felt this way, a different kind of hunger is growing in him at a rapid pace, as if something buried deep inside his masculinity has just awakened from hibernation.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you quirk back at him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, what you’re both doing. “I’m starving. Coming?” you leave him at the entrance and go back into the house.

“You have a beautiful home.”, Joel admits as he takes in his surroundings, thinking that this is going better than he expected. He also can't help but prepare himself for the fact that this might not end the same way.

“Thank you.” you laugh nervously.

“What?”, he catches the note of disbelief in your voice. “I'm serious, the light is just right, it’s open and warm; it actually reminds me of you.” he says matter-of-factly.

“No, no, I know you mean it, it’s just- I guess it’s high praise, coming from you.” you admit. You always admired what he did for a living and how good he was at it and him seeing your place for the first time gave you another reason to feel kind of nervous.

“Oh, come on, none of that now.” he dismisses the compliment, his voice wavering slightly at the praise.

“Well it’s true, you are excellent at what you do, I mean, the house you built is a work of art and that’s a fact.”

“Which one?”, although he knows exactly which one, he presses on.

“The one we used to live in, together.” You can’t call it your house. You cannot. The mere thought of it makes your tongue feel like it’s on fire.

“Oh.”, Joel smiles as he presses his lips together in a thin line, “You mean our house. It was built out of love, that's why. It's the one I'm most proud of.”

“Hm.”, is all you give him. Déjà vu brings back memories out of the closet -pun intended- for both of you.

“Ok, now you really have to tell me. What is it?”, Joel crosses his forearms over his chest. He has to know.

“What do you mean?”, you try to buy some more time, cause you’re not so sure you want to go in there.

“You had the exact same reaction when I mentioned that, four years ago.”

“Ah, that.”

“Yeah, that.”

“It’s just- it always felt like it reflected your personality rather than mine. Or at least ours.”

Joel looks at you perplexed.

“I’m not complaining, I mean, how many people can claim that their husband built them a house the size of a small hotel as a wedding present?” you chuckle while you continue as nonchalantly as you can muster, “I would have lived in a cave with you, Joel, you didn’t have to go to these lengths to house two people. If you want my honest opinion, this was an ego project. I let it slide because it made you happy. And I liked you happy.” Joel looks stunned, his eyes darting back and forth between yours.

“Baby, I- I wanted to make you happy, to give you the best I could-”

“Joel, I’m not judging you. I am not. But you didn’t show me a single blueprint while you were designing the damn thing. You didn’t ask me what I wanted or how I imagined it. Sure, you equipped it with all the best stuff money could buy, but you never asked me what I thought about it. Not really.”, you see the hurt in his eyes and it unsettles you, but now the rabbit is out of the hat. “Again, I’m not judging you and I’m not being ungrateful, all I’m saying is that for some reason you needed your shinny new wife to live in a shinny new castle. It was a prestige thing. Just think about it.”

“Jesus..” Joel mutters, pinching the sides of his forehead with one hand, feeling defeated.

“Hey,” you give him a wry look, “I tried to avoid answering that question for four years. You were the one who insisted.” you defend yourself, clearly amused by his reaction.

“What else do I need to know?”, Joel wonders in a desperate manner.

“Well.. for how long can you keep coming back?” you joke absentmindedly.

“For the rest of my life..” Joel answers a little too quickly, not a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Your heart tightens at his eagerness, forcing you to admit a consideration that you have had more than a few times before. “You know,” you look over at him, lost in thought, almost like reminiscing, “sometimes I wish I had met you before your company took off.” You snap out of your daydream and consciously look at him and he looks pained as if some kind of realization has hit him. You change the subject for the sake of both of you. “Anyway, speaking of which, how is work? I heard you closed that deal, after all.” you grin mischievously.

“Yeah, I did.”, his voice takes on a strange timbre, almost like regret. But you’re not so sure about anything these days, so you let it pass. He puts the envelope with the contract on the counter in the kitchen and sits down in the chair next to the table already set for dinner.

“Good, that’s good. Let me guess, you’re all over it? First in, last out? Is it almost done?” you word vomit to cover your nervousness.

“Uh,” Joel rubs the back of his neck, “I wouldn’t know.” is all he gives you, clearly trying to avoid getting involved in the discussion.

“Um, you don’t know?”, you laugh lightly in confusion. “How is that possible?”, you ask stirring the vegetables in the pan.

“I’m not involved in the project and I have no idea about the status of the construction;” Joel answers your question and continues, revealing, “I quit. Sold my shares and got out.”

“Yeah,” you draw the vowels, still not looking in his direction, “right. Big, mighty Joel Miller left his enterprise-” you laugh mockingly, but you are met with silence. “You’re joking, right?” You turn to look at him, not believing what you have just heard. You feel your blood freeze in your veins.

Joel shakes his head in denial, “I’ve actually left the city and the only reason I haven’t sold every asset in my name is in case you want to claim any of them. They’re all yours if you want ‘em.” Your mouth is slightly agape, as you try to process what has just been delivered to you.

You open your mouth to protest but he beats you to it, by raising his hand to stop you. “I know you don’t want anything from me, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want them either. Not without you. Just take them. Burn them for all I care, liquidate them and use the money as you see fit.”, Joel insists, trying to find ways to convince you.

“You can do that yourself, Joel.” is all you say; you don’t give a damn about his money. Joel nods and leaves it at that, he knows better than to talk about money right now.

You’re curious where he lives now, but you’re not sure it’s appropriate to ask, so you don’t. You prepare dinner and make small talk about simple things like your lives over the past four years. Joel asks you about the ranch, the horses, the chores; you ask him about Tommy and Maria, their newborn son, whom you haven't had a chance to meet yet. None of you dare to break the bubble of normality in which you have effortlessly found yourselves.

It feels like coming home after a long day, the way you both fall into a comfortable silence. Joel speaks your name softly, drawing your attention and your gaze back to him. “What are we doing here?”

“We’re eating?” Just a little longer, let me have it just a little longer.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “no, I mean, what are we doing?” he gestures with his fingers between him and you.

You look at him and then at your plate, playing around with your food, lost in thought. How do you acknowledge that? How do you confess that you’re trying to stretch time? How do you admit that you’re scared out of your mind of how it's all going to end? How do you even come to terms with the fact that you’re not sure you want any of this to end? How do you accept how natural it feels to have him back in your life? How do you admit that after four years the pain has never stopped, but the force, the roughness of it has changed into something softer, yet persistent; never quite going away, lingering.

How do you admit that all the good memories are emerging, because that’s what the mind does, that’s how it protects you, that’s how it helps you survive another day, that’s how it tricks you into falling back into a comfortable routine with him. Even if what binds you together now is his betrayal. How do you admit that you’re afraid of what will become of you once you've finished confessing your truths?

Will he cease to exist for you? Will you cease to exist for him? Will he ever bother to contact you again? Do you really want him to? Will you matter to him or will he move on, start again and shake off the last vestiges of your life together?

Or maybe- maybe he has moved on with his life and that's why he's doing all this, putting all this effort into it. Maybe he is preparing a new, clear path for himself and whoever is in his life right now. Is it her? Is it still, her?

You’re spiraling, lost in your thoughts, biting your lower lip anxiously, like a snake eating its own tail. “Baby?” his baritone voice snaps you out of it, he must have called you several times before you heard him, suddenly aware of hot, fat tears streaming down your face, his thumbs gently brushing them from your cheeks.

You let out a shuddering breath; it’s the first time he’s touched you, in so, so long. And here he is again. The familiar, old friend. He’s pounding on your door now, relentless as he is, screaming for you to let him in, lead the way, take charge, take care of you. You can almost feel his maniacal banging, vibrating through your chest, let me in, let me in, let me in.

Let me in, better angry than scared.

Better angry than scared.

Your shoulders slump, your head feels unbearably heavy. The world has stopped moving. The world is moving too fast. You savor his features as he leans further in, his intoxicating scent filling your nostrils, his eyes pleading, the brown of his irises inviting you to let him in. Joel’s face is that of a man still in love as he continues to caress your skin and you let him.

You let him, because you are a weak person.

You let him because you have been deprived of his touch, of any touch really, for far too long.

You let him because you want to have something for yourself, selfishly.

You let him, because for once you just want to take. Take, take, take.

You let him because you just want to be held and touched and loved.

And even though your mind knows that you shouldn’t want all that from him, your heart allows you that little moment.

“Joel, I’m tired.” you begin, your voice breaking as fresh tears run down your face and onto his thumbs. “Tired to my bones. All I want is to be honest with each other. Do you think we can do that? Can we talk like two adults with nothing left to lose? Can we just be truthful to each other? I know there’s too much history between us, too much hurt and resentment but we both have to try and put it all behind us. I can’t go on like this.”

There’s a stillness in him, realization and clarity dawning on him. He thinks he understands now and it shocks him somehow, as a fact, that there are still things to uncover, to revel in, to acknowledge. Every time he thinks he’s reached the end of this journey, a new sun rises over the horizon.

You don’t need the specifics of his action, at least not right now, or not anymore. What you need is closure. True, honest closure. And that can only come from him baring himself to you. “Yeah, yeah, we can do that. We can do anything you want, baby.”, he squeezes his eyes shut, knowing where to begin, but resisting the thought. He leans back in his seat, dropping his hands from your face as he lets out the breath he seems to be holding in and begins.

“Remember that night before your business trip when you came to my office?”

“Uh, yeah? I guess.”, what a strange thing to mention, you think confused. “What about it?”

“You came to me for sex.”, Joel says bluntly, no need to beat around the bush. This is it. This is how he loses you. Once again.

You stare at him and then, for some reason, look down in embarrassment. You’ve fucked him in almost every way you can think of and now the very admission of that fact makes you feel like an exposed nerve. It dawns on you, how far away this era has slipped away. You feel vulnerable as if you’re talking to a total stranger about your most intimate moments. At the same time, you still know exactly how to touch him, how to please him and a light warmth begins to shimmer inside you.

“Well, that’s one way of putting it, but- yeah..”, you admit, still nervously picking at your food with your fork.

Joel sees your apprehension but he presses on. This is what you asked for. “And I refused you.” The look on your face betrays your confusion. Where is he going with this? Only now, he sees more. He can finally see more. The hurt. The disappointment. “What happened next?” is his next question and does he really think that you can remember all these years later? Does he honestly believe that you can recall yourself leaving his office defeated and crying yourself to sleep? “I don’t remember.” you lie, shrugging your shoulders as convincingly as you can muster.

“You said you loved me and then you left.”, Joel reminds you.

“You- you remember all that?”, your eyes are wide and the look on your face vulnerable, Joel wants to pause it all and hold you in his arms.

“I can’t seem to forget anything about you,” he reveals, “believe me, I’ve tried.”

“What’s your point?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Uh.. why did I do what?”, you narrow your eyes in confusion.

His eyes are piercing yours, provoking you to figure it out on your own.

“Loved you?” He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

Your eyes widen again, in surprise this time, as you finally see what he means.

“Walked away?” You’re fucking shocked to the core, your voice choked, you’re not sure you spoke out loud.

“Why didn’t you insist?”

Your mouth is wide open, you’re speechless, you flatter your eyelids in search of the right words. This is your second encounter and once again he says what you least expect him to say.

“You refused” you remind him now, “and I respected that.”, your hand moves to rest on your chest, palm open, to calm your racing heart.

“I didn’t want you to.”

“You know how that sounds, don’t you?”, you mock with a nervous laugh.

“Oh, please,” Joel is quick to respond, his brows knitted in a dismissive frown, “like you could ever force yourself on me.”

You genuinely are at a loss for words, your gaze unable to stay in one place, your mind running a million miles an hour.

Apparently you both are, because Joel is no better at explaining how he feels. “I wanted you to-”, he stops, his eyes still searching yours for the right words, pleading with you to feel him.

Oh my god. Oh. My. God.

It dawns on you. All at once. You see it all playing out. You know exactly how this conversation is going to go. “-claim you? You wanted me to claim you?”, your voice rises, as does your tone. You feel the presence of your abandoned friend again. You don’t want him here. But he creeps in through your veins, nonetheless. He is not giving up. If the pounding doesn’t work then he’ll poison you, slowly and persistently.

“From who? You were supposed to be mine!”, you exclaim exasperated, immediately correcting yourself “-not that I owned you, you know what-”

“That! That’s what I’m talking about!” Joel points his finger at you, “That’s what I needed. To be yours!”

“But you were! Are we really haggling over semantics? Of course you were mine! I just never wanted you to feel suffocated by me. You were not my possession Joel, you were my partner!”

“I swear to you, I would die a happy man, baby.”

“I- I tried so hard to control myself-” you mutter to yourself, rolling your eyes back to your head as you shake it in denial, “-all that hunger inside of me, eating me up-”

“What?” is Joel’s turn to look like a lost puppy. What the fuck is going on here?

“You,” you point a finger at him, “you were my first and last thought every passing day, it wasn’t even healthy anymore, Joel. But- I saw that look in your eyes sometimes, a hunger, one I thought mirrored mine and then it was gone in the blink of an eye and I thought that something was holding you back; I- I was holding you back. I thought- maybe I was undeserving..” you divert your eyes from him, embarrassed at your feeling of inadequacy, “So, I accepted what you gave me if it meant I could have any part of you.”

“Oh, baby..” Joel’s hiding his face in his palms and his heart breaks as he realizes where you both stand. How did the two of you get to this point? How could his judgment be so clouded, how could he be so blind to what was happening under his own roof? How could he be so arrogant as to seek validation, one he didn't even need, from someone else? Someone whose validation he didn't even care about. It didn't matter to him. She didn’t matter to him. How could he not sense the insecurity tantalizing your very core to the point of feeling inadequate? If only you had told him sooner.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you mirror his thoughts with your voice.

“What should I say to you? I couldn’t put it into words, even now I'm not sure I can. It was an all-consuming feeling, an absolute necessity, an overwhelming need that was impossible to handle. I wasn’t mentally or emotionally prepared to deal with it. I loved you with such force that it became an obsession. I couldn’t even entertain the idea that you might not want me back in the same way. I felt helpless, vulnerable. How could I come to terms with this? With the realization that I had fucked someone else just to get a rise out of you or to prove to myself that I didn't need you that much after all?”

Joel’s palms are clenched into fists on his thighs, trying to keep himself from pressing his lips against yours. Feelings and desires that had been buried in his subconscious for too long came back as he tried to make you understand.

“A r- so, you did fuck her on our bed on purpose.”

“You asked me that before, darlin’, I promise you I did not.”

“Then how would you provoke me if you didn’t mean for me to find out?” you look at him incredulously.

“I-” Joel winces, “it wasn’t a conscious thought, I just kept fantasizing about you finding out and burning the house down for me and that single image made me so h-” Joel shuts his mouth abruptly, not the best idea to describe to you how fuckin’ hard he got, fantasizing about you while fucking someone else. You, bursting into the bedroom all raging and furious, turning the whole place upside down reclaiming what was rightfully yours.

Him.

What a sick fuck he was. “I swear to you, no. I’m not that fucked up. It was a gigantic lack of judgment, I was fuckin’ drunk, my mind was a mess at that point. That whole week was-” he’s biting his tongue hard to stop himself while rubbing his forehead with his fingers, “I was just being an idiot.”

“The week I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, ‘snothing.” and he doesn’t elaborate. “Just a bad fuckin’ week.”

The atmosphere suddenly feels suffocating, as if all the words that have spilled out of both your mouths are hovering over your heads like a black cloud. You need some air to clear your mind, so you make your way out of the kitchen without looking back and walk slowly to the porch, sitting on the steps at the bottom of the stairs. You know he will follow. Your bare feet touch the soft soil beneath you and you try to ground yourself through the little patch of earth you call your own. It doesn’t quite work. There’s a beautiful golden glow, a last gift from the parting sun, warming your soul. Everything is going to be all right.

“Strange fantasies we both had.” you say as Joel seats down next to you, the contract once again a barrier between you. “You kept fantasizing about me finding out about your affair-”.

“It wasn’t an affair-” Joel corrects you. “Fine, fine. You imagined that, while I kept fantasizing me holding you so tightly while we fucked that our flesh became one; that’s how deep I needed you inside me, that’s how obsessively I wanted to carry you with me all the time, isn’t that totally fucked up?” you laugh dejectedly.

“I guess we are the same kind of fucked up. If only we could admit it to each other..”

“Did you really feel that I didn’t love you enough?” you whisper, almost too scared to be heard and to get an answer.

“I think we loved each other too much. I think we were both too afraid of losing each other. I think,” Joel pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts and calm his voice, “in our efforts to keep each other we did the exact opposite. More me than you, for sure. I have handled things badly and badly is an understatement.”

“You were always so patient with me. You’d always wait for me to come to you, to take my time. I needed the savage in you, or I thought I did at the time. That desperate thing I felt creeping out of you in stolen glances or bitten lips between your teeth, or when we fucked; no one has ever fucked me like you did. I did see all of you then, you know. And I think you saw all of me. If I made you feel confident or safe enough, you would have talked to me. And if I wasn’t so self-absorbed I would have asked.”

You never thought you’d hear these words from Joel, but all this time of self-reflection has changed him in a way that reminds you of the Joel you fell in love with. The one you could see behind all those layers of self-protection, the one you’d always hoped would emerge for you. And then he goes on, and you wish you knew what was coming so you could protect your heart from being torn to shreds.

“Maybe-” he closes his eyes looking pained, “maybe I was a narcissist. Maybe you gave me all you had and I kept wanting more, maybe I needed every part of you for myself. Maybe I needed you on your knees, on a leash, at my mercy, just to have the illusion of the certainty that you would never leave me. Maybe freedom is for those who can bear it, after all. Hell, maybe I was the one who needed the leash in the end. Maybe you gave me too much credit, my love, when you deemed me worthy of freedom.”

His words are earth-shuttering, obliterating, final. There’s nothing left to be said, at least nothing of substance. Final. The fucking word plays over and over in your head. Final. This is final. You could swear that you have felt every possible kind of pain during these four long years but new depths of agony are being discovered right now. The acid in your stomach makes your throat constrict. You feel petrified.

Joel can sense your distress, his words have been of no comfort to you. Your skin looks pale, covered with a thin layer of cold sweat; you look physically ill. Your forearms rest on your knees and he gently cups your elbow to check in on you. Are you OK? You smile weakly at him, the expression not reaching the corners of your eyes.

“You know I would give anything to take it all back, right?”

Your laughter is more lively now, not with malice or sarcasm, but with a sense of humor.

“Yeah, yeah, I think I do.”, you shake your head in twisted amusement, tilting your head up, to let the last rays of the sun warm your face, maybe bring back some of your lost color. It's getting dark now, the day is coming to an end, the curtains of the last sunlight are almost closed. Your eyes are closed too, your head still tilted back as you laugh to yourself, “You did that backwards, too, you know.”

“What?”

“You have burned everything to the ground, only to realize that you want to get it all back in one piece. I mean it’s- it’s-” you struggle to find the right words but Joel offers one of his own.

“Ridiculous..”

“I was gonna say pointless.. But that’s the thing, Joel. Choosing to be with someone is like faith. You believe because you just know. You don't have to find evidence to prove your choice at every turn, otherwise it’s just exhausting. You choose to trust yourself.”

“Trust me as your partner, you mean, not yourself.”

“Joel, it was never about trusting you..”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand..”

“I’m not sure how to explain it- uh..”, you raise your shoulders and your brows in unison as you shake your head slightly, searching for the words. “Trust is a personal journey. ‘Trust’ doesn't mean ‘trust in you’, I’m not trusting you. No one can be sure of anyone. ‘Trust’ means that I have faith in myself, that even if you hurt me, even if you abandon me, I will not fall apart. And..” you shrug your shoulders, hugging yourself with your hands, “look at me, Joel..”, you finish, suggesting that you’re still here, still standing.

“I am, baby; I am..” Joel replies, taking in the sight of you as if it were the last time he’ll ever have the chance to, utterly compelled by your inner glow.

“I’m not mad at you Joel, not anymore. And I believe you, I really do. But I can’t get that scene out of my head. I just can’t. I can still hear the sounds, I can even recall the way you smelled when you were standing next to me.”

His hands are shaking.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, really.”

“I know.”, his voice is barely audible.

“I think you’ve done enough of that yourself. Maybe it’s time to forgive yourself?”

“Do you?” Do you, really? Do you forgive him after all that has been said? Do all these confessions illuminate the facts from a different perspective? Does it change what he did and what you went through? And if so, does that mean you're letting him go? Are you leaving him behind? Is he leaving you behind? Why is it so hard to let go? Why do you choose the safety of the known, even when it hurts you?

You choose not to answer and instead firmly insist, “You have to forgive yourself, Joel, it’s okay.” Be the better person. If not for him, then for yourself. Let him go.

“I can’t do that.”, Joel is adamant, shaking his head while he rejects your request.

“Yes, you can.” you urge him again. “As I can and do.” Let him go.

Joel never thought he would listen to those words coming out of your mouth. He doesn’t deserve them. He hasn’t earned them. “You forgive me?”, he repeats in utter shock and disbelief.

“Yes.” Loud and clear as daylight.

“I- You can’t- I don’t- I don’t deserve that.” Joel feels like he’s drowning in your so graciously offered Holy Grail, desperately trying to keep his head above the waters of your absolution.

“I can’t be the judge of that, Joel, hell, I can’t be the judge of anyone. The way I see it, you chose your actions and I chose mine. You chose to hurt me and I chose to walk away. We both lost something. Have we not suffered enough, Joel?” you ask him honestly.

“I don’t want to presume, but- isn’t it a great burden to carry on your shoulders when you try to move on? All this anger, all that bitterness?” you search his eyes for an answer but he doesn’t give you one.

You continue, hoping to get through to him. “Your feelings are your burden Joel and it doesn’t matter if I forgive you. That’s why it is you who needs to forgive yourself.”

His eyes still refuse to meet yours, stubbornly glued to the ground. “I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for me. We need to move forward, both of us.” is the last thing you say to him, not knowing if he even listened to half of what you just said.

You both fall into a thoughtful silence, but something you said is bugging him. He can’t quite figure it out, so he turns to look at you, to savor you while he still has the chance. He knows that his time is limited.

You’re just sitting there with him, trying to comfort him, you of all people. You seem lighter now, fidgeting absentmindedly with your fingers as if some of your burden has already been lifted. And as his gaze sweeps over you, he sees it again. He sees the white shirt hugging your body and he knows what’s troubling him.

I don’t want to presume, I don’t want to presume, I don’t want to presume.

His heart beats rapidly in his chest, panic rising inside him.

“I’ve been with you for the last four years.”

“Excuse me?” your hands freeze as you turn to face him, clearly confused.

“You said you didn’t want to presume anything and I need to set the record straight. There was and is no other woman in my life except you.”

“Joel,” you blush shyly, “this is none of my business, you are free-”

“No. No. I need you to know this, it’s important to me. I meant everything I said. You have done nothing wrong. My feelings for you have never changed-”

“Joel, please..” you beg him to stop, you can’t have this conversation now, it’s too soon. No, you’re wrong. It’s too late; too soon means there’s a future ahead of you. A future where you both fit in the same universe.

“I don’t want you to think that I came all the way out here just to tie up some loose ends and move on. That is not what this is about.”

“If you expect me to tell you about my personal life..” your what now?

“No, I don’t. And I don’t think I could handle it, anyway. You are a free woman and you deserve the world. Unlike me; I don’t deserve anything and I’ll never be free of you.”

Your chin is now trembling and you bite your lower lip to stop the involuntary muscle contraction. You can’t decipher if it’s from anger for the way things came to be or from deep, excruciating sadness for how Joel feels. For how he makes you feel.

“Free woman, huh?”, you whisper bitterly, looking down at your feet, willing yourself not to cry.

“Yes, free, as you should always have been and I’m sorry I couldn’t see it sooner.”

Joel then picks up the divorce papers from the floor next to him as he’s fishing a pen out of his pocket. He stares at you and then at the blank space where his signature should be, next to yours. He splays his palm over the last page as if to straighten it out, but it almost looks like he’s caressing it. He brings the ball of the pen to the white surface and for a moment his hand lingers over it. He doesn’t dare look at you again, his resolve is not that strong. Finally, finally he signs, filling the empty spot and he hands you the contract. It’s a strange moment, the one before the signature and the one after it.

Everything seems to be the same; it is just a signature.

Everything feels completely different; it is not just a signature.

Your fingertips brush his as you reach out to take it, the touch sending shivers down your spine. Your slightly trembling hands hold the papers gently, not sure you wanna hold on to them or scatter them on the ground. Your thumb swipes softly over his signature.

You feel it, now. You feel the ground beneath your bare feet, the warmth of the earth, the weight of your footing. The falling has stopped. The feather finally rests. You have landed.

Joel moves to stand on his feet, as you keep staring at the drying ink, when you feel something fall from above onto your thumb; but you can’t see anything as it is immediately absorbed by the hungry pores of the paper, slightly smudging his signature. You look up to catch him as he dries his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Free as a bird, baby, ready to fly over the world.”, Joel smiles at you with a look of reverence and devotion in his eyes.

You picture the floating feather in your head and smile back at him with a serenity he hasn’t seen in a long time.

“I think I just want to walk for a while. One step at a time.”

He nods, his eyes still full of emotion and you watch as he begins to walk slowly towards his truck, when suddenly he turns his body to face you but continues to walk backward in the same direction.

“Hey!” he calls to you with a mischievous smile, raising his chin to you.

“Yeah?” you answer, your voice wavering slightly as you try to hide your smile.

“Can I take you to dinner sometime?” he asks as he reaches for his driver’s door and opens it, waiting for your answer, which never comes because you think he’s joking. But he continues to stare at you, with no expectations, quietly, earnestly, sincerely, with a soft, shy smile on his lips. Oh.

Oh.

“Joel..” is all you breathe out, closing your eyes for a moment before you look at him again, because his name is all that is left in your very being right now. Joel.

He seems lighter, too.

“Maybe, one day..?”

“Yeah.. Maybe, one day..”

previous |

Taglist: @southernbe, @orcasoul, @auteurdelabre @leggtostandon @sarahhxx03

@zliteraturehoe @msmorningstaarr @gossipgirl-03 @vabeachazn @joeldjarin

@sofiparallel

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

Text

Steve Harrington x WednesdayAddams!reader [1.5K]

You were still staring, not blinking. Unmoving, actually. But the parting of your lips and the warmth over your cheeks was an indication that you had heard the boy talk.

“Can I kiss you?”

You’d be lying if you had said you hadn’t been waiting for it. But the inevitability of your first kiss happening was making your stomach twist and turn, and god you hated that feeling.

It was becoming a common occurrence though, the more you spent time with Steve. He was awful about it, hardly sympathetic, always looking pretty, being too sweet, telling you that he liked your big, black boots. And each outing to the diner, to the mall, each walk around the park was feeling more and more like a date.

Once he’d your hand for the first time, it was only normal to assume he’d kiss you on your doorstep, right? In the front of his car? It hadn’t happened though, not that day, not like that, and despite your nerves — as hideous as they were — you were disappointed

You’d walked, possibly stomped, away from him, trying your very best to not let any sort of emotion show — especially disappointment. Boys weren’t worth being disappointed over… even Steve Harrington.

But then he’d invited you over one Sunday, a lazy one, where the sky outside was bleak and grey, a blue cloud kinda day. There was drizzle on his bedroom window and Steve had put his stereo on a low volume, if only to get you to make fun of his music taste. You’d been stiff and tense and a little wide eyed when he brought you into his bedroom, more so than usual anyway, and Steve wasn’t sure how this was going to go.

It took an hour, maybe two, but you seemed to relax a little, wandering around his room with fingers outstretched and exploring, dragging over his books, his old sports trophies, the edges of his mixtapes. And then you caught sight of a baseball bat in the corner, leaning against the wall with an assortment of nails sticking out the top.

You tapped the wood and stared at him, your face hiding any indication of a reaction. He swallowed, wondering how he could explain. And then, a tiny twitch of your lip, a lift in the right corner that he almost missed.

“I like this.”

Of course you did.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on Steve’s bed and Steve couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, entranced, transfixed. The prettiest little patch of black in his blue, blue room.

Black dress, black tights, black boots, black eyes, black cherry lips. You were smudged and smokey around the edges, an ink stain on a drawing. Steve marvelled over it all.

“You look pretty,” he said, knees bumping as you say face to face, legs crossed and a small pile of cards between you both.

(‘Cause you’d taken a peek at his selection of movies and said: “absolutely not, Steven.”)

You looked up at him and blinked once, lips pressing together in a way that Steve now knew meant he’d caught you off guard. He was getting used to you, your mannerisms, the bluntness that normally kept people away.

You let out a breath and held his gaze, nodding once, curtly.

“Thank you,” you replied and your tongue felt heavy with it, still trying to learn that it was okay to accept such a sweet compliment. “I like your sweater,” you offered back.

Steve smirked and it was dizzying. “No you don’t,” he laughed. He was right, it was a deep, rich yellow and you always tried to stop yourself from wrinkling your nose when he wore it.

Another twitch of your lip and Steve grinned, he was getting good at pulling these micro smiles from you.

And then, those words.

“Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t speak for a minute, maybe, hopefully not longer than that. Your hands were curled around your knee and you were mostly unmoving, until Steve reached out and took one, holding it in his own and your heart screamed at how his touch brought you some comfort.

He was always so warm. And patient, ‘cause he was sitting waiting, watching you quietly, earnestly, never pushing.

“I— I haven’t…” you grimaced, eyes shutting briefly before staring back at the boy a little harder than before. You needed to get a grip. “I haven’t kissed anyone before.”

Steve nodded slowly, as if he knew this, his expression unchanging. He lifted one shoulder, a half shrug, casual and unaffected.

“That’s okay,” Steve told you and his hand was still on yours, fingers twisted together. His thumb rubbed a circle on the inside of your palm and you ached with how nice it felt. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

You straightened your back and tried not to glare, because he was being so sweet and so patient and you were trying not to panic. If you panicked, you’d run.

And Steve seemed to know that, ‘cause he gave your hand a soft squeeze and he smiled, that slow, gentle smile that made you want to punch a damn wall because it was so nice.

“I probably won’t be good at it,” you said, deadpan and without any apology. You sucked in a breath, quick and sharp, wondering if the boy would give up.

You didn’t want him to.

“That’s okay too,” Steve said softly and then you were leaning in.

You heard his breath hitch, watched his eyes darken and god, you liked that. His gaze dropped to your lips, staring, a little wide eyed.

“Show me,” you demanded and Steve smiled because he knew you know, knew that you were nervous, not rude.

“Yeah?” He whispered. He waited for you to nod and then he grinned, wide and bright and he looked so happy. “Okay, c’mere.”

His hands cupped your face and were suddenly too warm, warmer than you’d ever been and it only worsened when Steve splayed his long fingers over your jaw, his thumb rubbing softly at the corner of your mouth. You gasped, sharp and sudden.

“You can tell me to stop anytime, yeah?” Steve told you, “pull out that little blade if I do anything you don’t like,” he joked.

“Sylvia isn’t little,” you tutted, referring to the knife that was always folded and tucked in a boot.

What you meant was, ‘you won’t do anything to me that I won’t like.’

Steve seemed to understand because he let out a small huff of laughter and smiled, nodding. He looked pleased, his cheeks a little pink. “Okay, close your eyes.”

Surprisingly, you did without argument. And Steve blew out a shaky breath when your hands got impatient and curled around his wrists, holding him as he held you. Your thumb pressed to his pulse point, a soft, quiet tickticktick of his heartbeat under your touch.

And then, the slant of his nose bumped yours, gentle and a little surprising because your lips parted ever so slightly. Steve leaned in a little more, his top lip brushing against yours and you marvelled at how he made the air taste like mint, like the forest, like the cherry soda he’d been drinking.

He waited, eyes closed and forehead against yours, his thumb stroking over cheek until he felt you nudge forward and then your lips were touching his. It was chaste, at first, a soft press of his mouth on yours and you pulled back until you didn’t.

You took merely a second before pushing back into the boy, hands curling tighter around his wrists, making sure he didn’t pull away. You felt greedy, wanting more from him straight away but Steve didn’t seem to mind. He pressed his lips back to yours and let you get a feel for him until he took a little charge and tilted your face with his hand, nose pushing into your cheek more until your lips parted under his.

He kissed you slowly, unbearably soft and sweet until you made a little noise for him and he licked over your bottom lip once before pulling back, pupils blown wide and chest heaving.

He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair and eyed you carefully.

“Was that okay?”

You were still holding onto his wrists.

You nodded, staring at him in that way that you did, wide eyed and unblinking. But he saw the shine there, the way you tucked your bottom lip onto your mouth, like you were trying to chase the taste of him.

“Mhmm,” you said, “that was okay.” You were quieter than normal, your voice taking a less sharp edge.

“We can do it again, if you want,” Steve offered. He didn’t want to push.

And then, something magic. You smiled. It was tiny, barely there, but both corners of your lips lifted, a pretty twist as you tried to tamper it down but Steve saw. You nodded, once, curt and direct. “Please,” you asked him and god, it was the prettiest thing Steve had ever heard.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x wednesday!reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington imagine #steve baby blurb

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nightsinbluevelvet · 2 months

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Dear, my thirst was quenched after weeks and months when I saw Matt and Jonathan together today. How handsome they looked, did they not? I am so eager to hear what you thought of their interactions, their glances at the other and the way they seemed so close😘

Dear Anonymous, thank you for your message.

I'm still high on cloud nine from last night, and I suspect I will never shut up about the event, or our boys/men/babygirls/babyboys/angels/what even are they?? I will never get over Fellow Travelers, Hawk, Tim, Matt, Jonathan or any of it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I didn't dare to dream we would see them like this again - happy to be together, both with arms around each other, Jonny even holding Matt's hand. Ahhhhhhhh!! They look so good together. None of the doubt and torture of the past months matters now, because they were home together. I'm more convinced than ever that their bond is rare, undeniable, eternal and unbreakable, and they will be like this even after outliving Hawk and Skippy.

As for their looks, Matt's look wasn't my favourite ever (although it was amazing), and poor baby looked extremely sleep-deprived. But he looked genuinely happy, and that's all that matters. Jonny looked slutty as fuck in that sage green shirt + trousers and brown shoes + white socks outfit. His beauty was dazzling, and this was one of my favourite Jonny looks ever.

This video is everything! It's easily as good as the Maestro premiere videos. Seeing them this content and comfortable... I'm actually at a loss for words. If you look really closely, you can see that Jonny is stroking Matt's back again. I don't care what people say anymore, he is NOT like this with others. And Matt is so much more open than he's appeared to be recently. It's rare to see this kind of public display of affection from him - like when he smiles, gazes at Jonny and puts his arm even tighter around him. He also has this particular micro expression he does when Jonny looks at him, I've seen it before.

Then there's the sweet video of them walking away from the stage. I can't upload another video here so here's a gif of it

I love how happy they look, and how Jonathan waits for a hug/touch from Matt, like he needs it.

I'm so grateful that we got the Ron/Matt/Jonathan only combo yesterday. Ron is the one person who loves and misses Matt & Jonny even more than the fans do. He loves them so much that he started to cry when he talked about their zoom chemistry read.

And speaking of that, this is how Jonny and Matt looked at each other when Ron mentioned the chemistry read:

The panel was incredible. I'm in awe of the three of them, and I wish I could thank them personally. They spoke so eloquently and passionately, and I think they gave an extremely good impression. Jonathan's dirty joke was the icing on the cake.

Favourite moments from the panel:

Jonny saying he feels it in his stomach, when he talks about watching the emotional clip they showed during the panel. He says there's a real emotion that has not left him, that is still present. How they've had six months to get on with their lives and try to say goodbye to the characters, but so many people are talking to him about FT, even crying, and it feels amazing to be back and celebrate it. "I know what pride means now." Oh Jonny!!

Ron talking about the chemistry between Matt and Jonny (that I already mentioned above)

I love and adore Matt beyond measure, so I'm allowed to say this. He has a tendency to go into professional/autopilot mode sometimes, and he does just this when the interviewer (who was great btw!) asks him about the sex scenes. He starts repeating things he's already said in dozens of interviews. But then Jonny starts talking, with much more candour, and it's glorious. And you can see, at least in some angles of the video, that Matt starts to blink and swallow a lot. It's like Jonny unlocks him, like he always does...

Jonny's joke: "Obviously you'd want a scene partner like Matt, because he never put a foot wrong..." Nobody makes Matt laugh like Jonny does. I wish their chairs had been just a little closer, because Jonny really tried to put his head on Matt's shoulder.

youtube

Yeah. Yesterday will stay with me for a very long time.

#fellow travelers #matt bomer #jonathan bailey #ron nyswaner #deadline contenders

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yanderes-galore · 1 year

Note

Hi! Can I request Freddy Krueger from the original Nightmare on elm street? Maybe like a chase scenario in the reader’s dreams? Id also like to request from your recent prompts vol 1 #44: “your tongue is so sharp…wouldn’t it be a shame if I had to silence it?” (But only if it’s doable for you! ^^’)

I hope your day is going well! Much love and good wishes to you! ❤️

Yeah! Let's be honest, this version of Kruegar is one of the best ^^ Probably OOC, I am so sorry if it is.

Yandere! Freddy Krueger Prompt 44

"Your tongue is so sharp... wouldn't it be a shame if I had to silence it?"

Pairing: Romantic (Barely)

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Torture, Blood, Graphic descriptions, Removal of tongue, Insomnia, Wishes for death, Sadism, Mostly just for horror, Implied drug use.

It kept getting worse, you were never able to get a good night's sleep. Your dreams recently kept contorting into twisted realities of blood and steam. You always woke up, hyped on adrenaline before being more tired than before.

You blamed it on the recent murder cases within Springwood. The fear caused by the news must be affecting your dreams. It didn't help you always hallucinated due to the lack of sleep-

It felt like people whispered in your ear when no one was there. You even see silhouettes of a man with a bladed hand. It's just... sleep deprivation, that's all!

You tried to ignore it when said hallucinations talk to you...

The therapist you go to now keeps trying to give you sleep medication...

Yet you don't think it's safe to sleep.

In fact, the last time you tried to sleep, you were traumatized. The last time you slept you were sent to the boiler room again, met face to face with a man covered in burn scars. A sinister grin is on his face, bladed hand caressing your skin.

"I've been waiting for when you'd take a nap. Now the fun begins...!"

By the time you managed to wake yourself up, momentarily escaping his grasp, the damage was done. Your body was clawed... blood seeping into your clothes. These were not ordinary nightmares...

This was something supernatural.

From that point on, you refused to consider sleeping. You did whatever you could to fight such an urge. You abused whatever substance you could get your hands on....

In the end it was a futile effort, due to the mind shutting down during micro naps.

You were doomed since the moment he had his eyes on you.

"Finally gave in, did you? Thought you'd miss me~"

You could only run for so long. Even in a dream, it felt real enough to make you heave for breath due to your stamina. The boiler room was like a maze, trapping you in with a monster.

The end was inevitable. Like a cornered rabbit, you would find a dead end. Forced to accept your fate at the sharp hands of a killer.

One that seemed too real to be conjured from your mind.

"Is my little rabbit tired from running?"

You glare at him, looking for some other way of escape. Upon touching the boiler room's pipes, you yelp. Your hands are burned... was this even a dream?

"I'm not your rabbit..." You snarl. "I'd never be yours."

"What makes you so sure, (Y/N)?"

He knows your name....

"I'd never allow myself to be near anyone like you..." You seethe, anger from your lack of sleep soaking your words. "You've tortured me for the past few months... why would I roll over and comply to whatever you wish after that!?"

"If your life's on the line, it's surprising what you'd do."

The man in front of you spits back, looking irritated at your sudden rebellion... yet interested.

"My dear (Y/N)..."

You blink and the demon's right in front of you. You gasp, senses heightened due to your lack of sleep. He takes this to his advantage, holding your mouth open by your chin.

"Your tongue is so sharp... wouldn't it be a shame if I had to silence it?"

You struggle against him, still trying to fight back. You nearly gag when he reaches his hand into your mouth... pulling your tongue painfully tight into his view. You shake your head with your eyes wide in fear.

"Good, your fear is delightful. You're more obedient than you think.... Too bad it won't save your tongue."

He slowly drags his blades against the twitching muscle in his hand. You try to pull back, fighting him. Tears prick your eyes... which only fuels his sadistic desires.

"Oh, want to leave so soon? Fine then, have it your way, baby."

There's a sickening wet snap before you feel yourself fall to the floor. His blades are coated in your blood, a laugh leaving his lips at your condition. You barely registered what happened until blood pooled out of your mouth.

Something then slaps onto the ground, your shaking gaze shifting towards it.

Your tongue.

The madman removed your tongue as promised.

"Anymore complaints, (Y/N)?"

The demon watches you spit continuous blood onto the floor before lifting your chin up to look him in the eyes.

What did you do to deserve this?

You gurgle softly, unable to speak.

"Speak up, won't you?"

He leans back and laughs at your suffering before dragging you up to your feet.

"It's upsetting to not hear your screams... but at least you can't refuse what I have in store for you, baby...."

As if to mock you, he licks his lips. You're in too much shock to respond to his sadism. You only silently wonder if your suffering will end soon.

If you're lucky, maybe you'll bleed out...

Then you won't have to suffer through anymore of his desires.

#yandere slashers #yandere slasher #yandere freddy krueger

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pookha · 1 year

Text

All Animals Love Luna

Luna's gone missing from a D.A. meeting. Harry and Hermione find her in the Charms classroom surrounded by animals.

A micro-fic that I wrote inspired by a post on the Harry/Luna and Harry/Cho Discord about Luna stealing pets. The original context was quite different, but this is what it inspired me to write.

Harry looked at the map again, Luna’s icon showed she was inside the Charms classroom. Hermione peered over his shoulder and pointed. He nodded. They both crept through the corridors, and Harry carefully opened the door. Luna was sitting at one of the desks with Crookshanks sleeping in her lap and Trevor resting on her head. She was reading a book by dim witchlight. Pigwidgeon and Hedwig perched on the back of her chair. A spectacled tabby that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Professor McGonagall curled around the witchlight jar. Mrs Norris sat on the edge of the desk and regarded Luna with adoration in her lamp-like eyes.

Luna didn’t turn at the opening door, but Crookshanks woke and his ears twitched toward them. He lifted his head and sniffed, then uttered a small meow that Hermione knew was her name.

Luna lifted her head from the book.

“Come in, Hermione.” She closed the book.

Harry and Hermione slipped into the room and closed the door. Luna seemed unperturbed by the door closing on its own.

Harry removed the cloak and he and Hermione sat at the desk next to Luna.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked.

“What do you mean?” Luna responded.

“I mean, you disappeared from the D.A. meeting and we find you here, surrounded by animals.” Harry waved at all of them. As he did, two more owls flew in through the open window and a white cat pushed the classroom door open, slunk in, and closed the door behind itself. Hermione’s mouth gaped open. The cat regarded her with a blank expression, trotted across to Luna and leapt into her lap. There was a brief scuffle with Crookshanks until Luna intervened and they both settled down.

“Oh, I just wanted to read and it was too loud and busy there.” Luna petted Crookshanks absently.

“But, what’s up with the animals?” Harry asked.

“They just like me,” Luna said matter-of-factly.

“I…see,” Hermione said. She reached out her hand to Crookshanks who sniffed it, stretched in Luna’s lap and then leapt into Hermione’s waiting arms.

“It’s always been like this if I don’t control it.” Luna closed her eyes, obviously making some internal effort.

“Is it a curse?” Hermione asked.

Luna looked down at the white cat purring in her lap.

“No, it’s a blessing.” She scratched the cat under its chin and its rumbling purrs intensified.

“But how?” Hermione spluttered.

Luna shrugged.

“I’ve always been like this, even as a little girl wild animals would come up to me. Daddy was worried when a Muggle farmer’s bull charged me, but then it stopped and let me rub its horns and touch its velvety nose. Mummy said it was because I was like ‘Snow White,’ whatever that means.” She smiled wanly at the memory of her mother.

“Was your mother Muggleborn?” Harry asked.

Luna shook her head.

“No, pureblood, but she loved everything Muggle.”

“We should get out of here before Umbridge finds us, or Filch,” Harry said.

Luna turned to Mrs Norris.

“You won’t tell Filch, will you?” she asked Mrs Norris, who slow-blinked at her, then looked away in the polite cat manner.

“Still,” Harry said uneasily.

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed, still wide-eyed at all the creatures.

Luna stood and handed Trevor to Harry. Trevor climbed into Harry’s pocket. She closed her book and the birds all took off out the open window. Hedwig paused just a moment to circle Harry and brush him with her wing before she flew off. Luna went to the window and closed it, then gathered her witchlight jar into her pack.

The tabby opened the door and stood guard while all the other animals left one by one.

“Do you want to come under the cloak with us?” Harry asked Luna who shook her head.

“No, I’ll be okay.” She walked out of the room and down the hallway, unconcerned. Mrs Norris led the way and Luna followed. Harry and Hermione waited for thirty seconds, then covered themselves with the cloak and crept back to the Gryffindor common room.

#harry potter fanfiction #luna lovegood #all ages #harry potter #hermione granger

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smoreboi · 2 years

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(Catching Up On) September Micro-Fictions

after i finish homework this evening, I want to start a one a day micro-fictions collection (based off the monthly prompts lists from @deity-prompts, as long as they're cool with that, i looked through a few but liked theirs the best), so for the next 1-3 days, I'll be working to run through the ones ive missed so far this month to catch up to the current day prompts.

just wanted to drop this to 1. make sure that i will do it because if theres the possibility someone will see this, I'll feel the need to hold up my end, and 2. share my microfictions process because im not sure how common these are and i find it a great way to stay creative during slumps and learn the more subtle ins of writing without too much riding on it.

so, first off, the definition i have for a microfiction is a 2-300 word work of writing that typically only displays one to two emotions without much of a plot and without the need for characters or incredibly descriptive settings. this is an old one of mine for an example:

As the sun rose, the world was still. That’s always how these stories start. The sun beamed through their eyelids, and their eyes were caught on him. Their love, their life, their one. That’s always how these mornings start. As they stared, he slept, he continued to peacefully dream. They reached a hand out to his mesmerizing face, cupped his cheek and ran their thumb over his lips. His lips twitch upward a bit, but he is locked in his slumber. They know it is a dream, that they could stay as one as he slumbers, and yet they forget when faced with his beauty. They lean in and kiss him.

His eyes flash open, an amber warning, burning into their mind as they startle awake blinking the orange out of my memory.

The sun had yet risen, only a blue light flashes from an alarm clock, and there they are, lips locked on their pillow at 4:56. Other pillows create a nest around them and blankets pile atop their body, and here they are embracing one most tenderly. The euphoria of the dream is gone, the touch of his skin and taste of his lips never existed, merely cotton and morning breath remains. And a tear falls. They’ve never felt love and yet their mind betrays them, gives them this perfect scenario only to tear it from their grasps. And although it’s selfish, they want to go back. To feel innocent morning love, to be held, worry less, in this perfect situation forever. They sob. They don’t believe they deserve it. But they did. They would have gotten it eventually. But their imagery drew them to madness. They lose their mind over perfect dreams.

(mine typically end up angsty for some reason, one of my goals with this is to start trying to write other kinds of emotions because i dont want all the angst)

ive never worked with prompt lists before when doing these, instead i would sit and write what i feel from three songs one after the other, and that was the whole process, 9-12 minutes of writing per with a little bit of editing after. i will probably keep this aspect in some ways, seek out music that fits the prompt before I start writing (and i will list what songs i use), but i want to try and make the prompt the star more so in this.

so yea, anyways, this is going to happen. i'll probably be starting in like, 8 or so hours (got a lot of homework plus a few classes still) so if you happen to see this and are interested, watch for that, i guess.

and you can steal this idea, itd be cool to see other people doing this

#writing #prompted

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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Ashore

Part one | Open Waters

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Frankie leave the beach with only one thing on your minds.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 3.6k~

Warnings/tags: smut, ✨butt stuff✨, oral (f receiving), some lovey-dovey shit

Notes: Here we are friends. You don’t necessarily have to read Open Waters to understand the contents of this chapter (considering it’s mostly just booty bumpin’). You can thank heathens @javierpcna and @whataperfectwasteoftime for the debauchery to follow. It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m genuinely nervous to post this lol but alas. We have arrived. Is it shit? Is it pure filth? Who’s to say hehehe. Cheers bebes x

Masterlist | read it on ao3!

The worst part was, you had to get gas.

Frankie drives. You sit beside him.

The return trip is hushed with anticipation—with sullied stain-glass imagery occupying the void. You've said next to nothing since you packed into the car; the only noise comes from the radio—the preset station phasing in and out as you wind along the backroads leading away from the shore—Journey, Jimi, Led Zep and the like all crackling dry through the speakers.

Everything, each micro-movement, feels stifling— like burning ants under a magnifying glass— each gesture riddled with intention, Frankie’s words echoing clear in the caverns of your mind.

He glances left right at an intersection.

‘Anything?’

He flips on the turn signal, blinking one two one two one two.

‘You gonna let me have your tight little ass?’

He steers the wheel with the heel of his palm.

‘When I cum, it’s gonna be here—filling you up.’

The engine rumbles as you idle at a red light—stalling. Dawdling. The sun spills lazily from the horizon, draining the last of the afternoon’s light with it, bleeding the sky scarlet—emboldening the horizon— and you watch as the setting glow catches the hair on his arm—there, resting on the console between you. His hand fists over the gear, knuckles creasing as they tense around the worn, leathered head. You’re playing a game—a silent, ruleless game. You know he can sense you observing him, can feel the heat of your gaze weigh on the flex of his fingers—the same fingers that had ripped an orgasm out of you not two hours before.

You almost unbuckle your damn seatbelt and fly out of your chair. You nearly break with it, with the unspoken tension filling the car like gas and fuck, how you crave him; how you yearn to put those fingers in your mouth and suck—lave the summer clean off his digits and bob around the long width and—

The light turns green.

Frankie resumes his hand to the wheel, your lewd fantasy dissipating along with it.

It’s minuscule. You would have missed it save the fact that you’re so acutely aware of every fucking breath you two share in the aluminum confines of your old Jeep. It’s a subtle thing: Frankie adjusts his hips— innocent enough— but your eyes flicker over to find the groin of his drying swim trunks tented.

You’re not ashamed to say it— your mouth fucking waters, you salivate— and as if on cue, he squirms again, seeking relief from both the blood rushing south and the blister of your stare. His lips part— the rasp of an inhale as he prepares to speak—before his focus is torn down to the dashboard, an orange symbol popping up in the gauge stealing his attention.

“Shit,” Frankie mumbles under his breath. Looking around, he scans for a nearby station and groans at the realization that he’s just passed one, spotting it in the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

You swivel towards the passenger side window, attempting to hide the I told you so expression pulling wry at your mouth. Not that you’ll hang it over him, but you did inform Frankie that the tank was empty on the way to the beach. You hear another muffled curse come from the man beside you, and the world goes topsy-turvy and reverses itself— the act of Frankie making a grumbled U-turn.

He puts the gear into park with a huff, Van Halen’s solo abruptly cut short mid chord.

The car door opens with a rusty squeal and Frankie clambers out, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and swiping his card through the reader at the pump—but not before he squeezes a palm into the plush of your thigh, thumb searing like a brand into your skin. I’ll be quick.

Fuck, you could have cum right then.

Your gaze follows his movements, dogging after him as he waits on the gas to fill— arms folded across his chest, strong build leaning on the frame of your car.

It’s not a novel concept to you, but God is that man broad. The ratty t-shirt he wears clings to him, pulled taut between the plane of his shoulders, the cut of his tricep apparent even from your vantage point; the corded muscle running up his neck flashing as he watches the digital numbers on the screen tick higher.

Shit, you’re aching for him— you can feel yourself throb into the crotch of your swimsuit. You’d have him right here—in the backseat, steaming up the glass— if it weren’t for the overencumbered bags and rickety beach chairs crowding the space.

With herculean effort, you wrench your eyes off him in search of a distraction, letting them drift to the dark flooring of the car. It’s been dirtied—white flecks speckling the interior—and you won’t be able to get the sand out of the matted carpets for weeks. It’s a nuisance, to be sure, but you have to admit that you’re sort of fond of it; little memories, vestiges in the grains, lingering long after the season ends.

Hello, remember me? each granule chirped, remember when we laughed giddy for hours, maddened by the grace of the sun? Remember when we burned red that time we forgot sunscreen? Remember when we bought soft serve from the surf shack and it globbed sticky down our wrists? Remember when we when we when when when…

Frankie, ever practical, hates it. It’s a pain in the ass, he’s told you, regaling you with the woes only a mechanic would care to know. It ruins the upholstery.

You’ve had your exchanges about the topic—your faux-squabbled back and forths—and yet despite himself, he can’t help but like that you like it. Conceptually, he gets it—it annoys him to kingdom fucking come and he’ll almost certainly take the vacuum to the mats first thing tomorrow, but he understands. He understands it.

He understands you.

You’re like that, you and him. You’re different. You are made of different things, a compository of fractures and fragments. Mosaic tiles. You don’t quite fit—not all of you—but you never force the pieces into any sort of place. You admire each other’s mismatched bits, those sweetly quilted jigsaws, and you hold each one up to the light and point at the unique curves, the notches and swoops there, and say I love you, I love this, I love this too.

When Frankie keys up the ignition and puts the car in drive, he keeps his hand on your lap. Arm resting over the median dividing you, calloused palm sealing over your quad, his fingertips knead a pulse into the meat of your leg with each bump in the poorly paved road— a reminder. A vow. Almost home.

You think he does it just to torture you.

It fucking works.

The sound of laughter parts the front door as you enter— Frankie had made some colorful comment about your absolute favorite neighbors, the ones who always leave their damn garbage bins in front of your driveway— and your key ring clatters as it hits the bowl on the side table.

You discard the bags, plopping the sandy things down in the entryway, and kick off your sandals— bare soles padding along lacquered wood paneling as you head to the kitchen for some much needed water.

The sound of the tap running camouflages Frankie’s movement, you don’t hear him behind you. He’s got stealth in him, harbored there from before. He’s light on his feet when he chooses to be—nimble-like, bordering on feline—and you startle with a bubbly chuckle when you spin around to discover him far closer than you anticipated.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping us hydrated,” you grin, as if it were obvious. You’re welcome.

He hums, the note rumbling against the cage of his ribs, and lessens the distance between you with a single stride. “That can wait.”

He rids you of the glasses, hurriedly placing them on the counter, and meets you in a kiss—and fuck can that man kiss. Frankie, like with all things, is responsive—attentive. His lips are fever-laced and wanton, and he roves against yours like they’re designed to— fated for no one else’s but your own— nipping and tonguing at your honeyed whines, orphaned there in the well of your mouth.

His hands vine up your body, so deprived of the luxury of your form - of touch - and he grabs at anything he can— your hips, your waist, your breasts through the cotton of your shirt— their half moon curves sitting ripe in his palms.

After ushering you up to the countertop, he strips you of your jean shorts, your bikini bottom sloughing down your calves along with them, and hoists your feet onto the fake granite, prying your legs wide for him.

When he gets an eyeful of your gleaming pussy, pearled with arousal, the wind gets punched straight out of him.

“Jesus honey,” he groans, “you been like this the whole ride home?”

Your brain is numb, lagging with lust. You don’t trust your voice to speak—all you can do is nod.

“Poor thing,” he simpers. “Poor pretty thing, all wound up for me—all wet.”

You whimper at his tone—graveled, just shy of condescending—and your knees weaken shut before he snatches them apart.

“Sit still.”

It’s a command, there’s no room for disobedience; he orders it with a soldier's voice—that dead thing he wears like dog tags around his neck. Vice grip widening your legs, Frankie sinks down onto his shins, head leveled with your core, engrossed with the sight of your damp sex quivering.

Blotchy warmth creeps up your neck, like ivy crawling over brick.

He’s staring at you— hungry and possessed and simply staring at your open cunt and you begin to fidget once more—riling under his umbered appraisal.

“Sit still baby girl,” he murmurs, softer now and desperate too—intoxicated with the heady perfume of your heat. “Lemme just— fuck, I gotta taste you…”

When he swipes the deft muscle of his tongue through your slit, your head careens back onto the cabinets, plates and bowls rattling behind the wood.

Oh god, Frankie.

He’s got a talent for this— an excruciating, body wracking talent. He thirsts for you something dangerous, something unquenchable; he tugs at your labia, forming his lips around your clit, lapping at your essence— the ocean musk, that sea foam wet.

You fumble through his hair, mussing the saline woven strands with urgent fingers as you grind grind grind, rolling your hips to meet him in a covetous show of want and he purrs into your pussy as you fuck his face, the scratch of his stubble chafing at your legs.

It doesn’t take long, not with the fervor of how he’s claiming your cunt with his mouth. You soak Frankie’s chin— you nearly fucking drown him with it—and he’s glistening with you when he finally emerges for air, pulling you to him to slant his lips against yours, letting you savor your own taste on his hot tongue.

“Bedroom. Now,” he husks, breath hitching as his nose grazes along your ear, and with two hands under your armpits, he gathers you off the countertop. Frankie lands a swat at the plump of your backside, sending you scurrying through the living room with a shriek—completely bypassing the abandoned pile of laundry left lying on the couch.

He smirks—delirious and ramrod stiff—sauntering behind you, enamored with the pendulum sway of your hips as you lead him to the bed.

You’ve never been here. You’ve never gone this far. You both have tiptoed this narrow line for months; he’s fingered your ass plenty—you have even gone so far as to don a butt plug. You’ve discussed anal—toyed with the idea, flirted in circles around it like tittering birds.

But you’ve never taken Frankie’s cock. Not yet.

He’s been working you loose and limber for the better part of fifteen minutes, delving himself knuckle deep into your slicked hole until you’re sputtering for more— until you’re downright sopping and fucking shaking— and not with trepidation but with desire. Frankie’s made you gluttonous. Frankie’s made you voracious.

You’re starving for him.

“You gonna let me have this now?” He presses a digit over your ass, kissing his thumb into the knot there.

You tremble, nodding frantic.

“Think this pretty little ass can take me, baby?”

He serves you a slap, plush skin jiggling and pricking pink under his palm. You keen into him, in search of the promise he’s been baiting you with and you arch your hips, gyrating back onto fucking nothing.

“Yes. Yes—” You twist, chin corkscrewed around to see him. You want to watch. You want to watch as he disappears inside you— as you swallow him.

“A-Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly gone gentle around the lines fraying from his eyes—those wrinkles he’s hard-earned and won, like badges, like medals—from all his years spent under an unforgiving sun, all of that which he has seen and endured. Survived. Your Frankie, always thoughtful, always checking. A goddamn gentleman, even now—even as his dick brays hard and angry against the soft of his tawny stomach. “Because really, we don’t have to—”

You cut him off with a whimper, splaying your pelvis up to him—spreading yourself, letting him see the filth dripping from your seam, dappling your inner thighs. “Fuck me,” you whine, both holes puckering for him. “Fill me up, like you said you would— please.”

Something shifts across his features like a shadow and his expression morphs until it steels— his pupils dilating to a predatorial onyx— and he spits into his palm, coating his shaft, jerking himself with it.

He hisses as he guides himself into you, as you accommodate around him, as you envelop him entirely— inch by veritable inch. He has to station a hand to the base of your lumbar, struggling to maintain his composure—air rattling in and out his lungs as he attempts to breathe.

“Shit,” he gasps, “t-this okay?”

You fist the comforter, coiling the fabric into a ball. It’s a stretch— it’s a real goddamn stretch— and briefly you consider that he might, in fact, snap you in two...

Francisco Morales is going to split you clean in half—and God, if you don’t you love it.

“Yes - yes baby - keep going. D-Don’t stop.”

He pitches into you, setting a legato tempo— transfixed by the lurid juncture where you converge into one. “You- you’re so tight. Shit, you’re—”

He silences himself with a delicious moan, biting at his lower lip until the vessels there burst and it purples, and deals a particularly aggressive thrust— one you respond to with an ugly wail of your own, eyes somersaulting in their sockets.

You’re both impatient, verging on rabid, and it doesn’t take long for him to set a rougher pace and fuck you faster - harder - hammering into your ass until you see stars, popping and fizzing in front of your retinas, a symphony of guttural grunts and carnal praise fogging up the bedroom.

Your pussy feels so empty you could cry—weeping and gaping and fluttering for him as he takes your tight ring of muscle, fucking himself to the hilt. It’s like he’s behind your brain—like he’s carved his way up your spine and nudging at the nape of your neck with how deep he’s driving into you—restless. Ceaseless. His balls slap slap slap against your puffy cunt and you pant— girlish and buoyant with the dulled smacks to your sore clit.

“Please,” you sob, “Please, I need—”

You can barely push the words out—your mind is of no help and your tongue lolls useless, languid in your mouth. Your motor functions have all but puttered to a halt, every scrap of you fighting to stay above the sensation that’s threatening to drag you under its current. The rip tide of it all, of Frankie’s cock, coursing through your ass, tempting to hurdle you out into the dark, wet blue.

“Tell me,” Frankie rasps, scraping through his throat. “Tell me, pretty baby.”

Your response is pathetic—you can hardly dignify it as a response at all. Your temple is pressed into the mattress, hair knotted with brine and sand, and all you can do is coo.

Frankie folds over you, angling himself to graze his teeth over your shoulder—savoring the salt and sex tang bathing your skin, all those pheromones and velveteen chemicals anointing you—baptizing you anew for him. He’s gruff when he murmurs, his beard grating your freshly tanned skin.

“C’mon sweetheart - hng, fuck - what do you need?”

“My clit,” you rush out, needy. “My clit. Please, oh my god Frankie I-I need you to, I need – oh fuck—” And your pleas are mummed by a rapturous moan as he trails his hand from the hollow of your hip to the apex of your cleft and flicks.

Fuck. Fuck, oh Christ—

There’s a ringing in your ears, buzzing you deaf, making you dumb—or maybe it’s just your heart, beating loud and errant against your skull—you can’t say. You don’t feel human. Frankie’s pounding into that cinched channel and playing with your clit—swiveling eddies into your swollen nub—and you feel like an animal. You feel debased. You feel disgusting and perfect and you’re fucking drooling; cheek squished and mouth agape, saliva pools from your wagging maw, darkening the white linen you’re being driven into.

“You need me in your pussy, too?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer him— he already knows what you need, how you need to have every part of you gorged on him— and Frankie dips his fingertips into your entrance, hooking them up and up and in, fucking in time to the cant of his hips.

He’s in you. Everywhere, everywhere—every possible neuron and synapse consumed with him.

“You need me like this—fucking you this deep? Fucking both your pretty holes?” he growls, weaving his hand lower to grab a fistful of your hair, rucking your head up. Throat stretched bare for him, your mewls muddle to cock-drunk cries as he spears you on himself again and again and again.

Yes yes yes fuck harder please please Frankie

You're pleading with him—you’ve been reduced to meager begging— and a chorus of slurs sings your release as you contract around him and cum, the cradle of your hips bucking reflexively.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he seethes, “you’re so good for me baby, Jesus fuck—”

He’s close now—his blissed finish drawing nearer and nearer with each sharp snap of his hips. Frankly, he’s shocked he’s managed to last as long as he has; it’s a small miracle he hadn’t cum the instant he slotted himself inside you with that very first stroke.

“Baby,” he warns, losing his rhythm. You saddle your spine, hollowing out the valley of your back and arch pretty and supple for him— preening under his weight. He moans at that, and through your fucked out haze you have the wherewithal to smirk at him, devious and prideful, a wild look owning your eye.

Frankie has to brace himself on your hips, untangling from your locks to bruise into the pillow of your skin— gripping on for dear fucking life as he plows you. You’re strangling him. You’re strangling the thick of his cock until he’s dizzy with it—until he’s feral and blind and he can’t hold on, can’t keep fighting this fucking monsoon that’s raging in his core.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna—fuck me, oh shit—” He shouts, spurting inside you thrust for thrust, painting your virgin walls with his seed. It’s too much— after all that, and you’re still too tight— and he’s overstimulated to the point of delirium. Frankie roots himself still, cum dribbling out your stuffed hole while he rides out the high of his orgasm—his vision, his senses, his goddamn soul, slowly oozing back into him. When he slides free from you, he does so with a pained heave, leaving you yawning with his absence.

You feel shredded. Vacant. You’ve been sent to another fucking dimension all together.

Without wasting another second, Frankie claws you up. You’re easy and malleable, bones and muscles too strung out to protest, and he whirls you around to bar you to his chest—crushing your sweaty body to his with bullet marred arms— the same arms that have taken lives, that have spared them, too. The same arms that link around you, delicate and daisy-chained, like you’re the most precious thing he has.

And you are.

You are.

Frankie kisses you breathless, drinking rich from your cup— tongue greedy and reverent as he kneels there at your altar, praying his sins into your mouth.

So gorgeous, he croons, peppering your face—your flushed cheeks, your perspired brow—with his lips as he tells you over and over and over again.

So good for me, pretty baby

Was that okay?

Fuck, you’re a dream

You’re my best girl—you’re my only girl

Was that okay?

God, you’re my whole fucking world

Was that okay? Was I okay?

Are you okay?

You swoon, helpless to the contented sigh that seeps out from you like mist. You’ve gone limp against the breadth of him. He has reduced you to rubber, left wobbling in his grasp, and you’re so damn full—your heart and your body—all of it. You feel unequivocally complete. You feel safe, you feel home.

You are home. Francisco is home.

He’s flattening out the nest of your hair, taming the damage he previously delivered to it, earning from you a sleepy grin into the muggy crook of his neck. And with the last of your waning strength you hold his pieces up to the light—the light you left on in the hall as the night grew dark around you, the one who’s yellow glow your naked bodies bask in now, and you say

I love you

I love this

I love this too

tags:

@krissology @heartsofbeskar @madhattervanessa @andiesturgss @sharkbait77 @tenderwhat @javier-pena @pedros-mustache @frannyzooey @chasingdreamer @djarinsbeskar @thosewickedlovelies @juletheghoul @not-the-droids @filthybookworm @pilothusband @letterfromvienna @keeper0fthestars @greatcircle79 @day-off-inkyoto @mermaidxatxheart @lawfulgranola @heatherbel @quica-quica-quica @stuckonthefiction @janesbrontes

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #Frankie morales fanfic #Frankie catfish morales x reader #frankie x you #frankie x reader

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whaleofatjme1920 · 3 years

Note

please scenario where him and his s/o have been besties with toby since they met as proxies when they were young and when they meet up later in life they confess 🙏🏻🙏🏻

Parking Lots, and Surrounded By Your Group and His

[Ticci Toby X GN!Reader]

[Warnings: mentions of death? Nothing major though.]

[AN: I changed the prompt,,,, ever so slightly,,,????]

When the crickets sing in the grass and the breeze is warm and gentle, Toby can’t help but be reminded of a simpler time when he would spend his afternoons catching bugs and eating ice cream on the front lawn with you. He can still hear your laughter as the sun begins to slowly sink below the horizon before the fireflies begin to make their appearance.

He used to spend hours on said front lawn catching them with you, listening to you speak and interjecting with his own jokes. The two of you always had such a grand time together, even when his father would angrily call him back into the house.

Toby didn’t know what love was when he was young, but only that he had it. Every little touch you gave him, the smiles and giggles, they were all small micro expressions of some kind of love - as much love as a child could give. Toby didn’t know how much he adored you. Growing up, the two of you had grown closer and closer. He saw you blossom into a young adult alongside him. Well, he didn’t really blossom, but more so choked his way into being a young adult. And you were by his side for it all, even the hardest, darkest days.

When he lost his mother and sister, he called you in a panic, his voice rough like sandpaper and creaking like wood. He was frantic, unable to form proper sentences. You threw out your evening plans and hopped in your car, driving like a mad man over to his house, ready to console him. The air felt still, cold and slightly clammy as you drove nearer and nearer to his house.

There, on the front porch waiting for you, head in his hands and tears drenching his form was Toby, unable to process the world and everything and everyone in it. He looked so broken and downtrodden as he clutched at his clothes tighter, rocking himself and hugging what physical part of him he could.

Your heart tore into pieces as you parked, then rushed out of the vehicle to hold him. “Toby, Toby!” You called out, tears welling in your eyes as you bounded up to the distraught boy.

He furrowed his eyebrows and blinked away more tears, letting out a strained sob as he picked himself up off the rickety wooden porch, meeting you part of the way. He felt the breath leave his lungs as you crashed into his arms, burying your face into his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumbled like a mantra into his chest, letting him hold you tighter and tighter to the point you couldn’t breathe.

Toby didn’t let you go that night.

The last time he saw you was in the parking lot of your high school. Toby had been grieving the loss of his mother and sister, becoming more and more withdrawn into himself. He’d honestly been withdrawing from you as well, and that concerned you more than anything. So, to remedy this, you took matters into your own hands and forced him to meet you in the parking lot after school.

The two of you sat down on the hood of your car, talking about the world and its wonders and the things that are better left unsaid until late, late in the night.

Toby felt so at home in your presence that he was able to block out the voices for just a little longer. He reveled in the sound of your laughter and the presence of your being. He was just… Lighter than air to be with you.

But all good things must come to an end, and unfortunately, your parents desiring you home had brought the time the two of you shared together to an end.

“I love you, Tobes, you know that right?” You murmured as you hugged him for what you didn’t know was your final time.

“O-Of course I d-d-do,” he whispered back, nose burying into your hair. “I l-love you,” he said, tears threatening to spill once more.

The two of you remained in each other’s embrace before you parted from him, and he let you go for the final time.

And Toby felt alone, oh so alone.

So alone that he burnt down the village to feel its warmth.

There’s only been like, three moments in Toby’s life when he’s been surprised. The first being meeting you as a child, the second being the loss of the two most important women of his life, and the third? Being taken into the arms of the Operator.

He’s a proxy now, does his job well, and is with a group that sometimes tolerates him. He’s in a better place than when he was a child under his father’s roof.

“We’re going to work with another group tonight,” Masky says, a slight sigh lingering on his lips.

“W-Who are they?”

“You know Wallace, don’t you?” Hoodie suddenly cuts in.

Toby nods. He likes Ruth and Nyein, the other two he can live without.

“They got a new proxy,” Masky continues. “And they want us to take them for the evening. So, I guess we’re only working with their runt,” Masky finishes more to himself than anyone else. He brushes his fingers through his hair and pats his pocket for the car keys. “C’mon, might as well head over. Gonna be a bit of a drive.”

Toby glances over his shoulder at Kate, who is watching reruns of Judge Judy and slowly nodding off. “And s-s-she gets o-off scott f-free?” He teases lightly as he stands up, pushing his chair in across the checkered floor. He cracks his neck loudly before walking over to the sofa, his gloved hand rustling Kate’s hair.

She sleepily laughs. “Have fun and be safe, boys.”

“Get some sleep,” Masky chuckles, watching as Hoodie rustles her hair just as Toby did before heading out.

Toby zoned out a bit on the car ride to wherever the meeting place was. He always tended to zone out, but he couldn’t shake some weird buzzing in the back of his head. Something about the way Masky and Hoodie are talking about Wallace’s newest runt…

He doesn’t often remember things from his life before he became a proxy. The Operator made sure of that so he wouldn’t be too heartbroken to continue his job. But he’s always been able to remember you - more or less. Little glimpses, the feelings associated, you were never easy to get rid of.

Instead of mentally traumatizing him further, the Operator allowed him to keep his thoughts and feelings associated with you. Most days, Toby’s dim love for you spurred him forward.

“Time to go meet a runt,” Hoodie says, voice only slightly amused by the way the word ‘runt’ rolls off his tongue.

Masky parks the car and then shoves the keys into his pocket, nodding that it’s okay for everyone to get out of the car.

Toby stretches briefly in his seat before sliding out of the car, taking in the crisp night air. He takes a gander at his surroundings for a moment before locking eyes on a group of people. Wallace and his group - Toby narrows his eyes at the two men before catching Ruth and Nyein. His favorite proxy that’s not part of his group and his favorite independent other than Jeff and EJ. How nice.

Masky begins to walk over to meet the other group leader with Toby and Hoodie close behind. He looks tired, which is usual for him, but happy to see that Nyein is excitedly waving. “Heard you had a runt for us?”

“Sure do,” Theo says, looking over his shoulder. “C’mon out, they’re not going to bite you.”

“What, are they scared of us?” Hoodie chuckles as he puts his hands into his pockets. He glances past Theo to see a dark shape moving in the backseat of the car.

“It’s like, their first day working with people that aren’t us,” Wallace attempts to explain. “And from what we can gather, they only entered this life because of-”

“Toby.”

The name that pours from your lips sends Toby’s head and heart spinning. “E-Excuse me?” He barely manages to choke out as you step forward, pushing aside Wallace and Theo, looking at the much taller man with stars in your eyes.

“Oh my gods, Toby, is that you?” You whisper, still walking forward to meet him like a dream.

Toby’s eyes widen as he looks at you, no, stares you down. You look so much different than when he let you go as a teen - you’re all grown up now! Some things have changed about you, but other things have stayed the same.

Both your group and Toby’s give each other confused looks as if to ask the other if they knew about this before you rush forward, face planting into Toby’s chest.

He takes in a sharp breath and embraces you, laughter bubbling up from his throat. He takes in your sweet scent and picks you up, moving you from the group as he begins to twirl you and babble on about how much he missed you.

You giggle, tears falling like drops of rain from your eyes before you feel yourself planting back down into the parking lot, your attention focused on him and no one else. Your stomach is fluttering with butterflies as you look up at the teary eyed man. “How have you been?” You ask quietly, closing your eyes as Toby leans down slightly to rest his forehead against yours.

“Never better.”

#ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby headcanon #ticci toby scenario #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta scenario #x reader #reader insert #fluff #loki fluff

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animefreak1145 · 3 years

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For Whom the Bell Tolls(Adler x Bell!Reader)

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Chapter 3| How Little We Know of What There is To Know

Chapter Summary:

Pretending and being numb is the key.

Yet Adler always manages to bring some emotion out of you.

Cold War Reset AU| Undertale Reset AU

Warnings: Torture, Brainwashing, Manipulation, Possible Non-Con/Dub-Con, Trauma

A/N: Where pineapple is the nectar of the gods and scars are lightning.

“Bell”

Second Life

23:09 | February 25, 1981

CIA SAFEHOUSE E9, “DIE LANDEBAHN”

You rubbed your dry eyes as you stared at your notes all over the desk you’ve chosen as your little corner, the large bulky computer taking up space but you’ve made do by moving the brick that is the keyboard as much as you could off to the side. Your papers held inks of different colors—although they were only red, blue, and black and yellow highlights—and you had a stack of folders behind the computer that were from the CIA and MI6 archives. You had Kraus’ ledger off to your side, headphones on top of it for you to hear the audio of U.S. cities and numbers. Your fourth mug of coffee of the day was already gone and you would grab another just to enjoy the warm liquid to go down your throat instead of the caffeine itself, you were always one of late night’s either way.

The safehouse was quiet outside the hum of the generator and the lights above. Most of the crew gone. Outside of your absent tapping of a pen against your messy notes and the white of a nearby fan for extra circulation, the main open area of the safehouse was a desert.

If you focused deeply, you can hear mumbles and murmurs that you can’t make out coming from the office. Adler has been in there for awhile talking over the phone. To who, you don’t know but you have your suspicions. You just hope the subject is not about you being suspicious—the talk on the roof was a slight on your part earlier.

You truly don’t know what came over you. But you need to watch your mouth and expressions. Adler is perceptive, deadly and ever watchful of a person’s micro expressions and body language.

You can’t mess up.

A shot rings. And a heart splinters.

“It was never personal.”

You really can’t.

Which is why, you have been focused solely on decoding the entire day. Your eyes scanning and assessing the acquired Intel from the Volkov mission for Operation Chaos and Operation Red Circus. You have the knowledge on how to solve them but you are lacking needed Intel to help finish Operation Red Circus.

Operation Chaos was tricky. With two pieces of evidence outside of the newspaper, it being the audio log and the paper that had the coded message. Earlier in the morning, you wrote down all the possible numbers the missing parts of the code be—trying to find the pattern in the set of red and blue numbers. You were writing down the possibilities, your paper looking chaotic with arrows and numbers and cities that could coincide with said numbers.

After the quick checkup of your head with Adler, all firm and gentle touches with you keeping your eyes to the side or down as he fulfilled why he got the alias Doc—treatments of gun wounds and cuts to bayonets, complete trust he’ll take care of you as he would lecture or tighten a bandage a tad too tight in reprimand due to a reckless action—and kept quiet as he did so outside of a soft yes or no when he asked about the pain, you moved to go to work. Ignoring the feel of his gaze on you as you did so. Park coming to your desk after you moved your stuff from the center table to your chosen corner to begin, papers already everywhere and scattered as you tried to organize it in a manner you could only understand, a mug close to her mouth and a cocked brow at the mess.

“There’s a way to keep it a bit more clean and less like a junk pile,” the British woman said, amused as you made a distracted sound, squinting at the coded language in your hand as papers rustled. “And when I gave you my advice, I didn’t think you would take it so seriously. There’s a better desk you could’ve chosen as your own, Bell.”

You blinked, giving Park a confused look.

“Advice?”

Park making an obvious glance to the center table in front of the evidence board, you automatically following it. Only to turn back to your paper once you noticed Adler’s form by the table, cigarette in his hand as he stared down at his own files.

"From one woman to another, give him a wide berth."

“. . . I just needed some space to focus. I’m sure Adler wouldn’t like all my papers everywhere around him either way.” You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your head and your hand. You wanted to erase it. “But I don’t mind staying close just in case. Easier to hand things to you or him whenever I’m done.”

“Someone sounds confident,” Park commented with a sip of her coffee, making your own lips twitch for a moment as you replied that you are the best as you moved some papers around. Than, in a quiet murmur with a quick dart back to Adler’s direction, “Distractions are best to be avoided. . .”

“What was that?” You asked, placing everything in a pile as well trying to keep some of them up by leaning the papers on the computer screen and failing as they slid down. You heard Park release an exasperated humored huff through her nose just as you heard her step away only for you to have a black leather gloved hand in your face with sticky notes. “What is. . .”

“Oh come now. I am sure it’d be easier if you used these. Make sense of this chaos. I guess there is some fact of what people say about geniuses and their rooms,” she motioned the sticky note pad again as you stared at it. The papers were yellow but new. Unused, outside of a crinkle at an edge.

“Where am I?”

“Who am I?”

“What is happening?”

“Why can’t you remember?”

“D o y o u h e a r i t ? ”

“Who is Perseus?”

“Tell me who I am!”

Blood forms the words, as if with a finger.

“They want to kill you.”

“Make it stop.”

“MK”

Words pressed on the page, over and over and over with harsh penmanship and you don’t understand what’s happening. What is this room? And that man. . . Why does it hurt? Is this helping Russell?

Pain

Pain Pain боль

боль

Pain Pain

боль

Pain Pain Pain

боль боль

It hurts.

GlockeGlockeGlockeG̷̟̩͙̏͌ḽ̸̊̿o̵̦̓͝c̵̭̯̊́ḱ̷̛̼͌͊e—

You turned away back to your papers, jaw tight.

“I’m good. Sticky notes can be a pain. Thank you, Park.” Park lowered her hand, giving you a questioning stare in the back of your head. You sighed, turning your head over your lowered shoulders. “I’m going to try to finish this today but I think I’m missing a few pieces of Intel. You can give me other things to decode for MI6 in the meanwhile.”

Park frowned delicately, lowering her mug.

“That sounds like a hefty workload. And I believe it would be best if we put all our focus into Perseus for now.”

No. You have to be useful.

“It’ll be fine,” you say, searching for a paper and giving it to her while Park grabbed it. “I solved that part of the code already. The other intel we got from Kraus, I’m going to need more information in order to figure out who exactly can be Strong Man, Bearded Lady, and the Juggler. I can’t go forward with that so might as well help with other codes you guys may have trouble with. What did you imply?” You ask with faux curiosity, your lips twitching up before falling as you wrote something down. “That I’m a genius?”

“Smartarse.” Park retorted, although she seemed to still hesitate but eventually she gave you three files where they seemed to be having trouble. You getting to work immediately to help as Park walked away and you hearing later on Park and Adler head to the office.

You did your best to not think too much of it. You have to keep at your work and make sure you’re capable and on task. You rather not get jabbed.

“We got a job to do.”

And although it might be inevitable, you would rather not have those words said to you as well. Even if it didn’t seem to have the same affect as before, the feeling and how your thoughts seemed to blur came back. Being aware you moved like a puppet and were one all along is not what you would like to focus on.

After you finished two of MI6’s files—had to do with KGB and how interesting they would use some quotes of Oscar Wilde’s 1984 hidden in the code as if the man was in support of communism with the work—with a hum mixed with impressed and curiosity from Park as she looked at the solved papers, your nose twitched at the scent of smoke and leather as you worked on the last MI6 folder.

“Stealing away my protege, Park?” Your hand around the pen paused before continuing, a plume of grey gathering above you. “And here I thought we have an equal partnership when it comes to this whole Perseus business. At least tell me you’re not wasting her time?”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing if she’s willing,” Park easily replied before handing him the two files to look over that you did, Adler scanning through it as she continued. “And it still has to do with our red friends. You sure are quick with the ball, Bell.”

“It’s nothing,” you say quietly, “Can’t exactly go forward so might as well help you with other codes that others can’t solve. Just send anymore my way. You too, sir.”

Adler made a distant hum, closing the files and handing it back to Park. You felt his stare at the back of your neck as you stared at the paper in front of you that might as well be nonsense since you sensed him.

Look at him, pup.

“If you wanted a more exciting challenge Bell, you could’ve asked. Always the type to leave no stone unturned and show off.”

“‘More exciting challenge’?” Park repeated, “Think MI6 codes are all flowers and rainbows compared to those in the CIA, Adler? I believe I recall that it was only Bell that could be able to solve the dossier instead of anyone else within your organization.”

Yeah, cause you brainwashed me, you thought bitterly but the two kept going as you could only sit in between. Nice to have to be a witness between these two again.

“Bell is the best CIA decoder we have,” you tightened your jaw in surprise instead of to tense when his hand landed on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze—in comfort, in belief, in trust, in camaraderie, in everything but what you wanted and what you needed, in order to control— as you lowered the paper in your hand. “As well as having a wide range of other skills. You think I would just call in any brain dead desk sitter for this operation?”

You could see in your mind’s eye how dizzy you would get before due to all this praise. Now, you just do your best to press your lips as your chest tightened.

You felt Park shift behind you, her looking at you in appraisal.

“You are one of a kind, Bell. Shame you were born in the wrong country. Having to have Adler here as your superior.”

You huffed through your nose in dry amusement at that. Irony not lost on you.

What a curse indeed.

You turned in your chair finally, lips quirked that didn’t quite meet your eyes as you pointed your thumb towards Adler.

“You should’ve seen him in ‘Nam if you think he’s bad now. Always with the lectures.”

You felt Adler release you, watching as he took an inhale as he did a small shrug in disinterest.

“You can be stubborn, Bell. If I couldn’t beat it out of you, I’ll talk it out of you.” You looked up and you could sense his eyes looking down at you behind those shades. “Although I feel like sometimes I’m wasting my breath. Your recklessness borders on insanity.”

“I think I can see why they put the both of you together than,” Park said, brow arched towards Adler and a certain look in her eyes towards him you couldn’t quite read. It looked like a warning. But what could that look be for? “Insanity breeds insanity as they say.”

They left you after that, you waving off Adler asking if you need a break. He took that as the okay to bring you CIA files for you to decode. Seems he has no trouble using you dry if you’re going to insist on it. Despite that, you took them and you were able to solve three.

Park came back towards your desk and saying you could have a break, again, you waved her off. As well as her concern you wouldn’t want to read into—is it real for you and your body, or is some sort of guilt that perhaps they gave you a strong dose for the memory exercise and you’re running on steam, is it fake or real, don’t break the puppet- so you didn’t. You telling Lazar the food you wish and him dropping it by your desk with his own comment that your brain might fall out and you saying you’ll be fine, even threw in a small joke that with his food your brain will be well nourished. Outside of your favorite brand of pumpkin seeds of course. Sims only made a stray comment about the stacks on your desk, getting tall as the day went on and turned to night. You don’t recall if you said something back. You probably did, Sims was always distant—you have trauma that’s not even real and have the gall to have some nightmares about it when he actually went through that horrible war and sees a therapist for it, you don’t know the war—so you would take what you would get.

Everyone eventually shuffled out, Park—her brows looking creased and a purse to her lips—back to the side of your desk before she left and saying you should rest and leave the rest tomorrow.

“I’ll finish the rest today,” you replied, resolute and determined as you wrote the next possible code from this possible radio station an ally of Perseus may be using. “No rest for the wicked. As they say,” you threw out additionally, an echo of her words earlier which made Park raise her brows. “It’s fine. Once I start something, I have to see it through. It helps I can be patient when it counts—at least with this.”

“You seem to take it literally. You’ve been at it since early this morning. You only moved I believe when Lazar brought your food and to use the washroom.” Once you shrugged and said that seems normal to do and you’re fine with that, you heard Park’s tone grow stronger in reprimand. “Yes, you’re fine. Tell me, is Adler stopping you from taking breaks?”

You stopped, looking at Park and her irritated expression.

“No. . . No, it’s just me.” So none of you stick me with that dreadful drug and dig around my brain. So I can show all of you I don’t need it—that you don’t need to do that. That I’m useful and more than an asset. Unneeded assets get thrown away. “I just—just don’t want to disappoint.”

"Disappoint? You've exceeded expectations at every turn, Bell. Disappoint who?"

You didn’t answer, only turned back around and continued with your pen. You heard Park mutter a curse before walking out, giving you a pat to your back and tell you you’re driving back with Adler than since he’s determined to work as well before leaving. Your eyes round down to your desk.

You’ll be alone together with him again.

You took a shaky breath, focusing on the paper in front of you.

You’ll be fine. Just keep what you’ve been doing. Pretend everything is okay.

Pretend his concern—the touch on your shoulders burned as he shook you, as if to erase your dark thoughts out of you, lifting you up with his hand easily with words of a concerned reliable friend commanding officer—is real. And his kindness—why did they save you, you’re useless, what use is an untrained dog—is real too.

Just don’t question it. You’ll go mad.

Mind your tongue as well—control yourself. You used to tease before with faux confidence when the both of you bantered, but you have to watch your spiteful and petty comments. You really don’t want him to give you a dose.

But if you feel like the path is leading you there, you have a way to get at least a semblance of control back.

Puppets don’t control the puppeteer.

“Bell.” You turned in attention, Adler by the center table as he motioned his head towards the garage door, cigarette in hand. “Time to go.”

You nodded once, getting up after fixing up your desk a bit. Grabbing your beanie turned ski mask and placing it back on your head instead of your face and walked over obediently as the both of you walked out through the side door.

Good dogs come when they listen.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ◁ ◁ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

“Come on, you know I hate fruit cake! Just give me your pears, Singer!”

“Sorry, Bell,” Singer grinned, taking a big purposeful spoonful of pears from the can, teeth flashing. “Guess you have to deal with all of that yourself. Too bad you don’t have a connection to those who pass the MCI’s, huh?”

You quietly glared at him with no heat, the act almost making Singer choke on his precious pears that he could’ve given you. The choking action making him spit out some and towards you, you making a noise of disgust as you punched the laughing man harshly to his shoulder as vengeance. It made him wince as the others around the campsite laughed at the two of you—the sun still above and the Vietnam jungle loud with birds and the trees moving against the wind. Although not really a campsite you would say since there no fire. Can’t have any eyes on them to go towards smoke.

‘They know these jungles better than us’ as Adler says.

Speaking of Adler, you turned towards him where he leaned against a thick great Banyan tree local to this country—the trunk thick just like the branches that spiral even to the floor. They were all actually hidden in the alcove of this tree, the space enough for them until they kept going to their destination. A beautiful yet haunting tree with its dark and smooth bark all around. You overheard once by Lee and other South Vietnam soldiers in base that these trees can have spirits inside. Dangerous they said for some of them. You don’t think these ‘spirits’ ever met Adler.

You could see Adler’s lips were up in amusement due to your predicament despite his war paint, raising his brow over his black shades when he noticed your gaze.

Before you even fully lifted your hand with the can of horrendous fruit cake, he shook his head at you, lips going even more into a smile.

“Don’t even try, kid. I fucking hate fruit cake myself,” he adjusted himself against the tree and the gun in his lap. The food of his MCI basically gone outside the crackers and canned pineapple. “Disgusting things. I don’t know who’s bright idea was it to have hard pieces of fruit and dry raisins in cake.”

That’s what you’re saying!

“Please, Adler. I gave you my cigs already, at least give me some of your pineapple?”

Sims laughed beside you, nudging your shoulder with his and shaking his head in disbelief.

“You think Doc is gonna give you some of his golden nectar away? Might as well have asked him to give his cigs along with his lighter.”

“Not happening, Bell.” Adler answered casually, finishing up his crackers and swiping his hands against his pants before moving to the can. “Besides, not like you smoke anyways. The cigs would just sit there pretty in the box if you don’t hand it to me. Unless you want to try to smoke again. It went well last time.”

“Didn’t she choke?” Singer teased around a mocking grin. It made his youthful face boyish and eyes bright. “Almost hacked out a lung didn’t you?”

Larson, who was quiet between Singer and Adler, spoke up. Already finished with his food since he’s been mostly keeping to himself. This is the first official mission he’s had since he got the news. Poor guy.

“I remember that,” Larson said softly, looking towards you and you just took all their teases. You blame Adler. “It was after the drinking game between Butcher and Hamilton. You wanted to see the big deal about why everyone liked the nicotine.”

“Only for Doc to come to the rescue after Bell took one of his cigs,” Sims ended with a shit eating grin. You’ll kill him. “Surprised you’re still here and alive. Not from just avoiding choking on nothing either, but that you took a cig from him.”

“You guys bet that I couldn’t. . .” You muttered with narrowed eyes towards Sims who shushed you.

“What was that?” Adler asked, cocking his head only for Sims and Singer to shake their heads animatedly. Adler hummed doubtfully but dropped it.

“Never mind that! Just—“ You groaned, putting your head on your hands as you still held the can of fruit cake. “You think I can eat this shitty cake? The ‘raisins’,” you said the word doubtfully, “could be actual pieces of shit for all I know. It could explain the taste. And how hard it can be.”

Singer and Sims snorted next to you, on both sides while Larson actually cracked a grin as you raised your head and told them strongly to think about it! Adler shook his head, watching the jungle periodically in the open spaces of the alcove which all of you did to be cautious but the fruit cake debacle must be solved.

You turned your eyes towards Sims, spotting his fruit cocktail. Only for his hand to block it.

“Nope.”

“Come on!” Sims shook his head, opening the can and eating the fruit cocktail and you scowled. “All of you are shitheads. Now I’m gonna have to eat this.”

“Damn straight you do,” Adler reaffirmed, stern yet you could spot he found your curse to all of them, him included, funny based on his arched brows. “No wasting MCI’s. You know the drill, Bell.”

You grunted unhappily at Adler, but you knew he was right. Which is why you wanted to trade in the first place. Food shouldn’t be wasted, no matter how heinous.

You took a spoonful after managing to cut into the hard cake, Sims laughing in your face and you could spot Larson keeping his smile at your disgruntled expression only for it to deepen when you took a bite.

You tried to distract yourself through bites by asking Adler how far away they were from their destination. Adler answering after they reach the next nearest foxhole which is two hours away, it will be another six till they reach where they need to be.

“Hue is a mess right now. With us additional reinforcements, we’re going to aim for stealth and go around and take out as much as we can.” Adler explained as they all attentively listened. They can’t mess up. “We’ve been able to give them a lot of damage last I heard, with one final push of us taking out some of them when they’re scrambling—we’ll consider the Battle of Hue a win. Of course, if there’s more than we can handle, we’ll stick to recon and head back around to tell command at the Hue MACV compound we have there.”

“And the civvies?” Larson asked.

“Don’t shoot ‘em.” Was all Adler said before they all moved to clean up and move on after you and Sims finished up.

You having to force to swallow and chew the cake and packing up the trash. They can’t leave anything else it can be used to track or find them.

Larson, Sims, and Singer were outside the alcove—waiting for you to finish as you smacked your lips as if that could take away the taste in your mouth as you grumbled. You moved to go out where Adler was as he stood by the opening to head out. You spotted something on the ground where he previously sat.

“You left something, sir,” you say, growing near to pick up the can. Huh, it’s not empty.

Adler turned his head over his shoulder, expression questioning.

“Whatcha mean, kid? That’s yours isn’t it?” You frowned, looking down at the can only for your eyes to widen. There was some pieces of pineapple left, a little less than half of the can gone but it’s something. He turned his head back as he muttered. “Don’t expect this to happen again. Not here to spoil you, Bell.”

“Don’t expect you to, sir.”

“Just pick up the trash and move it, kid.”

You grinned, knocking back the can and easily and quickly eating it. The juices spilling down your chin and neck but you didn’t care as you licked your lips. The taste of disgusting shit cake gone.

You packed the can quickly, swiping your chin with the back of your hand as the both of you walked to where the others were.

“Thanks,” you said to him softly.

“For telling you to pick up your trash?” Adler answered easily and you smiled knowingly but let it go.

Such a hard ass.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ▷ ▷ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

The car ride was silent, passing street lights and empty cafe’s whizzing by and enlightening the car for a mere moment before it would be enveloped in darkness once more until the next light comes. You were staring out the window as they passed the streets of Berlin, the sounds of the wiper periodically occurring due to the light rain occurring. Not many people out at this time of night, nearing midnight unless you were a working girl or at the local bar. Some wisps of smoke remained in the car despite Adler on his side having his window slightly open. Your eyes watching as it moved lazily and glancing towards the quiet, relaxed man next to you before you would turn to look back out. Curious to see more of the city besides in the backstreets and being stealthy.

You didn’t see much last night after Volkov, you falling asleep in the car as Park drove you. You were too out of it when they arrived at the hotel, just absentmindedly listening and nodding along to Park’s directions and promptly knocking out once you reached your room on the bed. Only to awake once more at the alarm you or someone else must’ve set early in the morning.

You were focusing on that instead of the last time you were in the car with Adler.

“You’ll like where we’re going. Trust me.”

You took a sneaky glance towards the man once more, just as the man exhaled out a cloud of smoke that you watched. Enraptured in how it moved to and fro lithely, easily as your nose took in the smell before you glanced back at Adler, the side facing you being his ‘good’ side.

You wonder once more of his scar that accentuated this man’s beauty—all harsh lines that created a map that even now you wish to trace. For someone like this to earn the title America’s Monster, all styled wheat hair, suede shades, and an easy, wry tone—it should at least match the title.

Than again, you thought with faltering wax wings and of another—the fall of a devil with none. It was never about his looks was it?

“It’s a small price to pay.”

What does that make you?

“Alright, kid,” he says, taking out of your stupor as you stared fully at the man now. Smoke releasing out his mouth as he spoke, making you lower your gaze to it. “I’ll bite. What do you want to ask me? Must be a juicy question since you keep burning holes to the side of my face.”

Embarrassment colored your face, caught, as you quickly adjusted your gaze to straight ahead and instead watching raindrops going down the windshield.

“It’s nothing.”

“Mmm. For some reason, I can’t believe that. What did I say before?”

You said a lot of things before, you thought with a sad frown. But you knew what he was referring to. Always wants to be the one you tell all your worries and concerns to. Before, you thought it was genuine. Now, you just see it as how it was—a cloak to observe and make sure if your true real memories came or if they needed to give you a dose.

“Your scar,” you began as he tilted his head towards you, hair moving as he did so as he kept his one hand casually to the wheel while the other was leaning against his door. You didn’t get distracted by it. “How’d you get it? There’s a story there.”

“Scar?” He asked in false confusion, still stoic outside of a cocked brow and making your lips twitch up despite yourself. Before motioning with his cigarette hand towards his face. “You mean this? Is it noticeable?” At your unamused huff though your nose, he continued. “Back in ‘73, I was nearly killed by a tiger while on a mission in Malaysia. But human ingenuity still runs the animal kingdom.” He turned his head towards you when they reached a light, his brows rising above his glasses. “You ever been attacked by a tiger, Bell?”

You stared at him in disbelief before releasing a surprised snort. The nerve of this man.

“You’re lying. That’s not from a tiger, it would be worse than that. You and your need to tell stories. . .” You mumbled the last part, you don’t think he heard that.

“Didn’t know you were an expert on tigers, Bell. Got a degree in zoology under your belt that I don’t know about? What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Because—“ That’s not what you said last time. You stopped, a realization going through you. Because of course he’ll lie to you about this too. Worse kind of crowd, your ass. “If you got that from a tiger than I must be a distant cousin of Joseph Stalin.”

“That unbelievable, huh?” He said more than asked, amused at your sarcasm as you looked at him with crossed arms as the car moved once more. “Fine. I’ll give. I jumped on a roof in Calcutta back in ‘75 while chasing a Soviet agent. The jump was successful . . . the landing not so much. Advice: always know where the utility poles are.” At your deadpanned look when he glanced at you, his lips quirked into a humored smirk. “That one didn’t hit the mark for you either? Was it the jump?”

You shook your head, a small groan leaving your lips as you leaned your head against the dashboard.

“Anybody who’s anybody can jump from roof to roof,” you replied, staring at your leather boots—forehead pressed against the dashboard and maintains it there even as they turned or there was a bump. “You know that. Just like you know a utility pole would’ve either choked you or electrocuted you. At least with electrocution it’d be more scars throughout instead of that part of your face.”

“Watch the cockiness, kid.” He reprimanded but than, “You’re right though. Roof jumps the standard when it comes to our work. But you’re really confident that I don’t have any other scars throughout the rest of me. Know something I don’t?” Your eyes darted towards him, wide and as they passed a street light, you noticed he was peering down at you in turn. Your skin burned as you looked away and mumbled no while staring at your very interesting shoes. The man hummed. “How about this. You know what they say about kids falling in with a bad crowd? Let’s just say I fell in with the worst part of a bad crowd. The girl wasn’t worth it, believe me.”

At your silence, he glanced at you.

“What? That’s the one you believe?” You gave a small shrug. When he first told you that, you didn’t ask any more questions. It sounded personal the way he said it. Truthful. Adler always lies. “What makes this one believable? The lack of a specific date or are you a sucker for romance, Bell?”

You threw him a meaningful look up at him. Not feeling the need to say anything. At his arched brow though, you opened your mouth.

“Your ex-wife.” His brow flattened at that. Something shifting in the air. “Was she worth it?”

A beat. A passing of street lights. The pitter patter of rain against the car.

“A romantic than. . .Never saw you as the type.” At your probing stare and his silence, you turned away. Seeing he won’t answer—too private. You’re a fool to even think he will say the truth at all. “Once.” You blinked, turning your eyes back up and lifting your head in attention as America’s Monster—a secret, a peek through the shades, a hint of something real besides the cold, black abyss, what are you Russell Adler—spoke ever so softly. A sardonic turn of chapped lips. “You can say we had a difference of opinion. Not much to it.”

There was more but you will take what you can get.

You thought of the memories you had, of friends you once believed were your own. Of little moments in beaches and camps and villages when all was calm and not chaotic with smell of burnt bodies or blood or how it feels to stab a bayonet through someone’s chest in defense. You could see them as clearly as any other memory you had. And feel it.

You thought of the poor soldier leaving a war only to get into another one in his home country.

“Larson. . .” you murmured, Adler hearing as he released a dry chuckle.

“Sort of like Larson. The poor bastard.” You watched him take a deep inhale, the cigarette almost a near stub. And you realize when that happens, he’s stressed. As stressed as a man like him could be. You’ve seen him in many moments in Vietnam. Not always the best. You wonder if that was another reason for your death. Adler exhaled a puff before having to throw the cigarette out the window with a flick, putting the window all the way up. “I don’t see why you’re so interested either way. Scars aren’t that impressive. Unless you always had a habit about asking for one’s ugly mug.”

You darted up at his eyes, shaded as they were, trying to sense if he was being serious.

Because he couldn’t be.

Not this man, with strikes of lightning upon his face as if Zeus did it himself. All power. Grace. Strength. Different from your barely functioning wax wings as you struggle to fly. Only able to watch and hope a falling demon crashes to its death—all harsh and slow.

What are you, Russell Adler?

Perhaps he is Zeus himself.

Perhaps how Adler got his scar was harsh retribution to control lightning, his scars even mimic those powerful strikes across his face. All strength. And all beauty. Those who survived struck by lightning always have the most beautiful marks upon their skin indicating their survival—you are selfishly bias though. Even now, you admit with self-loathing. The rougher marks on his face is all grace and you could wonder how he truly got it instead of fantasizing him as a God Of Lightning who mistook his own power upon his face.

It would only make sense. Both beautiful men, although you’ve never met the Greek God.

They both also have a habit of hurting women.

He’s all of that, while you could only hope with your squeaky levers and ropes and feathered wax can go up to said Mount Olympus where he was. A naïveté where you think you’re close with tired and sore arms only to be burnt away. A free fall down to the abyss.

Good pups stay in their place.

“You’re joking.” You accuse seriously as you stared up at him, your head against the dashboard but tilted slightly in his direction.

Adler tilted his head down slightly to stare down at you, a brow arched at your look.

“About?”

You didn’t say anything.

Just meaningfully looked up at him through your lashes, staring at his jaw that was strong as if Michaelengelo carefully carved it himself with minute details with his trusted mallet and chisel until dawn with a candle on his head due to determined ingenuity. Observing how the collar of his shirt did not do a good job in hiding his neck, his favorite jacket failing in that too so you could take it in. Not one strand was mussed or out of place on his head, all volume and thickness as your gloved hand twitched by your knee.

You than met the shades, in turn meeting his eyes as your heart seemed to pound as he stared down at you back. A look passing through his eyes too quick for you to catch, besides what you saw in your peripherals. The hand on the wheel tightening an iota as the air shifted to something heavier, blood pumping as your mind thought of reasons as to why which you pushed away. Impossible.

You licked your dry lips nervously, Adler’s expression seeming to tense when his eyes followed the action. You turned away, looking back down except to play with the ends of your gloves, neck hot and spreading.

You still felt his stare before he focused back onto the road.

They didn’t speak the rest of the ride.

Foolish dog should mind their eyes.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ▷ ▷ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

You couldn’t sleep much when you reached your room, another floor to Adler’s and near Park’s, and not just due to how you were more one with the night.

You opened Pandora’s Box—something forbidden coming out into the world as you thought back to the meaningful stare between you and Adler in the car. That even the thought makes your heart pound once more. Your brain further muddling and melting away the more you spend time alone with that man. Whether in being caught in his pace or just the mere thought of what he’s done.

Although, you suppose you already opened a Pandora’s Box. Possibly even darker than the one you discovered.

If the monster in man’s skin was Zeus—he created the box in the first place. Except he wished to hide it from you and keep you willfully ignorant instead of tease you to release envy and greed and disease out in the world. You managed to open it—and it was none of those things, it was cruel and inhumane to you all the same.

Take this needle and follow the story, do the trick.

If only that box stayed close.

Zeus always did like to confuse.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ◁ ◁ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

You let out a heavy sigh, hand mussing your hair harshly as you chewed your lips, staring at the paper on the center table of the safehouse.

“Having trouble?”

You slightly jumped as Adler, who was quiet in the seat across and to the side of you, spoke. Looking mildly curious at all the papers on your side of the table before taking a small puff. You sighed, looking back down at the paper in slight frustration.

“Just a little. Whoever made this code created a difficult to encrypt language. I have some of the numbers though already, it’s just the rest. I’ve never seen such an elaborate one before. . .” You said in thought as you tapped your pen against the paper. “I have to say, it’s impressive.”

Adler hummed idly, taking note of your words.

“Perhaps you need a sort of incentive.”

You moved your eyes up in confusion, wondering what that could mean. Only to stop once you noticed what was in his opposite hand not holding his precious cigarette.

It was a picture—a polaroid specifically. But not just any one. You stared at your oldest friend in the picture, taken on the rooftops in East Berlin, his face tilted down and a level of focus and calm as he stared down below in his crouched position. The lights behind him giving him an ethereal glow, a mix of white, red, and blue as those shades on his face gave a little glint due to it.

You reached a hand to see it better only for Adler to click his tongue, taking the picture back closer to him with a shake of his head.

“Sorry, kid. Can’t exactly be incentive if I gave it to you easily like that. You seem eager though.” Adler arched a brow at you. “Any reason as to why?”

Your cheeks prickle as you cursed in your mind. Why didn’t you get the film from the red room or Park yourself? You thought of a T.V. turning on it’s own, flashbacks to what happened in Vietnam on the screen, the memory sobering you up. You still. . .haven’t told Adler about that. He’ll call you soft and put you solely in the safehouse with no more field missions. You hate his disappointment. Still though, you recall you were determined to get it. A quick in and out but than. . . something? Something. . . happened?

At your brows furrowing deeply, Adler’s own brows furrowed and you answered his silent question as you touched your head.

“Sorry. . . That coma I woke up from still has done a number on me.”

“You did get shot twice, Bell. You have issues with always trying to push me out the way, even back in ‘Nam.” You smiled at his tease. You did have a protective streak. But only for certain people—even if you knew Adler could handle himself, you would do what you must for him if he told you an order. Or even go against it if it involved him doing something stupid like a sacrificial mission. You’d follow him anywhere. “Don’t think too much on it. I’m sure the rest of your memories will come back soon enough. Just remember in the end that mission was a success.”

“Whatever it takes, sir.” You said, a phrase that he spoke often back in the war. Which you would repeat. You would always do what you must.

Adler’s expression shadowed as he nodded once.

“Whatever it takes,” he glanced at the polaroid in his hand, it facing him as he seemed to stare in thought before turning his gaze towards you. Your expression curious as you wondered what he was thinking before he turned the picture back towards you, brow up inquisitively. “Well, Bell? Don’t think you’re going to dodge the question as to why you want this? I went through a bit of trouble to let Park let me have it. She’s stubborn when she wants to be.”

You slightly scowled at him, feeling the blush once more.

You hated when he did that blasted rhyme!

You also had a sense there was more to him asking Park but you were too busy trying to defend yourself. Not think about their daily quiet pissing match.

“I like taking pictures. It’s an art form. Every artist would like to have their own paintings,” you said, tone even and you wanted to pat yourself in the back for that.

Adler rose both his brows now.

“Really?” The way he said it made it seem he doubted you. “Not a photographer. Was never really interested in art either so maybe that’s why I can’t relate. Still. It’s a good picture, my good side and all. Can see why you would want it.”

You restrained yourself from saying what you wanted like last time. That basically you would want that picture even if it was on his scarred side.

“It had good lighting.” You added as Adler stared at his picture, cigarette being held in his lips. He turned back towards you, glasses slightly falling from his nose and you could see a hint of his eyes. A tease. You stared. His lips curved around the cigarrette, amused and indulging. You panicked. “I-It does!”

“I didn’t say anything. But say, the sooner you finish that code, the sooner you can have this—“ he paused, waving the hand with the polaroid”—piece of art of yours. Never thought I would say that but I guess there’s a first for everything.” He pocketed the picture back in his jacket, blowing his smoke away from you before he stood up and headed towards Sims only to add over his shoulder, “I’ll leave you to it. I know you got this.”

You stared as he walked over, the belief he had in you with those words moving around in your brain. You moved back to work, pointedly ignoring Lazar’s whistle—him able to hear some of what occurred no doubt. You threw him an impolite gesture that only made the man laugh as you focused on the code. It took you three tiring and near sleepless nights, but you finished. Adler handing you the photo in between his fingers as you took it gently, trying not to crinkle the photo further as Adler watched you behind his shades as you held the photo, taking a thoughtful inhale of his cigarette before looking away. Looking around their surroundings outside the safehouse. Their break time spot.

“You sure got talent, kid.”

“You should know by now to not doubt me, Russ,” you replied, your eyes still on the photo between your gloved hands. “Only the best of the best with you. Just took me longer than I thought.”

“Watch that confidence doesn’t blind you one day, Bell.”

“You first.”

He chuckled at that, breathless and surprised making you stare up with wide eyes. The sound rare. Adler tapped the end of his cigarette, ash going on the ground as he stared towards the doors of the safehouse, an echo of a smile on his face. Barely there. Others wouldn’t see it, but you’ve known Adler for years.

“You got guts. And spunk. Met my match with you it seems, kid. You know me too well. . .” Adler took a puff, deep as he trailed off, shades dark.

“That’s not a bad thing,” you say, lowering the photo in your hand. “Sims does too. Can’t exactly get rid of us that easy.”

“Sims has been through many missions with me, but not as much as you.” Adler explained calmly. “Some of those, I’m taking to my grave. If I breathe a word about it, I’ll have a bunch of people up my ass.”

You sense as if this was like a conversation from years ago, on a beach. Quiet and away from everyone in the camp, just the two of you talking about realities and soldiers. You think about that memory a lot.

You recall some of the memories he’s referring to.

You half shrugged, pocketing the photo in your bomber jacket as you leaned against the wall of the safehouse.

“What can you do? It was necessary. Besides, I can’t exactly tell anyone else either, Adler. Brutality is sometimes necessary. That’s all I know.” You paused, tilting your head and throwing a teasing smirk his way to get him out this weird mood. “Don’t tell me America’s Monster actually cares what other people say?”

Adler deeply exhaled in exasperation, smoke coming out his nose.

“Don’t tease me, Bell. You know I can’t give a shit.”

“Than what’s the problem? You do what needs to be done. Make the tough calls. You know. . . you know I understand right?” You asked carefully. “I’m with you when it comes to doing what we must. To protect what we need to.”

Adler was silent. He never answered.

You didn’t push him. Didn’t feel the need.

You understood him the best.

Only monsters can see one another, after all.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ▌▌✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

Monsters, you’ve come to know, are also a certain kind of creature that takes what they need.

To want. Selfish and uncaring and you should be concerned at how easily you take in those traits.

Too busy to worry about regular people—the mundane. There are bigger things to be focused on than other’s opinions on what actions are necessary.

You and Adler can give not one fuck about others. They know what they are and will accept the titles from others with a nod.

What you’re coming to find however, that even with monsters, there’s different breeds.

You basically reiterated to him that what he did with you was necessary. Needed. Sound brutality at its finest. You feel like you can’t even argue.

What is better—loyalty to a country or to people?

You’re trapped.

I have a problem. This story is going to be long when it was supposed to be short. Oh well.

Also, hot take maybe, I love both Soft!Adler and Dark!Adler so let’s just have both sides of him shall we? Wait…is Adler truly soft here? Who knows.

DM me if you wish to be tagged please. ^////^

Tags:

@quizzyisdone @zulema117-blog @efingart @pinkpinkboota @nuclear-boston @lifeisthemoments @jintana-critical @eclectriccanoeseven @hurricanesyd-blog @parkeepingparker @moonchild365-blog @aurora-windu @imperfectophelia @dvesinthewind @holy-crap-i-am-russlle-adler @i-will-give-you-love @adlerboi @preciouslilcreature @saynotohydra @mayaibnlaahad @smokeywhalee @0shuni0-blog @multi-fandom-imagine @littlepotatowizard @direwolfspostsrandomshit @darlingor @collinnmckinley @kayalect @nikkibell1937 @fuzzybonkeggsopera @ppfedd @bro0kebxrter @actuallyilya @stayb1ack @frankwoodsmalewife @tr1ppylady @danjer

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goddess-of-green · 3 years

Note

Could I request a fluffy oneshot with obito and the reader during the cave scene?? Like while he's recovering but before he sees Rin die and everything,, (and also where he has a crush on the reader) thank you <3

Yes yes yes (Part two here!)

Warnings: None

"Ugh! This place is so boring!" Obito groaned, throwing up his arms as he leaned against his headboard.

You smiled easily, "I know there's not too much to do here, Obito. But you have to finish recovering. Once you do, we can start spending time outside."

"Finish recovering," Obito mocked, crossing his arms. "I'm basically as strong as I used to be!" He exclaimed arrogantly, smirking as he started to drift into fantasy land.

With an exasperated smile, you approached Obito.

"Yes, you are making great progress. But I wouldn't say you've quite returned to your former glory. You're building muscle but the molding is still fragile. And even so, you do want to grow stronger, don't you?" You explained, running a hand up his arm.

You found it more effective to tempt Obito with the prospect of greater strength, rather than telling him that his current strength was simply not enough.

If you told him he was too weak to do something, he would feel as if he wasn't good enough, and he would only become more upset.

Though if you worded it like he simply had a chance to add on to his strength, he would easily accept the idea of becoming an even greater force.

Obito wasn't power hungry or corrupt like many of his clan, but he yearned for the chance to prove himself, to show everyone that he was more than the little runt they thought he was.

And you saw it. You saw past his weirdness, and his loud, obnoxious nature. You saw the little flame of genius in him. Obito had much potential. All you had to do was nurture his flame, and help his mind to grow.

That was where your views and Madara's conflicted. Madara didn't believe in hope or individualism. Not really.

But you knew, deep in your heart, that's what it took to really grow. Humans are fueled by their passion, opening their minds and doing things they love, that's what makes you human.

Anything less would make you a machine; a tool.

You weren't sure you fully agreed with Madara's intentions, but you knew he was invaluable in unlocking Obito's potential.

It was probably safe to say you had grown a soft spot for the boy ever since he was brought in. You found yourself even willing to challenge Madara if it meant Obito's safety.

Your eyes flickered over to where Madara was resting, foreseeing a disagreement with Madara in the future. You were able to work together for now, but you knew you would clash at some point.

You just hoped Obito didn't get caught up in the middle of it.

Having been previously blushing from your contact with his bicep, Obito's eyebrows creased when he noticed you gazing at Madara, a thoughtful look in your eyes.

"H-Hey, Y/N. Are you alright?" Obito asked, having all but forgotten about his boredom.

You blinked in surprise as Obito caught your micro expression. He was getting more observant.

You smiled at the thought, and Obito blushed even before you spoke.

"Yes, Obito. I'm quite alright."

Obito smiled, his face still pink. "I-If you say so!"

Your smile didn't leave your face as you defused Obito's concern. You didn't want Obito to know that you and Madara weren't as united as you seemed.

The last thing you wanted was to see a frown on his beautiful face.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to place the feeling that made itself apparent in your chest. It was something unfamiliar to you.

Trying to get your mind off it, you let your eyes flicker to Obito's hair.

It had started to grow out since he'd started his recovery, it was nearly to his shoulders now.

With a smile, you brought a hand up to gesture at Obito's hair; though you wouldn't touch it without his permission.

"Obito, would you mind if I brushed through your hair?"

Blushing at the notion, Obito nodded quickly, completely missing the idea that you offering probably meant his hair looked messy.

You retrieved a brush and Obito adjusted himself so that you could sit behind him.

Obito was glad that you were placed behind him, so that you couldn't see the vibrant red that his face burned as you gently grabbed the ends of his hair.

"Your hair is growing out so nicely, Obito." You cooed, as you gently ran a brush through his hair.

"Will you continue to grow it out?" You asked.

"Uh... m-maybe, I don't know." Obito blushed, looking down.

Of course I will, he thought, if it means she'll brush my hair like this everyday.

#naruto #obito #obito uchiha #obito x reader #obito uchiha x reader

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kyberphilosopher · 3 years

Text

Rᴀɴᴄᴏʀ

While the Titans make their way through the district of Trost, a wounded soldier makes an unexpected discovery. Word Count: 4098 Requested: yes! Warnings: violence.

“The word rancor is best when you're not just talking about anger, you're talking about a deep, twisted bitter type of anger in your heart. The open rancor in political discussion prevents cooperation between political parties.

The most helpful way to remember rancor with all its dark, miserable bitterness is to think of how rancor rhymes with canker, as in canker sore, the horrible painful burning on your lip. Or, you might want to remind yourself that rancor has its roots in the word rancid meaning "rotten." Rancor refers particularly to the sort of ill-will associated with resentment, envy, slow-brewing anger, and a very personal sort of hatred.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Fuck. It hurts.

You collapse into a kneel. Your left knee scuffs against the damp, cold ground, dirtying the leg of your pants and the top of your boot. As your right hand prods the side of your torso, hot, burning pain courses through your veins with a spark. It feels almost as if the entire area is on fire, which you’re able to identify from the time your friend Jean accidentally caused you to burn your elbow over a candle at dinner.

Still, this is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. This pain... your ribs must be broken. Fuck.

“Shit,” you hiss to yourself through tight teeth. The hand on your abdomen strengthens its grip against the skin as your head rears back to look up to the sky. It’s cloudy grey, with absolutely no light from the sun peeking through. At first glance, the clouds appear to you as a muddy shade of blue. However, the longer you stare at them, the more you think they might be a cool purple-gray. It’s going to rain, soon.

It’s too dangerous, being on the ground like this. The tall buildings surrounding you, added to the isolation of the entire premises, makes you feel like you’re at the bottom of a valley. If only you’d been able to catch your balance on the roof.

Squad 29. Part of the vanguard, although the six of you had only been cadets. None of you were within the top ten. In fact, you’d chalked up your assigned position to just being extra bodies used to buy extra time. Completely expendable.

Although you’d managed to graduate 15th in your division, the other members of the squad hadn’t heeded your advice. They were a rather close knit group of friends, excluding you and one of the other boys. But those four had been committed to barreling head first into the titan’s mouths, regardless of what better plans there could’ve been to come up with. One of them died immediately.

You, the most physically adept of the group, killed two titans on your own, and aided in one assist. Then, you and Finn were attempting on taking down a thirteen meter, when an abnormal swatted the both of you like mere flies. You cleared the air, smacking into a distant tiled roof before you could fire an anchor to steady yourself. Even though you attempted to physically compose your legs, you rolled over the side and onto an abandoned market stall. When it broke under you, you dragged yourself to the middle of the street- where you are now.

But you can’t move. Every intake of air is a piercing stab to your lungs, a thorn in your side, literally. Beads of sweat are beginning to break across your temples, intensified with the concentration of your knitted brows.

If your ODM gear isn’t broken on some miracle, then how will you survive? You received basic medical lessons, but you’re no healer. If you ran into a healer, would they even help you? Compared to Hanna and Franz, or those friends you’d been assigned with, your life wasn’t worth much. You weren’t associated closely with anyone in the 104th, and you’d neither written, nor received letters from your family in well over three years. The irony is that you’d always thought being a lone wolf had more pros than cons. And now, you may pay the price for it.

Pop. A single drop of rain erupts in the center of your eyebrows. The first promise of an oncoming storm.

Your eyes flutter to a close briefly, before reopening. The smell of petrichor floods your senses, invigorating you with memories of spring and dirt. It’s enough to make you want to stand up and finally anchor your way to the high ground, but the slightest movement inflames your ribs all over again. And so no matter how much you wish you weren’t, you clutch the left side of your stomach in the middle of a lonely stone street, crippled in on yourself as you tremble in silent pain.

Sheets of rain begin to fall, reminding you that natural forces are never far behind. However, it’s not colorful like spring, or pleasant to associate with, like dirt. It’s icy and stark, drenching your hair and clothes in a matter of seconds.

Get up, you order yourself, but your body does not obey. Get. Up.

You’ve got more problems than just your ribs. The stiller you are, the more body parts you begin to realize are worse for the wear. Your left wrist feels stiff, like a wheel that can’t rotate full circle. Your right ankle feels limp, like a glass structure on the verge of shattering. But the main problem is in your lungs, because of the damage to your bones. It’s possible that you stabbed your own innards, and now you’re slowly dying. You need that medical attention.

A particularly sharp inhale turns to a wheeze. “Fuck,” you mutter hoarsely, digging the soles of your boots into the ground beneath you to solidify yourself.

Little pebbles between the cracks of the hard surface begin to bounce softly, like little tremors. A steady pace of booms fill the air, and the stench of death walks around the corner.

Lifting your head slightly and craning your neck to the right, you see the shadow of a large, ten meter titan lumbering towards you. With matted, dusty blond hair to its shoulders, you can make out the stain of thick redness running down its potbelly stomach, slowly washing away in the rain.

“No,” you struggle, now clambering to force yourself off the ground. “Come on- fuck.”

You’re going to die. You’re going to die- you’re going to die. You’re going to die, and they won’t even find your body. You’ll be labeled missing in action, and nobody will know what really happened to you. Not unless you get up.

A shooting cry for help springs to your veins. Every breath is agony. Your heart lurches, your ribs shaking and burning without any pressure anymore. Your left hand reaches to the ground to hold yourself up, unable to keep yourself balanced on your own.

No, this is it. You’re done for.

“Fuck,” you sigh out finally, the acceptance of defeat freeing you.

The titan’s coming closer. Your head falls back again, and you look up into the pouring precipitation. Quickly, your eyelids blink at a rapid place from the micro knives of wetness piercing into them. The sweat you previously worked up has run away, turning your skin cold.

You wait for your final thought to turn into ‘it was a good life’. But it doesn’t come. In fact, no thought comes to you at all. Your mind is blank, even when you turn to stare in the face of death, whose enormous hand is reaching out to you.

No thoughts. Just... fuck.

A fist erupts through the maw of the ten meter. With an explosive pop, something thick showers over you, glooping in your hair and dripping down your nose and into your mouth. Something in your ears click as a hollow, electric roar amplifies itself into the air. As you open your sticky, goo ridden eyelids to look at your grim reaper, you find the beast lifted off the ground by an incredible force.

Another titan- a muscular one about fifteen meters, with his hand straight through the smaller ones mouth. With long, dark brown hair whipping harshly in the wind and rain, emerald eyes glow like a flame of grass. He is... vicious, and what splattered on you was blood, and it’s burning but you’re too shocked by the sight ahead of you to care.

The fifteen meter pushes the ten meter off of his wrist with his other hand, before gripping him by the nape and throwing him through the air like nothing more than a ball.

Your free arm covers your head with fear as you flinch. For a split second, you are shielded from the rain, and can hear the whistling sound of something flying at a quick speed. Even with shut eyes, your vision darkness with the shadow of a large body. And then the ground shakes as the monster collapses with a boom.

What the hell?

Out of breath, you widen your eyes as you stare at the steaming hulk of flesh. Salty water slips in drops off of strands of your hair. The titan blood covering you begins to evaporate just as you turn to the other titan, breathing through your mouth despite the oncoming pain.

What the hell?

The fifteen meter leans back on his heels to observe his work of the other titan. His toned, muscular form shines in the glint of the wet rain. His dark hair clings to his neck tightly. When his two rows of teeth open, warm puffs of steam hiss out in a flurry as easily as air.

Abnormal. He’s gotta be... an... abnormal...

And then he meets your eyes, and it’s all over.

You watch a large, muscled hand reach out to you. There’s too much pain to move, or panic, or even think. Your life isn’t flashing before your eyes. You’re not thinking of home, family, anything like that. You’re thinking about how the icy rain has stopped falling against you for a brief moment, stopped by the skin of your killer.

Eyes shut tight as you keep applying pressure on your ribcage. The hood of your sweatshirt lifts up, choking you as your body follows limply. There’s only a few seconds before you can’t feel the rough ground anymore, and you know you��re up in the air. The rain sparks against your skin again, adding to the weight that’s gone straight to your throat and ankles.

And then...

Your feet touch against a solid again. The hood falls back against your shoulders. Your weight returns to your entire body. That’s a sharp stab against your ribs that makes you grit your teeth and pop your eyes open, but you find that there’s no gaping mouth in front of you. There is no, absolutely no chance, threat of death.

You’re... on a roof. The Abnormal is drawing his palm away from you, looking down through his dark hair that’s soaked in the salty water from above. His eyes are piercing and intelligent, but they’re not angry. He’s not going to kill you. He’s not going to hurt you.

As your eyes continuously widen, the Abnormal finally turns away from you. Great booms ring out into the air, the flats of his feet crush the ground beneath him with no effort at all. All the muscles in his back are tensing and shifting, drawing further and further away from you.

He didn’t kill you. The biggest, strongest titan you’ve ever seen didn’t kill you. Even when it had you between its fingers. And the way he looked at you... it was showing something more than other titans. It was showing intelligence, awareness. If something of this caliber has a bone to pick with its fellow titans, are you really going to slip away this easily?

If you could possibly steer the thing to find your way back to your squad, you could use it to your advantage in the battle. How many humans could you save with this? Could this be enough to take out the Colossal? Or the Armored, even? There’s only one way to find out.

You’ve made a discovery. This realization alone gives you the motivation you need to push yourself to your feet with a whimper. It’s time to catch up to that thing.

Limping as you pick up your pacing, trying your best to work up an acceleration before firing the anchors of your ODM gear. One hand still held tightly against your side, your fingers squeeze the triggers of your gear. The anchor latches into the skin of Abnormal with a click, albeit just barely, and you fly towards him with as much care as you can.

You clamber to the top of the muscle, trying to find your footing while still holding your abdomen. One of your hands reaches out to grip onto a lock of brunette hair on the beast like a kind of rope, hoping to steady yourself. Luckily, your ride comes to a stop, shifting its head to acknowledge you. Once more, you hold eye contact, but this time you’re quick to overcome your disbelief.

Could it understand communication?

You go to say something, but the pressure on your lungs makes you wince and hiss instead. A gasp falls from the back of your throat- a strangled cry that confirms how serious this injury really is. Something is broken, something is wrong, and you pull on the titans hair as you try to keep yourself steady from falling off and injuring yourself further, and for a split second you think you’ll hurt it.

“Fuck,” you wheeze out with shut eyes.

Beside you, you feel the rumbling of a growling breath. The shoulder you stand on shifts, reminding you that your ankle is also pained. When your eyes open again, there’s a hand beside you, reaching out once more.

You scoot away from it best you can, tugging on the things hair for leverage. It’s grimy, and dirty, but long and soft and slick at the same time. Weirdly enough, it’s better than most of your fellow soldiers hair.

The Abnormals fingers come into range, and with as much might as you can muster, you slap it away. It barely moves, of course. There’s another growl. The fingers extend again. Another push to shove it away.

“No,” you strangle out weakly. “Stop it.”

And then he does stop. You twist your head around to meet his eyes once more, but they’re right where you left them- on you.

“I can stay,” you say hoarsely as your ribs crack uncomfortably. “I can stay.”

The drum of the rain fades into silence. There is only you, and whatever he is, staring at each other with desperation and analyzation. Nothing else exists. Not the battle around you, nor the lives being lost at this very moment. It’s just the promise of life that pushes you to keep going. It’s the new chance of hope that you’ve been given, purely by chance.

The rain around you comes back to life. It shudders with the wind, loud and clear and explosive. It seems to be on the verge of turning to hail, popping and pricking against rooftops a million times over. It’s making the air colder, more violent. But it’s nothing compared to the way the Abnormal bows its head shortly. It’s nothing compared to the way the Abnormal nods at you.

“Okay,” you breathe out with disbelief. “Okay.”

A loud, shrieking roar pulls the both of you from your gaze. At the end of the road is a nine meter, with messy short hair and a wide mouth splattered with blood. Beside it is a smaller titan, maybe four meters, on its hands and knees like it’s about to pounce. With those stupid, hated expressions, you can see where your new partner got the strength to rip off a head.

You pull on the Abnormals hair in preparation. He rears his head back, breathing out steam to the sky. Beneath the soles of your shoes, you can feel its strange skin heating up like a fresh fire.

At once, your fingers squeeze the triggers of your ODM. It anchors into the wall of a building to the left of the smaller titan. At the same time, your Abnormal companion steps forward, cocking his fist back.

It takes a lot of strength and teeth gritting to pull both of your blades out. The hand leaving your side makes you feel the inside of your ribs pop. But you hold them behind you, twisting as you turn and make quick work of slicing the nape of the four meter before it can make any moves. It’s still, and then it collapses, smoking.

Your partner shoves the nine meter into a building. Both his hands pull back into fists, pommeling the thing repeatedly. You click the trigger again, jumping up into the air far above the rooftops all around you. You’re soaring, and coming closer and closer to the titan until you swing out with a whisper. Its head falls back, while your Abnormal lifts his leg to knee it in the chest.

The Abnormal shows emotions. It shows anger- even after he sees that his foe has been finished off. Prompting you, as you twist to aim your ODM gear again, to wonder if he is even an Abnormal. For all you know, he could be something completely different entirely. But then what is it? What have you discovered here?

You fall back to the shoulder of your partner gracefully. You sheathe both swords, grip onto his hair with one hand, and onto your side with the other. He stops his movements, still breathing out like a rancor human would.

You learn quickly that it’s better if you don’t try to control him. He’s more efficient when you treat him like a partner, and split up to clear a path for him. So you do. You spring from his shoulder to take out whatever slow, stupid creature crosses your path, though occasionally he moves before you can do so as if he’d rather do it himself. It’s not easy at all with your ribs in the condition that they are, and every movement makes your ankle and wrist click like they’re on the verge of snapping away. They probably are. Breathing, again with your rib problem, is becoming increasingly difficult, and there’s no sign of your squad in sight.

There’s no soldiers to be seen at all, actually- not even using ODM gear above you. It’s almost like the entire battle has just ended. Maybe everyone died. Everyone, except you, who did not even make the top ten and should be dead anyway.

You clutch your stomach as you think about this. The great being you’ve come to rely on in the past few minutes cranes his neck to look at you.

Your eyes close as you breathe as steadily as you can. The stabbing, electrical, unimaginable pain is becoming more and more unbearable by the second. You could’ve pierced a lung, and now you’re slowly dying, with only a foe who’s not even a foe to comfort you. At least you’ve started to like the strange rows of teeth he possesses. Looking at that as you die might make you feel better.

In one motion, the shadow of a hand covers you. The little pricks of rain have ceased once again, so you open your eyes to look up. Sure enough, a behemoth of a hand shields you like an umbrella, keeping you from soaking any further.

You look to meet his eyes. Before, they were all emerald green. But now, you can see flecks of teal in them. They’re strangely beautiful, almost otherworldly. And they remind you of something you can neither define nor place. Something you’ve never seen before. Cool toned, but also... warm.

“What the hell are you?” you whisper out, half to yourself.

Large fingers brush against your hood softly. It’s tugged up and placed over your head as gently as the giant can muster, the raindrops stuck to the cloth falling into your eyes. Maybe you won’t die. Maybe you really, really won’t.

The Abnormal growls again, though it’s still distant and none threatening. It’s more like a vibration, really. This thing is the embodiment of anger and vengeance, and yet its saved your life multiple times. You should be... you should be dead. How many times have you thought that today?

Your ribs bring you back to reality. Breathing a little too inwardly proves to be your undoing, nearly collapsing over as you grab at the area. It stings, it stabs, and you choke on your own throat with tightly shut eyes.

Yes, I should be dead. The proof is right here.

There’s one movement. It’s slow and fluid, as if something gentle was about to happen. But that, like all other gentle things, dies fast. Because there’s a second motion, a quicker one and a more abrupt one. And then there’s something slamming into you, your head going hot, the wind in your ears, and finally your back bursting open on something rough.

You can’t think. You can’t move. But only one thing comes to mind: The Titan.

“Y/N?!”

You groan in response, eyes closed as pain tingles up from your toes slowly.

“Where did you come from?! Y/N?!”

...

You’ve never liked waking up. You might’ve tolerated it in your youth, before the titans came, but since you’d enlisted, it was hard to be an early bird. It made you grumpy. Luckily, you weren’t social enough to have people around you to witness you doing so. Except for now, and the man in front of you with intense eyes and a long face.

On his jacket is the sigil of the military police- a green unicorn shining like bravery. His lips are slightly snarled, despite the charismatic voice that you barely bother listening to.

He tells you his name- Nile- and asks yours. You don’t answer. He has to get the report from the nurse, who only has your first name listed because nobody else in the corps knows your last. He keeps overusing it in some strange attempt to make you feel at ease, unaware that your intelligence has a built in bullshit detector.

What an idiot, you think behind your bandaged head.

Nile asks you if you can tell him what happened to you, but you can tell he doesn’t care. You keep it short and anonymous. (“I was assigned to the vanguard. I already know my squad is dead.”)

He asks if you know someone with the last name Jaeger. You do. But it feels wrong to say so. (“Probably.”)

By the end of it, Nile’s stupid looking eye is practically twitching. He asks about your injuries, which you learn more about. your ribs were broken, as you’d expected. There was internal bleeding, your appendix had been removed, a few broken fingers on your right hand. Twisted ankle, broken wrist. Then Nile asks how you got them.

(“I fell.”)

And he asks how you fell, like he’s looking for a specific answer.

(“I landed on a roof and lost my feet.”)

He also questions if you ran into any Abnormals. If maybe they were responsible for your injuries.

You narrow your eyes.

(“I only ran into one.”)

And finally, if that one hurt you.

(“No.”)

You know that he knows. But it doesn’t matter. Something inside of you tells you that you can’t tattle on your Abnormal discovery. If he was responsible for knocking you off his shoulder, which he probably was, you still weren’t going to say a word. He saved your life. Considering he’s alive and well, maybe even captured, it’s only fitting you save him in return.

Nile leaves at least, foaming at the mouth in frustration, masked only in a thin layer of politeness. Rain drops hit the window behind you. You crane your head around to watch them, the thunder booming lowly. Last time you were in this weather, that great beast had shielded you from it. Once with his hand, another with your own hood. And if you squint hard enough through the pain, you can just make out the silhouette of a rancor titan, and the tiny human on its shoulder, eager to return the favor.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Did I reread this? I skimmed it. Why? Because this took over a week or 2 to get out and I have to start finishing requests before i lose my mind with all these drafts oh god. i always so i’ll go back and edit but i never do lmao. my bad.

Fun fact! the original draft showcased the reader being separated from eren, and losing all gas. surrounded by titans, they yell at the titan for help, but he is distracted by a titan nearby after leading him to Mikasa. While the reader finally dies, eren sees them from over the buildings and roars, begins to stomp on the nape of the titan, and is infused with a new rage. The reader is listed missing in action, and Eren can’t remember what happened to them, but remembers seeing them. Another happy ending!

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