#and stop trying to guilt me into feeling sympathy for you

[marcsburnerphone]

wish I wasn't so hurt

Captain John price x f!reader

Summary:being johns’ wife has been full of security and safety and you never thought he’d be the one to taint that.

Warnings: angst,(hurt/comfort, 141 task force loves you, price is full of guilt, reader is struggling to process her feelings

Part two!! Find part one here - Part 1

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The cafe was quiet and warm when you entered, a few couples here and there were tucked away in booths chatting mindlessly. There was a dull ache spread throughout your chest and head from crying, ordering your coffee You couldn't help but notice the look of sympathy that sat on the barista's face.

You found a booth somewhere in the corner and dug your phone out of your purse and powered it on after having shut it off to stop the continuous buzzing it’d been doing in the car. To say the least it almost overheated and you couldn’t get to the silence button fast enough.

4 missed calls.

2 voicemails.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’m so sorry, please forgive me.” 

“I have lost my mind, I know.” 

“Where are you my love?”

“Please just talk to me, or text either please.”

“I know I was wrong, it wasn’t my intention.” 

“Fuck em.” This one was from Simon and it made you giggle. 

A part of you wanted to message john and let him know you're okay to ease his mind, yet you didn’t instead you tucked your phone in the back pocket of your jeans. Maybe being this upset wasn't reasonable but the way he dismissed you with such harsh words intending to scare you, it was hard to get past.

Had you pushed too far? If you would have just left this could've been avoided, the anger that was spreading in your heart, the trouble of processing how to feel or move forward from this. To be fair John had never done anything to scare you or make you feel unsafe after all these years, even when he came home with blood still on his boots his eyes and voice were nothing but tender and loving. This is where you found trouble, how could he have changed so fast? How had he been so cold?

—--------

Back on base he was suffering, his heart ached with shame and remorse. How could he speak to you in such a way? Often he fell victim to his anger but this time so did you. He checked his phone continuously since you left here and it’d become clear to him you'd stopped somewhere before going home. He just wished he knew where.

The bowl of food hadn't been picked up from where your shaking hands had left it, the thought itself made him nauseous. He was fearful for the first time in a long while, for someone with so much control the thought of you leaving had him ready to crumble to the floor and maybe that's what he deserves.

The Men that were usually rowdy and causing commotion had fallen silent in his presence as he went for a cup of tea in the common area.

Price didn’t understand the blessing he held in the palm of his hands, to find someone as loving and caring as you was a once in a lifetime thing especially with the career he possessed. Bloody hands that get to go home to welcoming warm ones, a soldiers’ wish.  

—------------

You sat around trying to pinpoint where the confusion in how to feel was but hopelessly gave up and decided it was time to head home. The chilly air outside made you shiver on the way to your car. The drive home was draining, music filled the silence followed by the wisp of the heater. You'd sleep in the yard to avoid anything john if you weren't so scared of the dark. 

 As your car arrived on the familiar gravely ground to your home, a deep sigh escaped you. Clutching your keys you headed to the door and jumped at the voice that came through the camera thing. 

“Love please I’m sorry, where were you? I was worried?” The frantic yet somewhat calm voice of your husband came through. You thought of replying, yet you didn’t.

You walked inside, locking the door behind you and reset the alarm system. Your feet carried you mindlessly upstairs and to your bed, sleep came easy yet painfully that night but nevertheless any sleep was good sleep.

—-----------

John had never experienced your complete silence and couldn't take it. He decided he'd leave base early in the morning in hopes to resolve this with you, he wasn't even cleared to leave base but he couldn't really 100% be here if the idea of you hurting on your own was weighing on his mind.

—------------

Back at home was exactly that, you were wrong, any sleep wasn’t good sleep, the bed that you’ve slept in many nights without John had somehow felt emptier. Your head was pounding from a lack of sleep and crying, you waited for the ibuprofen you'd taken to kick in and just laid silently in bed . After a while you became lost in thought and missed the sound of tires on gravel but the slam of the door snapped you out of it. 

Like a child you acted like you were sleeping instead of running out of bed into his arms like you normally would. His heavy boots climbed the stairs into your bedroom, you were sure he noticed your breathing pattern was one of an awake person but couldn’t find a reason to care.

“Darling.” He whispers and you feel the dent of his weight crease on the bed.

“I don’t want to see you right now John.” But you had wanted to see him, you were just scared this time you’d see him differently.

“Please, my love, talk to me.” It was a plea as his hand went to your thigh rubbing small circles into your soft skin.

“No.” Tears began to well in your eyes again, thankfully you chose to lay facing the window. 

At that he raised from where he was sitting and rounded the bed kneeling beside your head, it broke his heart to see your puffy eyes and fresh tears streaking your beautiful face. His hand raised to caress your face and you stubbornly pulled away.

Instead of that he placed his forehead on yours not minding the way his rickety knees would ache tomorrow. 

“You scared me.” You whispered, voice quivering with emotion. 

“I know, I’m so sorry. I’d never hurt you willingly a day in my life. I just- I don’t know what came over me.” He kissed your forehead and then the tears that he was causing. 

“No you don’t understand John.” You flipped your body the other way, suddenly feeling overwhelmed in his presence.

He wasn’t going to leave you too hurt although you wished he would. There was just enough room on the bed for him to lay beside you. He formed his body to yours holding you firmly.

 At this you sobbed, the weight of your cries was devastating, as his body shook with yours he pulled you tighter to him. 

“Your my wife and my equal I was beyond wrong I- I’m ashamed of my behavior you didn’t deserve that nor it will never happen again I promise i’ll never be the man that makes you hurt please forgive me.” he whispered into your hair soothing your erratic breathing back to somewhat stable.

“John.” you said between hiccups.

“Yes my darling.” he didn't like when you called him by his name but at least you were speaking to him.

“Im tired.” he was fucking hurting inside.

“Then sleep.” he nuzzled his nose deeper into the scent of your shampoo, you just nodded your head and let your eyes close, exhaustion showed no mercy as you immediately fell into a deep slumber.

------------

the love on part 1 was amazing thankyou all from the bottom of my heart.

feedback and reposts are deeply appreciated;)

There will be a part 3;)

[pyro-chaos]

Mike Schmidt x Reader

Pt: 3 Friday Nights

Summary: Abby’s first sleepover gives you and Mike some alone time.

The friendship continues

Tropes: fluff, sultry thoughts but no explicit smut.

Word count: 3337

And they were roommates…

Pt. 3 of This Series

A\N: Hey!! So I’m a bit more insecure about this one than I am with my previous two parts. I still think it’s sweet, and I like how it turned out, but let me know if I should do a rewrite!!

“I mean truly, the stark change within Abby…”

The school counselor’s words fall on ears occupied with something else.

“….I mean I’ve never seen…”

Mike tried to pay attention - at the beginning - but eventually the words tangled together to create a meaning the counselor could’ve communicated with one or two sentences.

“… so quickly. Whatever you’re doing, it’s clearly…”

Plus, Mike has more important things on his mind.

“… good that she has someone like you.”

Mike barely catches the end of her…seemingly endless lecture.

He hears the compliment. It feels unwarranted but Mike politely grins anyway.

Mike has questions. He has so many questions.

The problem that the counselor is referring to… Abby healed it on her own, mostly. Her friends helped her - but crawling out of her shell - thats all her. Mike just made sure she didn’t die. Even then…

He still feels stabbing guilt; a lot of the time. For what he almost did.

“Sh - She gets nightmares, sometimes,” Mike does too, but this isn’t about him.

“is” he gulps down the lump in his throat, “- is there anything I can do?”

The counselor folds her hands together like she’s trying to explain something to a feral child. Mike recognizes the gesture. It’s not one of genuine kindness; it’s the kind of gesture someone enacts when dealing with a delicate situation.

“Does she talk to anyone? About the nightmares.”

Mike huffs, “she’s pretty tight lipped about it,” but he knows that she wants them to stop.

“No,” the counselor almost sounds amused, Mike tries not to let the tone offend him.

“I mean does she talk to anyone about it.”

Ah. He gets it now.

“You mean like a shrink?” He questions.

The counselor nods and gives him a look doused in sympathy. It makes Mike want to get up and leave.

“Can’t afford it.”

“Ah,” she says, before launching into another lecture about how to avoid dreams, and calm anxiety before bed.

Mike listens this time.

The day after the meeting, Mike goes about his day.

Everything goes how it’s supposed to go. He goes to work, coordinates with his project supervisor, and eats lunch.

Until he gets a call from Abby’s school.

When Mike’s coworker, Jordan, calls him out of the work room, he says it’s an emergency.

Mike’s heart fucking palpitates. He almost drops the damn drill.

He’s never struggled to take off his gloves, or unclip the bulky helmet, but he does now. His hands get clammy and hot. It gets hard to breathe.

Mike’s still has the safety goggles on when he gets to the phone.

“Hello? What’s wrong?”

Abby’s voice comes through the other end, “Can I have a sleepover with Selina?”

Mike exhales. He rips the safety goggles off and rubs the bridge of his nose.

He takes one more deep breath before answering, “Is that all you called to ask?”

Abby confirms before launching into an explanation, “Please, please. Katy is going, and so is Josie and Sofia and they’re making cookies and Silena has a trampoline.”

Mike’s tapping the phone, his fingers feel tingly and that urge to hold his breath comes back, “Look, I don’t think that’s a good -“

“- No, It’s fine. They have a trampoline Mike, please.”

She doesn’t get it.

That’s the hardest part. She doesn’t understand that she’s not safe at someone else’s house. Overnight? What if there’s a fire? or what if she can’t sleep?

Mike remembers the school counselor's words about Abby’s progress. He would’ve taken her opinion with a grain of salt, if he didn’t see it for himself.

Even according to Mike’s independent observation; Abby’s started to smile around other kids a lot more compared to before.

In fact, she’s planning fucking sleepovers with other kids.

Mike thinks about his mom.

What would their parents do?

“I want to talk to Selina’s parents first.”

So, Mike does end up talking to Selina’s parents.

He meets them in the parking lot after school.

They explain the whole ordeal. Their plans and the occasion that sparked the sleepover.

They seem normal. They remind Mike of coworkers his dad used to invite to 4th of July grills.

The mom - Janice - works at the hospital, and the dad - Sean - works at a bakery.

Sean and Janice give Mike their house address. So, he knows where to drop off Abby after she goes home to pick up clothes and a sleeping bag.

When Mike enters the car, he’s greeted with two sets of expectant gazes.

Mike’s eyes shift between the two of you, Abby’s grinning, but you just look sheepish.

Mike rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, “make sure to pack your toothbrush.”

Abby smiles on the way home.

You're in the living room when just Mike walks through the door.

You have pajamas on, and you’re lounging on a loveseat tilted towards the TV. A mug of wine rests on the coffee table. Along with some type of cheese and cracker.

Something smells good.

“There’s food on the stove, it should still be hot” you call, then eat a cracker.

Mike beelines a straight shot to the kitchen, “Thanks.”

You mhm through a mouthful.

Mike can’t wait to eat, but when he reaches for a plate he sees the specks of sawdust layering his clothes.

He clenches his jaw, and counts backwards from ten.

“Hey, uh, I’m gonna shower first, but if you leave the dishes I’ll do them later.”

Your eyes stay glued to the TV, “Okay, there’s also wine on the top of the fridge. If you want any.”

Mike showers and dresses. When he returns to the kitchen, the quietness hits him square in the face.

Abby’s not in the house, and it feels like he’s forgetting something important - Like his keys are missing, or he lost his wallet - It puts him on edge.

Despite his unease, something sweet and warm, like syrup, spreads through Mike when he serves himself a portion of dinner.

It’s mostly covered up by the gray-haired worry about Abby at someone else’s house, but Mike won’t deny the comfort of having a good meal, and wine, after working.

Mike doesn’t know how he did it when he lived alone with Abby. He had to cook, clean, and pay bills. All on his own.

Back before you, Mike would have to leave in thirty minutes for his second shift of the day.

Mike wonders if Abby enjoys the new schedule as much as he’s enjoying it.

He brings the food and the wine to the coffee table, and sits on the sofa adjacent to your loveseat.

Mike has no idea what the fuck you’re watching, but it seems…interesting.

He doesn’t care to complain, though. It’s not like he’s invested in the show.

A few beats of comfortable silence fly by before you speak, “How was work?”

Your question feels like an embrace. It’s the type of question that someone asks when they want to talk, but can’t think of anything else to say.

You want to talk to Mike, and it makes him feel some type of way.

Maybe it’s not that deep.

“Good - long - what’re we watching?”

“No idea. I think she,” you point to a character, “wants to do something that he-” you point to a different character, “doesn’t like. So, she’s going behind his back and stuff. But I’m just watching this because I like the show that comes on next, and I don’t wanna miss it.”

Mike hums through his food. He kind of wants to ask why you’re not going out. It’s Friday night.

Are you feeling alright? What’s different about this Friday from all the other Fridays?

Instead he does the dishes.

When he returns, he’s still not really paying attention to your show. Even though, every now and then you’ll add commentary. He just mhm’s through it.

Does Abby remember his number in case she wants to go early? What if she gets too cold in their house? What if she has a nightmare? Would she call him?

His fingers are pulling apart the threads at the arm of the couch, and his leg is bouncing.

He drinks more wine.

“- about it?”

Mike snaps out of his head, “uh,” he tries to blink himself awake, “- sorry, what?”

You shrug and gesture to his fingers pulling apart the couch, “you’re um,” you clear your throat, “you seem… off. Do you want to talk about it?”

He…didn’t even notice that he was fidgeting with the threads like that.

“Oh,” he chuckles, but the sound comes out sounding more awkward, and nervous than amused, “is it that obvious?”

“No, no not at all,” you make eye contact with him, and that creamy comfort returns to make a sugary home in Mike’s chest.

“Well…” you begin, “…Kinda, yeah.”

This time, the laugh you pull out of Mike sounds genuine. Even to him.

It’s not a huge laugh, more of a happy scoff really, but it makes him feel a little better nonetheless.

“It’s just…” Mike starts, and you direct your body to face him instead of the TV.

Even though your show is playing. You want to listen to Mike more than you want to watch your show.

He has to fight down a smile, “…this is the first time Abby’s had a sleepover.”

Your mouth makes an O-shape, and you nod like you’ve got it all figured out.

“Yeah, the first time is always the hardest.”

That makes Mike think. How would you know?

“My mom used to get so nervous when my brother started going to sleepovers,” you add.

Your understanding of his nervousness makes sense, given the backstory, but there’s a detail in that sentence about you, and it means something to him.

“You have siblings?”

You nod excitedly, “a brother and a sister.”

Mike literally has no idea how he’s never heard about this before, “how - how old are they?”

“My sister’s seventeen. She’s a junior in High school,” you’re talking with your hands as you talk about your siblings. You seem excited, It’s making Mike smile.

“You should see her play sports, she's the Volleyball team captain this year…”

For real, you’re talking about them like you’re proud, and the genuine joy in your tone makes Mike want to crawl up next to you.

“- and my brother’s heading into middle school but he’s such a sweet kid. He used to get so excited when we went to the park. He loves to climb trees.”

It sounds like you haven’t seen them in a while.

The stories connect a few dots for Mike, though. This is why you’re good with Abby.

You and Mike end up talking more, he blames the wine.

Apparently, he gets chatty when he feels that familiar alcohol-induced warmth in his stomach.

Eventually, he asks why you didn’t go out on a Friday night.

The answer is much simpler than he expects.

“My show finally came out with a new season, and the new episodes air on Fridays.”

Mike snickers. His amusement comes at the expense of himself. Of course it was something simple, he doesn’t know why he even bothered to speculate.

He doesn’t expect you to return the question. But you do.

“ - it’s your night off, Abby’s taken care of, and don’t you miss going out and doing your own thing?”

Well, to be honest, he never really had the time. For years, Mike spent nights occupied with…something he doesn’t need to do anymore.

He can’t tell you that, though.

So he says, “Nah, I never went out. Even before Abby.”

“Is it ‘cause you don’t like crowded spaces?”

Mike doesn’t think too hard about that, but he snickers because it feels like you pulled it out of a hat.

He snickered again. He’s doing that a lot around you.

It’s probably just the wine.

“No? Just never had the time.”

You nod, but then you get that wide-eyed excited look that you got when you asked Mike to move in with you,

“Wanna go out tonight?”

If anyone, ever, asked about why Mike agreed as quickly as he did, he’d blame the wine. He’d blame the wine until he went blue in the face and died of suffocation.

He doesn’t even admit to himself that the wine isn’t the reason he said yes.

After he agrees, you tell him about a place that you think he’d like.

You say that it’s, “like a botanical garden, but they put lights up, and serve food, at night.”

You tell him that it’s not crowded, like a bar or club, because technically it’s a fancy place, and that’s why you both need to change clothes before calling a cab.

So, Mike calls a cab. Then, he puts on a button-down shirt, and throws on a pair of his nice jeans.

Still, he feels slightly, very, underdressed compared to you.

You come out of your room wearing an elegant little black dress that hugs parts of you in a way that makes Mike blush and breathe heavy.

Your neck stays uncovered. He sees the skin where the hickies used to be, but this time there’s no hickies.

Mike can think of a way to change that.

His dick jumps, and he wishes he could do something about it.

You make him feel things that he doesn’t want to feel.

“You ready?” You ask, and Mike has to swallow and take a deep breath to keep himself in check.

He’s very ready. Just, not in the way you think.

“Uh, yeah. Are - are you?”

You smile and nod.

The cab drive goes well. Mike’s getting used to the tightness in his pants.

So, that place that you’d said he’d like, he does.

At first, it felt like he didn't belong. A lot of people dressed better than him, many have their hair in hairstyles, and he can’t pronounce more than half the food on the menu.

You can, though.

To be fair, the menu ended up as a non-problem; because after you pointed out the prices, Mike gave you a look, and you gave him the same look back.

You both scurried out of the seating area before an employee could take any orders.

Mike likes the botanical garden.

He likes how you talk in the botanical garden.

It costs to get in, but it’s gorgeous.

It's the twilight hour when you walk through the pathway together.

Sometimes your arms brush.

Every time it happens, Mike’s heart fills with something, but you don’t seem affected.

He glances at your fingers throughout the walk. He starts to note the little divots in your palms. How would they feel against his? Would you be mad? If Mike picked up your hand and kissed the palm?

You talk about the practical uses of plants that you see. Mike learns that dried-up yarrow leaves can help clot blood. He also learns that solar energy powers the lights shining on the rows of green life.

You talk about how cool it is, that the owners made this place one-hundred-percent sustainable, and he can’t help but agree.

Your smile infects him with feelings that flutter through his arteries, and you’re smiling a lot.

Eventually, conversation lulls, but it’s the nice kind of lull. It’s a quiet comfort, like warm sheets and fresh tea.

There’s a greenhouse exhibit towards the end of the pathway. A worker checks in your coat, then tells you where to pick it up at the end of the exhibit.

When he first steps inside, Mike nearly goes into shock over the change in temperature. It’s hot, and he has to roll up his sleeves immediately or risk complaining about it.

It doesn’t help.

The place smells good, though; like moist soil and moss.

The greenhouse has fairy lights hanging overhead, and multicolored flowers decorate the pathway.

It’s laid out like a maze, the illuminated path winds around little islands of floral beauty.

Mike likes the palm trees. Most of them have pretty colored lights wrapped around the trunk.

It’s nice, Mike won’t deny the otherworldliness of the beauty, but honestly, he wouldn’t enjoy it as much if you weren’t there.

You bring a certain excitement to the excursion that Mike doesn’t think he can feel on his own.

You ask him if he likes plants, and honestly, he’s never thought about it.

He shrugs says they’re nice, because they are, and they’re starting to remind him of you.

His shirt collar is drenched in sweat by the time you two get to the end of the greenhouse.

He’s self-conscious about the wetness at first, but then he sees your neck.

It makes him want to do other things that would make you sweat.

The garden isn’t that populated right now. He could do it, if you wanted it too.

Lift up your skirt, press his dick against the plush of your ass. He’d nuzzle his nose into the crook of neck, and breathe you in before dragging his tongue along your nape.

He’d grab a fistful of your tits from the front of your dress.

He would take off your panties, but he wouldn’t give them back. He’d keep them in his pocket like a treasured souvenir.

Would you like it? If Mike made you walk around with wetness staining your inner thighs?

Maybe you’d find it demeaning, to be forced to walk around like that, but maybe you wouldn’t.

Mike’s very glad that it’s nighttime, because it’s too dark for you to see the outline of his half-hard dick.

The pathway leads to an outdoor bar.

The counter rests under a gazebo-like structure. Vines curl around the pillars like the lights on the palm trees, and quiet music plays over the chatter of the customers.

The bartender greets you by name.

You introduce the bartender to Mike as Miranda, and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s seen her before.

Miranda comments on it before he does. Mike probably wouldn’t have anyway.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you before, you’re the roommate right?” Miranda asks, and Mike gives her a tight-lipped grin.

“Yeah, it’s nice to officially meet you,” he returns.

“Yeah you too,” she says, “Anyway, is there anything I can get you guys? Completely on the house.”

You get a little wide-eyed at that, “Hey no, it’s okay, we can -“

“- I still owe you for dinner last week, remember? It’s fine. Tequila sunrise?”

You ease into your barstool, a soft, yeah spilling from your lips.

Mike thinks it's cute.

However, Miranda’s attention moves to Mike, and his panic chases away the good feelings.

Mike’s never been to a bar like this before. He’s not sure what to order, he’s not sure how, “uh, what do you have?”

Miranda gestures to the bottles behind her, “I can make anything as long as we have the ingredients. What do you usually drink?”

He doesn’t.

“Do you have anything…” Mike’s cheeks are heating, he can feel it, it’s making him feel dumb, “…non-alcoholic?”

Miranda doesn’t judge his inability to order quickly. It helps.

“Yeah, I can do virgin drinks. What were you thinking?”

God, all these questions. He doesn’t like turning down free shit, but he’s starting to feel tempted to.

“What’s popular?”

“Piña Coladas and Strawberry Daiquiris are the most popular virgin drinks, but we also have fountain drinks if that sounds better.”

“Strawberry Daiquiris are good, they’re like slushies.” You interject.

Mike orders a Strawberry Daiquiri.

When Miranda leaves, Mike feels like he can breathe again.

Mike wonders, if you notice the nervousness behind the way he’s crossing his arms, because you smile, and tell him that he looks nice in a button-down.

Miranda returns with free drinks before he can think himself into a hernia.

Abby would like the Strawberry Daiquiri.

For the rest of the night, Miranda makes stops at yours and Mike’s corner of the bar.

Miranda’s presence made Mike uncomfortable at first, because he doesn’t know her, but your friend pulls him into conversations in ways that he doesn’t mind.

It helps that Mike likes how you look at him when Miranda asks him a question.

He likes how you’re paying attention to him, even when your friend is right in front of you.

Miranda comes out from behind the bar when you mention that it’s getting late.

She gives you a hug first, then she shakes Mike's hand.

Her touch makes him think of your palms.

When the two of you get home, it’s just a little past 10 p.m.

Mike wants to thank you, for showing him a place like that, and for spending your evening with him.

He didn’t have to spend the night cooped up, worrying himself into a frenzy, because you brought him out.

The gratitude gets stuck in his throat.

What does he say? Hey, thanks for spending a night around me! Let’s do it again sometime!

Well, sure, he could say that, but he would rather stay quiet.

He doesn’t want to come off too strong, he doesn’t want to give you a peek into the meat of him.

He’s surprised when you say something.

“Thank you for coming out. I had fun.”

The words come out a little awkwardly, like you’re unsure.

Mike’s eyes find yours, and the little smile in the corner of your lips makes him feel better - despite the quiet house.

He licks his lips and offers you a similar small grin, “Yeah, Me too.”

And he means it.

A/N: Although I feel conflicted about this chapter, I’m very thankful for the love you’ve given me on the previous two!

I hope you enjoyed!

[entitled-fangirl]

So scared but so happy.

Will Graham x reader

Summary: Will leaves his mind and the reader tries to bring him back. She gets hurt and Will feels immense guilt.

Warnings: choking, guilt, talk of murder, disassociating, etc.

Masterlist

.................................................................

"Will?" She called.

Y/N Graham got out of bed groggily at the sight of her husband's side of the bed cold and untouched for some time.

She stood up and stretched, feeling a cold chill when the air found its way up Will's shirt she was currently wearing. 

She poked her head out of the bedroom, letting her voice carry down the hall, "Will?"

When there was no response, she sighed and shrugged on a pair of sweatpants. 

She padded down the hall, running a hand through her messy hair. "William?"

It started to sincerely worry her.

The house was dark. The sun had set hours ago.

And Will had too.

In fact, they had went to bed together.

And now he was gone.

She peered into each room, quietly calling out for him.

Where were the dogs?

She opened the front door and looked outside. 

Will stood a ways off, his back to her.

He stared out into the dark in only a t-shirt and boxers.

She sighed.

He was disassociating.

He wasn't himself.

And it started to affect how he functioned.

The dogs ran around his feet, but he paid them no mind.

Like he didn't even see them.

She grabbed Will's jacket that always hung by the door and stepped outside.

God, it was cold.

She should've put on shoes.

She tiptoed out towards him.

When she finally was close to him, she heavied her steps to let him know, if even subconsciously, that she was there.

Her voice was soft, "Will, love?"

Will didn't respond.

It was starting to worry her. 

She reached forward, desperate to wake him up, "Will, please."

When her hand touched his shoulder, he whirled around with a grimace.

Before either could react, his hand found its way to her throat, and began to squeeze.

Her hands reached up to his, desperate to pull him away from her, but Will was much stronger.

She choked out, "No. Will..W…It's me."

He pulled her closer by the throat, letting their faces be inches apart. Would the circumstances be different, and she would've blushed. 

His voice was low and growled in her ear, "They made me do this."

She coughed and tried to shake her head. Her mouth opened to speak, but only sputters and whimpers came out.

She was starting to feel light-headed.

Will still hadn't woke up, and it didn't seem he was going to anytime soon.

But the dogs had noticed.

As much as they loved Will, they protected Y/N.

One dog bit at Will's leg, but he kicked it away.

One of them finally caught skin.

He yelped and pulled back from her.

She backed away and coughed, tripping over herself, and fell to the ground.

She felt sympathy for Will now that his leg was bleeding.

He seemed to have woken up now, too.

His eyes blinked and he was back. His head jerked around at the sight, trying to remember how he got there.

"Wh… how did…?"

The dogs had relaxed a bit, but started to surround Y/N.

His eyes followed them until they rested on her.

He felt his mouth go dry.

What had he done?

"Y/N?"

Her head whipped up to look at him and her eyes held a flicker of fear.

God, she was scared of him.

This is the last thing Will wanted. When he put that ring on her finger, he vowed to protect her with his life.

And now his life was hurting her.

He stepped forward to her, but stopped when he noticed her crawl away from him.

His face fell and so did his voice, "Honey… ar..are you alright?"

She looks down at the ground and nods, "M'fine."

"Can I…?"

She makes herself nod again.

He lets out a relieved breath and kneels down next to her.

He tries to look at her neck, but she refuses to take her hand away. He finally pulls her hand away himself, "Let me see. I gotta see what I did to you."

And when he saw the marks on her skin, he felt like he wanted to cry.

She noticed that, and pulled his face into her hands, "You didn't mean it. It wasn't you, Will. You didn't do that. It's fine."

He pulls out of her grip, "It's NOT fine. I did this. I hurt you. I'm so sorry."

She sits up on her knees, careful not to hurt one of the dogs that surrounded them. "Will," she said. He didn't respond "Will," she said more harshly.

He looked up with tears in his eyes.

She sighed, "Okay. It's not fine. But we can make it fine."

He thinks about her proposal then nods, "Alright. How can I fix this?"

She smiles and leans forward, taking his face in her hands again. Her thumb rubs over his now blue lips, "Let's get you warmed up first, yeah?"

He nods and stand, pulling her up with him.

…

The two are tangled together on the couch, a roaring fire heating their still chilled bones.

"I'll talk to Hannibal in the morning." Will muttered sleepily.

Y/N nestled her head against his chest. Her voice was groggy, "Alright. Want me to go with you?"

He shakes his head, "You'll just downplay what happened. I need Hannibal to be honest with me."

She picks herself up and off of him, "Downplay?"

He smiles, "Sweetheart, you're too forgiving. I almost killed you and the first thing you did was make sure I didn't feel guilty."

She shrugged, "Well, you didn't do it."

"See what I mean?" He laughs. "You're too sweet for your own good."

He pulled her back into his side. 

She happily obliged, "I'm still a little cold."

Will agrees and smiles, "I can warm you up."

She giggles against his chest, "How so?"

"Oh. I was gonna say a hot shower. But, that works, too."

"A shower sounds lovely, Will."

He sits up with a groan, pulling her with him.

He kisses her lips lightly, "Let's get going then."

His kisses wander down her face, as they always do, but he stops as his lips reach the now fully formed bruises on her neck.

She feels his hesitation and grabs his hand, "I trust you, Will."

And she places his hand exactly as it had been only an hour before.

Will's breath stopped as his mind went into overdrive.

But, his hand did not flinch.

She leans forward and places a gently kiss to his lips with his hand still around her throat.

She pulls away with a smile, "Let's go take that shower, yeah?"

He instinctively nods, "Yeah."

He had never been more scared and more happy in his life.

........................................................

[jenscx]

UNDERSTAND — kim chaewon x f!reader

kim chaewon, your best friend and the girl you were in love with, was finally getting married. just not to you.

TAGS — angst, unrequited love, best friends, yn against the world, pining, this is so sad, red flag chaewon (Bad best friend!)

WORDCOUNT — 2.1k

the envelope in your trembling hands feel heavy. the closer it came towards you, the further your heart dropped. the simple words adorned across the back started to slowly choke you. a beige card resided inside, a string of words written that crushed your heart as your eyes glazed over the contents.

‘kim chaewon and kim minju requests the pleasure of your company to celebrate their marriage.’

you squeeze your eyes shut, as if this was a mere nightmare, yet the masochist part of you longs to continue reading. maybe somewhere in the invitation, there would be reasons as to why kim fucking chaewon decided to abandon you for someone else. this wasn’t the whole truth of course. you hated it, but chaewon was never the type to leave anyone. it was just difficult for you to accept the cold and harsh reality of the situation.

it was a dangerous game your head was playing, and your heart was like a marionette on strings to your mind. your phone buzzes, distracting you. messages flowing through your inbox, all full of worry by your friends. and hidden in those words of sympathy, there laid one, from chaewon.

chae ( ̀⌄ ́) [9.17am]:

ynnie!

u got the invite?

you considered not replying, yet, the longing feelings for your best friend pushed you to type out a shaky message.

ynnie (^з^) [9.20am]:

yeah.

i’ll check my schedule

chae ( ̀⌄ ́) [9.21am]:

huh

it’s my wedding!! take a day off

pls yn :<

when you don't reply after a minute, your phone rings with the opening of speak now by taylor swift.

“hello?”

“yn, don’t tell me you’re considering not coming to my wedding?” chaewon says, “you’re my best friend, you have to be one of the bridesmaids!”

your throat clenches up. “unnie, i can't just take a day off,” (you totally could, but it was just easier to say that instead of explaining the real reason for your absence), “and being a bridesmaid? i don’t have time for that, i’m sorry.”

and then sharply, chaewon snaps, “you don’t have time for anything.”

“are you seriously saying that?”

“yes, i am seriously saying that. when’s the last time we hung out, huh? probably in high school. you never have time for me anymore. i’m like, some meaningless stranger that you can’t care for!”

her words make your blood boil. because how could she say that? how could she just ignore all the times she brushed you off to go hang out with minju instead?

and why is she making it a big deal when you’ve never done so in the past?

“don’t say that,” you state firmly, “chaewon unnie. the more you try, the less i feel like attending. i have a life outside of high school friend groups—”

“stop calling me that!” chaewon yells.

you push the phone further from your ears, “calling you what?”

“chaewon unnie. why are you changing your nicknames for me? why are you acting like we’re nothing more than just friends?”

“more than just friends?” you ask, confused.

“we’re best friends! so, please stop being so cold and distant! i’ve know you for so long, what happened to ‘chae’ or ‘wonnie’?”

best friends. you fall silent at her words. until, another voice can be heard from chaewon’s side, one that sounds strikingly familiar with the only girl you’ve ever hated in high school.

“chae? are you on a call with someone?” kim minju’s voice shatters your heart.

“yeah, i’ll be done in a bit, maybe like half an hour?”

you make up your mind on the spot.

“chaewon unnie.”

“oh my god, i just told you to not call me—” her voice breaks and you feel a stab of guilt. a sniffle comes through the line and you can hear the frustration in her voice when she asks, “what?”

you clear your throat, hoping your voice wouldn’t waver when you say slowly, “i don’t think you know me.”

“what?”

“you said that you know me. i don’t think you do.”

a relented sigh of exasperation.

“y/n, i don’t have time for this. get to the point. i need to finish up wedding stuff.”

you nod forlornly, despite chaewon not being able to see you.

“ok. i’ll end the call now. goodbye.”

“what?! wait—”

a flurry of angry messages come through once you end the call. you can’t help but laugh at the situation (and chaewon’s messages).

chae ( ̀⌄ ́) [9.37am]:

YN ANSWER UR PHONE RN

oh my god URE SO ANNOYING

istg im going to come over.

the first thing that you do after skimming through the continuous train of messages is change chaewon’s name to a simple, ‘kim chaewon’, ridding her contact of any affection.

the second thing that you do is send a message to choi yena. a friend of yours that you met through kim chaewon. maybe if you didn’t exist, choi yena would be chaewon’s best friend.

after the read appears, you hear a knock on your apartment door.

oh shit. you widen your eyes. was chaewon actually here?

cautiously, you look through the peephole, breathing out a sigh of relief when yena’s duck-like face comes into view.

“hey,” you greet after opening the door. yena’s eyes glide over the wedding invitation on your dining table.

“oh,” her smirk widens, “is that why chaewon called me screaming about you?”

you shrug. “maybe.”

“and is that why you sent me a text that you needed help?” you shrug again. “you’re lucky i was just in the neighbourhood.”

“do you not have work today?”

“nah,” yena waves you off, “boss is hyewon, remember? bro barely even comes to work herself.”

you laugh heartily, recalling high school days of when hyewon would always show up to class late, panting, sweating and zero assignments done.

“anyway, chaewon had some things to say about you,” yena turns to you, eyes narrowing, “were you actually thinking about not going to their wedding?”

“maybe. i just said that to piss chaewon off, but i really do have work that day.”

she examines your expression carefully, “and you’re not going to take a day off?” you shake your head, sighing. “if i go, it’ll only make things worse.”

yena nods and you let out a sigh of relief inwardly. she was always so understanding towards your feelings for chaewon, having been the first one to know.

“i… i think you’re making a bad choice here,” yena says after a few seconds, “i understand what you’re feeling but i think chaewon’s hurting too. is distancing yourself for the best for both of you? or only for you?”

you’re taken aback.

“unnie, my heart has been hurting for so long. what else can i do?” right as you blurt those words out, yena’s gaze softens and you dip your head down.

“okay. do what you need to do. unnie will always be here to help you.”

your eyes shimmer with unshed tears of gratitude.

“thank you.”

“there’s a woman downstairs demanding to meet you,” kazuha, your assistant, says, “pretty tiny, short hair and very cute but angry.”

you tense up, peeking at kazuha through your bangs, “oh.”

“do i let her up?”

you weigh the options. either ignore chaewon and probably ruin your friendship, or let her up and have a huge argument in your office.

“hm, yeah.”

“yes ma’am!” kazuha salutes and exits the room. you sigh, running your hands through your dishevelled hair, papers strewn on your desk.

deciding that it would be best to clean up a bit before chaewon arrives, you try your best to stack up the documents neatly and arrange your attire.

you could hear footsteps approaching; kazuha’s light ones with chaewon’s angry stomps trailing behind.

the door bursts open, revealing your best friend and assistant, their expressions couldn’t have been more different.

“call me when you need me,” kazuha bows and flashes her gummy smile. you shoot a grateful smile back and turn your attention to chaewon.

she’s dressed in a black spaghetti strapped dress and a random jacket thrown on top of her shoulders. you purse your lips, “what are you doing here?”

“i wouldn’t be here if you had just given me a proper response,” chaewon approaches your desk, eyes aflame.

“is this about that? i already told you, i can’t make it. the date is scheduled at the end of december. year ends are always busier for me.”

“you can’t just take one day off for me? not even for my wedding?” chaewon scoffs, “what type of friend are you?”

you freeze, fists clenched and eyes closed.

“i’m sorry that i can’t make it. this job is important to me. i’m sorry that i’m a bad friend, but i can’t live without this job,” you try to explain, the last thing that you wanted was for chaewon to fling something at you.

“so you could live without our friendship?”

“that’s not what i said. i’m saying that this is the one time i need to prioritise something over you.”

chaewon’s eyes light up in surprise, then they narrow. “this isn’t the only time you are doing so. stop lying.”

“and you haven’t either? don’t act like you’re an angel, kim chaewon,” you snap, “you always ditched me to go hang out with minju.”

“why are you always talking about the past? and for the record, i never ditched you!”

you stare at her.

“you forgot my sixteenth birthday. you forgot that i had a competition. you forgot that my mom was in the hospital and i didn’t have anyone else but you. but you never came. so don’t say that you never ditched me. because you did.”

“you aren’t the most important thing in my life. don’t act like any of that matters. i don't care about you that much.”

oh, you think, this is what true heartbreak feels like. your heart clenches painfully and your throat closes up, making you feel suffocated. your eyes are attacked by an onslaught of tears. your best friend, saying that she didn’t truly care about you? even if you were rid of your affections for chaewon, it would have still hurt.

(and you feel like you’re seventeen again, heart crushed and head ringing with chaewon’s chat open on your phone. the day she had met kim minju was the day your world came crashing down.)

chaewon’s eyes are gleaming. you’re reminded of every attribute of hers that makes her so likeable. from her smile, puffy cheeks, silly personality, you find yourself vulnerable.

“i’ve liked you ever since we became friends. even if you don’t fucking care about me. and i’m sorry if me not attending your wedding hurts your feelings. but it doesn’t matter since you don’t care about me right?” you blurt out, as if you were possessed. tears spring to your eyes and you wipe them hastily.

“what? hey, wait, what do you mean you like me?” chaewon asked, eyes widened.

“i like you. i’m in love with you,” you repeat while chaewon gapes at you.

“i… yn,” chaewon takes a step backwards, “i’m getting married.”

“i know. i just wanted to tell you anyway,” you turn away, not wanting to see the look of disgust on her face.

you both don’t say a word. the sound of the raindrops hitting the windows piercing through the silence. you hear your heart tear into two again when chaewon speaks up, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“would you have accepted? would this change anything? you’re still getting married. i just wanted to tell you the truth, so you would just understand.”

before long, the dreaded words finally come.

“i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay.” you can’t believe you hate something about chaewon. the sympathetic look on her face, the way the pitiful words are spoken, you hate it all. a final bittersweet ending to your friendship. it’s finally over. all the yearning, painful pining and nights you’ve spent crying under your blanket. it all led up to this.

“congratulations on your marriage, chae. i hope you and minju stay happy,” you force a smile.

(i will forever love you.)

“thank you, ynnie.”

(thank you for loving me.)

[starwikia]

suicide cw

look i have been in this area before mentally. it sucks and i wouldn’t wish this on anyone. but, and this is going to sound callous, but i don’t feel any sympathy for james somerton. even if i hope he’s like. not dead. But thats all the amount of goodwill im willing to give him. The more i think about this really, the more angry i am. 

ngl this entire situation is another example of how white people weaponize their mental illness to avoid consequences. Im seeing it in real time.

this man has a continuous habit of using self-harm as a get-out-of-jail-for-free card. in both of his apologies, he has worded his supposed attempts in ways that were clearly meant to guilt people who displayed his plagiarism and overall horrendous history of racism and misogyny. i say supposed because, while i’m not saying those are lies and this would he such a fucked up thing to lie about that i don’t want to think he has, unfortunately, it’s been proven again and again that his word can’t be trusted, as he’s known to lie to try get out of consequences. Hes a proven liar. him lying about this is actually the best case scenario, because no one should go through this entire situation, wouldnt wish this on anyone, but you can only do this so often before people stop sympathizing with you. is this callous? Yeah, but like. I’m actually fucking angry he cant straight up take no as an answer. that this is how he reacts realizing he cant be one of the Cool Kidz™️ on youtube anymore. he acts like he DESERVES a career, like its not a privilege hes lost due to his own actions.

He lied about apologizing and forgiving people, he lied about giving the money to hbomberguy to give to ppl he ripped off (yknow, instead of doing it himself), he lied about the jessie gender situation and rewrote the narrative to make it so he isnt the bad guy, and hes the victim all along actually!

you can’t tell me that supposed last message of his isn’t meant to be a 13 reasons why esq attempt to deflect the blame “look i’m going to kill myself and it’s all YOUR PEOPLES FAULT for not letting me achieve my DREAM of being filmmaker IN PEACE!!! I just wanted Nick’s (the guy who I have thrown under the bus again and again) portfolio up!! Im just being a good friend dont you all FEEL BAD” he refuses to take ANY ACCOUNTABILITY of any of his actions and he IS STILL trying to shove the blame over to other people again.

it’s also pretty ironic people are like “uhhh well hbomber’s fans harassed him!!!” like hbomber outright told people NOT to HARASS JAMES!!! ALSO acting as if james doesn’t have a very real documented history of STRAIGHT UP sending his fans to harass and threaten smaller creators, more notably women, trans, and bipoc creators. especially after he’s stolen typically very personal anecdotes so he could profit from them. so why can he do it but the second people are like “hey this guys an actual piece of shit.” and he can’t handle it suddenly people are trying to white knight his shit? like no he doesn’t get that. he doesn’t get that at all just because he couldn’t handle the consequences of his actions. 

what? were supposed to stay quiet about a man profiting off of other minorities because he wanted to be the spokesman for all gay people? people tried to solve this on a smaller, more private scales for YEARS and he kept doing it. it was clear that the giant public video was the ONLY way to get people to notice. HE WOULDVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH STEALING 87 FUCKING THOUSANDS WORTH OF DOLLARS. HE CANT HANDLE THE FACT HE CANT GET AWAY WITH IT. 

am i supposed to feel bad for the guy who basically threatened a trans woman with the police? i don’t care what anyone says, it’s so fucking obvious that he threatened jessie by implying he was getting the police involved in their conflict. what am i supposed to act like that didn’t happen? are we supposed to pretend like he didn’t glorify nazi’s and outright said that gay people made up a good chunk of the nazis? That he didnt say america joined ww2 bc they were jealous of the NAZIS. WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO FUCKING SAY THAT. but then? He gives women (not even women most of the time, he misgenders nonbinary ppl constantly) shit for writing mlm. are we supposed to act like he doesn’t straight-up sees himself superior and better than people of color and steals their works to put himself on a pedestal? Are we supposed to act like he didnt spit on our elders by saying “only the boring gays survived aids” like man! Fuck you! He BLANTANTLY MAKES UP HISTORY TO PUT HIMSELF ON A PEDESTAL!! HE ACTIVELY TRIED TO REWRITE LGBT HISTORY TO SUIT HIS FUCKED UP NARRATIVES!

yes this sucks ! no one deserves this but no one should be making him a martyr. Thats what he fucking WANTS! He wants to be immortalized as a victim!! (again, supposedly, it was reported hes alive but its not confirmed).

The shit he got isnt near the amount of fucking callous behavior hes done again and again. Again, to drill this point, EVEN IF HE DIDNT CALL THE POLICE HE THREATENED A TRANS WOMAN INTO THINKING HE DID!!! The fact he tried to use a head injury to justify years of the outright ghoulish shit fucking astounds me. Why the fuck did anyone in his life thought it was a good idea to let him TRY to come back. in the end, he had options. he didn’t need to try to make a comeback. HE DIDNT NEED TO FUCKING LIE OR IGNORE THE SHIT HE WAS CALLED OUT ON the reality is, he wanted to come back thinking he could shove it under the rug, was told that no dude, you’re not allowed to be a youtuber anymore. you’re done. you need to move on and went full nuclear. it’s not on anyone’s hands but his own. HES BEEN DOING THIS TO HIMSELF!! But nah man we cant call his shit out bc hell may or may not kill himself. Fuck the other minorities who have the same issues but worse and sometimes BECAUSE of him. This is going to SUCKKKK so bad when other ppl, specifically white gays, are going to weaponize this shit to get away with their stuff.

[bunnysre]

In My Feelings | Abby Anderson ( Dream II/ ? )

Word Count // 0.7k Pt.1

Warnings - Angst. kissing. Pining. Owen

NOT PROOFREAD DAILY CLICK

You felt the sun beam on your face as you slowly opened your eyes. It had been a week since you and Abby’s friendship had been broken off. You felt the memories of Abby everywhere you looked and to say it had taken a toll on you was an understatement. You hadn’t talked to anyone. To say everyone was worried about you would be true. Everywhere you went, Looks of pity would be thrown your way. You felt heartbroken. And nothing could change that.

You wished you could call her, tell her how much you missed having her around. But she has a boyfriend. And by now, she was surely infuriated with the thought of you.

You felt the pain as you thought about Abby. How she would’ve been at your door by now. Waiting to go on patrol with you. A warm smile painted on her face. But things had changed.  You knew she wouldnt show up at the door any time soon. You missed her. But all remember what she had said to you that night. The look of anger on her face. The way she accused you of trying to ruin her relationship. It took a toll on your mental health. You wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.

After you had gotten ready you headed to sign in for patrol. After signing, you turned around expecting manny , your patrol partner to be behind you. But you didnt expect  to see Abby staring at you from afar. But she didn’t  have that angry look on her face since the last time you saw her.  Instead there was a face of sympathy. You felt your stomach turn as you glared into her eyes.  Breaking eye contact you  walked away, your back towards abby. 

Nothing felt really anymore. It was just a loop everyday. You’d wake up , get ready , get to patrol , and go to bed. It was the same thing every day. Atleast in your eyes. But to today , today was different. When you got back from patrol , you immediately saw  Abby. Standing there with that look on her face. The look of guilt and sorrow. You quickly made eye contact with her then looked away. You were everything but happy to see her. And you knew Abby could tell.

After you got out of the truck, you felt tired. Wanting to  eat and head to sleep. You quickly walked into a tent which seemed empty. You heard the zipper open and close. Turning around, you looked to see the face of Abby. It felt time freeze as you looked into Abby’s eyes. 

“What do you want?” You spoke in a low voice , careful so nobody would hear you. God you missed everything about her , her face , her scent . But you were soon snapped put of your thoughts as you saw Abby moving closer. Eventually pressing her lips on yours 

‘This had to be a dream.’ you thought. You felt like you were drifting into another universe. But your thoughts were interrupted by another one. 

‘What about Owen?’.  by the time the kiss broke , Abby had said everything you needed to know.  

“Don’t worry about him, just focus on me kay?”

No way was this real. You felt her lips plant small kisses your neck. What was she doing?

Abby was making you feel amazing But at the same time you felt guilty. You knew you had to stop this. Abby had a boyfriend, and you didn’t want to ruin that. You pulled away farther from Abby. And soon enough Owen had stepped into the tent. When he saw me with Abby he grew more furious than before. He quickly grabbed Abby’s arm dragging her out of the tent with him. 

“Why are you with her? Didn’t we talk about this? I thought you told me you wouldn’t be friends with her , what about that? Did you lie?” He began rambling on as he dragged Abby further away from the tent. 

He was obviously angry and I mean who wouldn’t be. I just felt lucky he didn’t see  anything me and Abby had done, or else many more words would’ve been exchanged.

[alimaybankkk]

gut-wrenching

summary: jj begs you to stay at his house to prevent his father from hurting him before a breakdown. when you’re there, you help him understand sympathy. the next morning, jj feels the same sympathy you described and also feels guilt.

warnings: mega mentions of abuse, jj’s shitty dad, MEGA ANGST, a bit of fluff but honestly mostly angst

pairing: jj maybank x kook!fem!reader

as you walked into his house, you regretted agreeing to jj’s protests for you to stay with him for the night. hours earlier, your blonde haired boyfriend had kissed you all over your face trying to convince you to come and sleep with him for the night, and you had eventually agreed.

“would be so nice. ‘m not allowed to come to your house no more because dad doesn’t let me. but i want to.” he’d cried, kissing your nose.

the hot tub bubbles surrounded you and you sighed. “jj, who cares what your dad says? he’s a dick. be a dick back.”

he frowned. “you don’t get it, do you, baby?”

you knit your eyebrows together, and eventually shook your head.

he sighed. “he said he’d break my nose if he heard ‘bout me being on figure eight again.”

you sighed, petting his wet hair. you felt terrible. the feeling was gut-wrenching. “you work there, though, right? at the country club?”

“yeah, i do.” he said, massaging your back. he turned on a jet and let it pound on your back. he knew it had been hurting a lot the past few days, and he’d been doing whatever he could to make you feel better. “he don’t care about me being on figure eight, to be honest. he just is mad ‘m dating the prettiest kook there is.”

you scoffed. “is that so?”

“yes, baby,” he kissed your cheek. “y’know, princess, he wanted me to rob you the other day.”

you gasped. your head felt like it was spinning. “what?”

“i didn’t—i didn’t do it, though, baby.”

“good,” you muttered. he kissed all over your face.

“he only cares that i don’t sleep your house. ‘cuz if i ain’t gonna steal, why go over at all?”

“oh. so he’s fine with you dating me?”

“yeah,” he said. he kissed your shoulder and sat up. “but he’s mad ‘cuz i didn’t rob you.”

“what?”

he chuckled. your heart dropped. you knew what he was about to say. “i haven’t been home in days, ‘cuz i know he plans to hurt me. but if you’re there, he ain’t gonna do it. gotta keep his reputation up, ‘m i right?”

your heart at the bottom of your stomach, your mouth open, and tears filling your eyes, you pulled him close into a hug and kissed the back of his head. “yes, j, you’re right.”

you felt the flutter of his adam’s apple when he let out a sob. he started crying tearless cries, holding onto your body like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “i hate it, i hate it!”

you cried with him, almost feeling the pain he felt. not almost—you did. you felt every bit of it. “i know. i know, j.”

“why won’t he stop?” he cried. you felt his tears coming down his face when they slid onto your back.

“jj, it’s okay. i love you so much. i’m coming over tonight, okay?? i’ll stay with you. i’ll do it. for however long you want me to.” you cried. tears slipped down your face, too.

“i love you. i love you. i love you, so much.” he sobbed. you tilted his body weight down, so you sat down together and you held him in your arms.

* now, you opened the door to jj’s house. it smelt like beer and weed. jj did both, but he never smelt like it. he was always able to clean it up and smell like some sort of tropical paradise or something.

so that way you knew it was luke. luke had contaminated jj’s air. you even heard coughing. but that wasn’t the worst thing you heard. it was definitely the loud music and the yelling. the floorboards creaked as you moved forward, praying jj wasn’t hurt.

music up to full blast, luke telling jj he was nothing but a disappointment, and jj’s cries and yells were the only thing you could hear. and so your breaths grew heavier and louder, faster and more panicked. you stepped into the hallway, watching the fight go down. you stayed quiet.

“SHUT UP!” yelled jj, his voice sounding like nothing but boyish cries. you only wanted to take him into your arms and kiss him until he felt better.

“you’re momma knew about you,” luke said, pointing his finger at jj. “if i woulda known you were gonna be like this, i woulda left with her. maybe then you would have shut your mouth in an orphanage, boy!”

luke went to swing at him, and jj sobbed. before luke could go any further, you cleared your throat.

they turned. jj’s eyes were droopy. it looked like he had no reaction. he just stared at you.

but luke chuckled and turned to you. “well, well, if it ain’t the kook princess!”

“mr. maybank,” you muttered breathlessly.

“you should be ashamed of yourself, girl,” he chuckled. jj got up quickly to protect you, but luke still hadn’t moved. “why would such a rich young lady want to date a bastard like him?”

you bit your lip. “i wouldn’t call him that, mr maybank.”

he bit the toothpick that had been in his mouth. “and why not?”

“your son, mr. maybank, is the sweetest boy i’ve ever met. i would say you raised him well but i’d be lying.”

he looked infuriated. jj shoved you out of the way so you wouldn’t get hurt, but even then luke hesitated.

“go on, now,” said luke. “i don’t wanna hear nothin from you two.”

“yes, sir,” you answered. you made sure jj was on the opposite side of luke as you followed him to his room.

jj immediately collapsed onto the foot of his bed, crying quietly. he didn’t want to anger his dad. besides, he knew that when you left he was going to hurt him anyway. he just didn’t wanna make it worse.

“j?” you said quietly, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “are you okay?”

“get off of me,” he said quietly. you jerked your hand back quickly and sighed. you stood, grabbing your pillow and setting it next to the one that belonged to jj at the top of the bed.

“j, did he hit you?” you asked in a gentle voice.

he shook his head. “he was gonna. but you saved me. you stopped him. see what i mean? thank you, baby.”

you nodded, really wanting to hold him. but you didn’t want to touch him and scare him. “i didn’t do it just for you, you know?”

he looked up.

“i did it for me, too. every time i see you hurt, i feel your pain, too.”

he gave you a glare that suggested you were pushing it and you shut your mouth. when jj was vulnerable, he was ashamed of himself. he didn’t want to feel any more of the pain, so he shut down anything that might let him feel happy for sympathy.

“jj, you know i care about you, right?” you asked, placing your hand on his. you expected it to jerk away, but he only flinched slightly and sank into your touch.

“i know.”

you nodded, swallowing. “so you have to let me care about you. you need to let me hold you. you got to let me be honest with you.”

“honest, how?”

“j, if i let you get hit out there i honestly would have made him hit me, too. i promise you, jj. even my own injuries hurt less than what i feel knowing you’re hurt. can you understand that?”

he took a deep breath but finally nodded. “thank you.”

“i love you, okay?” you said, crawling closer to him. he nodded and kissed you, sighing right after.

“ ‘m sorry. it’s just, ‘m so scared that ‘m gonna be like him.” jj said. you felt your heart break.

“no,” you said. “you could never be like him. wanna know how i know that?”

he thought for a moment, then he said, “how?”

“because if you could treat someone important to you that way, you would have done it to me already.”

his frown turned into a smile. he sat up and kissed you, taking his time to lay down and cuddle with you after.

“when we have kids, i won’t do nothin’ to them. right?” he asked.

“right. i know you won’t.”

he looked you in the eyes, a glare shining like no other. “can you make sure i won’t?”

“i don’t have to.”

* the entire night had been the best feeling ever. knowing jj was safe and in your arms after waking up every hour to make sure of it relieved you like nothing before. the relief that flooded through you was so great that you almost cried, petting his hair and kissing his head for ten minutes straight before going back to bed. thankfully, he slept soundly through the night without your touch waking him.

jj was still asleep, buried deep in your chest with his arms around you when the sun shone through the windows and onto your eyelids, making them an orangish pink for you to wake up to.

you sighed of happiness, trying your best to wiggle out of bed without waking your sleeping boyfriend.

you creeped into the kitchen, hoping to find something you could cook for jj and have him wake to a good breakfast. you looked through the cabinets and the drawers, but almost everything was filled with beer.

and weed.

you sighed, knowing the beer was luke’s. you were looking through the last drawer when you heard footsteps, immediately regretting the fact that you had woke jj.

“jj, go back to sleep, i’m just gonna find something to eat for you, okay?” you asked, standing. when you stood, you saw that it was not jj, but luke. “oh, um… good morning mr. maybank?”

“i saw you going through my drawers and shit, girl, what do you want?” luke asked, coming closer.

you backed up to the counter, gripping it. “no, sir. i was just looking for something to make jj. he can get hangry if you know him. anyway, if you had other plans i can go back to bed.”

mr. maybank shook his head. “i don’t got no plans. wasn’t plannin on feedin him anyway. ‘sposed to punish him.”

“mr. maybank, sir, he has to eat. he hasn’t eaten in two days.”

“that’s his own fault. maybe he shouldn’t stay away from home for that long.”

you shook your head. “he has the right to eat. he’s starving. i heard hi stomach this morning.”

“you’re on his side?” luke asked, clenching his fists.

“no, sir, i—”

but you were punched. luke punched you over and over again, dropping you to the floor. blood sprayed on the floor and he kicked you in the gut.

you gasped for air but nothing came up. “mr..”

he stomped on your gut, punching you over and over again. there was a puddle of blood on the floor when he reached to punch your nose, but he was stopped.

jj had come in with a plastic foldable chair. “what is wrong with you??” he cried, kicking luke over and over again. first, he hit him with the chair, and then he grabbed a glass of beer from the table and poured it on top of him, smashing the glass right next to his face. he was sobbing, kicking and punching his father.

he drew his fists back, bloody and white. he cried, holding you tight. you could hardly move, but it was enough to drag jj’s foot away from luke, signaling not to fight anymore.

he cried more when he picked you up from the ground and carried you to his room. he sobbed on his bed, not only blood staining his sheets, but now also tears.

you could hardly talk, but it was enough to say, “i’m sorry, jj.”

he cried. “i know what you mean. i feel it. it’s gut-wrenching.”

“huh?”

“the—the feeling. like i feel your pain. but it feels worse.”

you nodded, just looking into his eyes with no emotion but pain. “jj, can we fix this, it… it hurts. am i going to die?”

jj broke at that, punching the wall. he hated luke so much. what kind of monster of a person would do that to someone?

he carried you to the bathroom and placed you on the counter. he lifted your shirt and gave you a tissue for your bloody nose. he disinfected your wound first and then cleaned it with water. you were not bleeding anymore, but he still had to patch you up.

there was another wound on the other side, so he copied the process and tenderly kissed it when he was done. he wet a rag in the sink and cleaned your face off, and soon you looked clean with a few cuts and a black eye, but you were no longer bleeding and you looked beautiful to him. he looked at you with eyes of nothing but love and a tear slipped from his eye. “i’m sorry. so sorry. i know i said i’d be safe here, but i didn’t think about you. well, i did, but i thought you would be safe, too. i’m moving out of here. i don’t care about my dad no more. i’m leaving and i’m moving into the chateau.”

you winced, suddenly feeling the pain once more. “move in with me. my parents love you. and i do too. i love you, jj.”

“i love you, too, pretty girl. i’ll never let this happen to you again.”

—————-——————————————————

a/n: bro. almost cried while writing this for some reason?? lots of angst.

part two here!

[feyhunter78]

Pink Pastels Pt 29

Description: Conchata O'Hara is not a fan of you and makes this clear to Miguel, but it ends up going a little too far when she drags Gabi into it. Pt 30

“Mijo, I don’t like this.” Connie says as soon as Miguel shuts the door.

They’re in a side sitting room, the music, and chatter muffled by the thick door. His mother is wringing her hands as she stands in the middle of the room looking up at him.

He turns to face her, massaging his temples. “You don’t like what?”

“Someone new trying to come in and take Ava’s spot, it’s too fast.” She says, a concerned expression on her face.

“It’s been four years.” He deadpans, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to calm himself down.

He’s never been good at this, even in his original universe, in fact he was worse back there because his mother was worse. Conchata O'Hara spent most of her life after her divorce from his stepfather guilt-tripping, he and Gabriel into running to her side at any given moment. She’d fake health scares, emergencies, claim someone had tried to break in and harm her, anything to trick them into visiting her at Wellvale Home.

But here? Here Gabriel dies much earlier, here his stepfather dies under mysterious circumstances when Miguel was thirteen, here his mother stays kind for a bit longer, this universe’s Miguel is in high school when she begins to change.

Then when Miguel arrived in this universe, he pulled her out of Wellvale and put her into therapy, then a nice apartment where she could bug everyone else before she bugged him. The guilt-tripping lessened, and he found he could actually tolerate visiting her.

“But Ava is still her mother.” Connie says that same disappointed look on her face he saw in the video footage from the day Ava left this timeline’s Miguel.

He counts to ten, then back down to zero in his head. Gabriel was always much better at this than him. He had more patience, in both universes.

“She is biologically her mother, but she isn’t her mom , she made that very clear to me.” Miguel says firmly.

Connie shakes her head. “She’s seduced you, hasn’t she?”

“Y/N?” He asks, both two seconds from laughing while also slightly aroused at the idea.

Would you seduce him? Maybe he’d bring that up to you, a little roleplay? You could be the beautiful assistant that seduces her overworked boss, turns him to putty in her hands…

“Miguel.” Connie snaps.

“No, no, she has not seduced me, she’s an elementary school teacher, Mamá.” Miguel explains.

“So?”

“So? So, she’s Gabi’s teacher, and she loves her job, she would never do anything to jeopardize it.”

“Most mistresses are teachers.” She says, crossing her arms over her chest.

He knows that’s blatantly wrong.

“You would know a lot about that, wouldn’t you?” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them, and the look on his mother’s face is like a sucker punch to the gut. “I—Mamá—I didn’t mean…I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“Tu hijo ingrate.” She says, shaking her head in disappointment. “I did everything for you, tried so hard to raise you well, but obviously I failed.” Trsl: You ungrateful child.

“Mamá…” He reaches for her, but she takes a step back.

“I am so sorry that I was such a terrible mother that you would give up so easily, really Miguel, you would abandon the mother of your child when she came all the way here to see you and Gabi, to apologize.”

“How did you know Ava was in Nueva York?” He asks, dread filling his chest.

“She’s my daughter-in-law, and she wanted to see her baby, I told her where you and Gabi moved to.” She says it so simply, as if she hadn’t driven a stake through his heart.

Not for the first time, he feels a wave of sympathy and rage for this universe’s Miguel. “You told her where we are? After I specifically asked you not to?”

“She wanted to apologize.” She emphasizes.

“No, no she did not, Mamá. She showed up and demanded to see Gabi, she tried to seduce me, and she called my fiancée a whore in her own home, in front of Gabi. She was never intending to apologize.”

“Well, obviously your perception of her is skewed because of your new plaything.” She huffs.

“She is my fiancée, I love her, I’m in love with her, and Ava will never be allowed into my home or near my daughter again.” He says with a tone of finality as he stares down his mother.

She rolls her eyes.

“Mamá, I’m sorry, but if you can’t accept that, then you won’t be allowed to see Gabi either.” This’ll break Gabi’s heart, but a boundary has to be put into place.

This would be much easier if he could just tell his mother Ava was dead, but he can’t and he won’t.

“You would keep me from my own granddaughter? This woman really has changed you.” She tsks, tapping her fingers impatiently on her arm.

She has no idea.

“It’s for the better, can’t you just be happy for me?” He asks, both frustrated and saddened that his mother can’t look past her own desires long enough to focus on him.

She sighs and takes his hand in hers. “Miguel…of course I can. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

He smiles slowly. “Thank you, it means a lot to me that we have your support.”

She pats his cheek. “I’m your mother, you’ll always have my support.”

He smiles and takes a step back, turning towards the door and pulling it open. You’re bound to be worried; he’s told you a little about how much his mother loved Ava, how she blamed him for the divorce, and how she treated him and Gabriel, but he didn’t go into too heavy detail. You had been so upset on his behalf, an almost righteous fury blazing through you.

“Sin embargo, no soy la madre de esa puta.” She mumbles. Trsl: I’m not that whore’s mother, though.

Her voice is so soft, and if his hearing wasn’t enhanced, he doubts he would’ve heard what she said.

“You clearly need time to process this news, Y/N, Gabi and I will leave you alone, and you can give me a call in a few days once you’ve calmed down.”

He leaves her behind as he heads back to the table, his eyes focused on you. How you try to cover your smile with your hand when you laugh, and the way you blend so seamlessly with Monica, Brett, and Nancy, his other family.

“Papá!” Gabi calls out to him from her seat beside you.

“Are you bored of the sheep already?” He teases, as he slides into the seat beside you, an empty one on his other side.

“Oh, Miguel, maybe don’t—” You try to warn him, but it’s too late.

Gabi nods excitedly. “I want one.”

“A sheep?”

“I’ll name it Wooly, and it can sleep in my bed with me, and we can go on adventures, and maybe we can buy a farm, and then I can have lots of sheep.” She begins to ramble on and on about sheep, and he sees Monica hiding her face in Brett’s shoulder.

“Did you do this?” He asks, glaring at her from across the small square table.

Monica raises her head, her lips pressed tightly together to keep a laugh from escaping. “No?”

“Brett?” He turns his gaze on the light brown-haired man.

“You know, Miguel, they say animals are really great for children’s social development.” Brett says, giving him an apologetic smile.

“And then a goat tried to eat my dress!” The tail end of Gabi’s ramble catches his attention.

He turns back to see Gabi holding out the hem of her dress for you to see. It’s got ragged bite marks in it, and pieces of fabric missing.

“Oh no, that’s no good.” You say, smoothing out Gabi’s skirt. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to get you a new one for the next gala.”

“I’ll take you shopping, nieta.” Connie says, taking the seat next to Nancy, the conveniently empty one next to him.

Miguel shoots her a look, but she ignores him.

“Really?” Gabi asks, beaming at her grandmother.

“I’d like to come with, if you don’t mind?” You ask, giving Connie a smile.

Miguel braces himself for his mother’s response.

“How sweet, but this is a family thing, we need to find her color for her quince.” His mother’s voice is saccharine sweet, and it turns his stomach.

“But she’s six?” You question, looking to him for guidance.

“It’s never too early to find your color.” His mother says.

“Of course, but children’s favorite colors often change as they grow older, shouldn’t we let Gabi make her color decision when she gets closer to fifteen?” Miguel sees you look towards Gabi, but she’s preoccupied with trying to beat Brett in some odd competition to see who can eat their pasta faster.

“Y/N is right, Mamá, Gabi is too young to decide what color she wants, why don’t we revisit this idea when she’s a bit older?” Miguel steps in, placing a hand on your knee to comfort you.

“You’re a man, Miguel, you don’t understand how important this is.” Connie dismisses him.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but he’s her father, I’m sure he does.” You say, your smile growing tight.

He adores you, you who is trying so hard to befriend his mother for the sake of his daughter.

Connie smiles at you. “Poor dear, don’t worry, no one expects you to understand.”

You blink at her, stunned. “Oh—um, I mean, I grew up visiting Texas, I’ve attended quinceañeras before, I know how important they are to the family.”

“Yes, but, attending is not the same as hosting.” Connie laughs, the sound thin and mocking.

“Connie…” Nancy says quietly, her eyes scanning the table until they land on Brett and Gabi.

“Of course not, but Gabi is important to me, so anything that’s important to her is important to me.” You try to reason, clenching and unclenching your fingers around the stem of your still full drink.

Brett reads her glance and scoops her up, carrying her back towards the petting zoo, claiming he forgot to show her something super cool and important.

“And that’s wonderful to hear, but you don’t need to worry, really no one expects you to understand how important this is, you’re not her blood, her family, after all.” Connie smiles as she says this, and Nancy hides her face in her napkin.

Rages surges through him, but you beat him to it.

“I’m sorry?” Your grip on your drink would be enough to crack it if you had his enhanced strength.

“Connie, please.” Nancy says miserably. “Don’t do this.”

“Yeah, Connie, don’t say things you can’t take back.” You seethe.

Miguel’s feels trapped, stuck between two immovable forces, you, coming in hot with a rage he’s never seen before and his mother, radiating ice-cold contempt.

“You can call me Mrs. O’Hara, only family and friends call me Connie.”

“Mamá, y/n is Gabi’s mother, she—”

“I can handle everything a mother does.” You finish his sentence, fingers tap, tap, tapping angrily on the tablecloth.

Connie shakes her head. “It’s best to leave all the important things to me, or Ava, when Miguel finally gives up this little charade. You’re not her mother, and you never will be.”

Like a woman possessed, you shoot up, drink in hand, and throw it at her, champagne splattering across her and the tablecloth before you slam the glass against the table. It shatters, glass scattering across the pristine white tablecloth. “Don’t you ever fucking say that to me again.”

Miguel moves a millisecond before you do, wrapping his arms around you when you lunge. “Y/N!”

“Don’t you ever fucking say that to me. You miserable excuse for a mother, how dare you? You think that cheating bitch is better than me? When has she done anything but lie on her back and fuck with your son and granddaughter’s head?” You scream, fighting against Miguel’s grip as he pulls you away from the table.

“Y/N, please, calm down.” He begs, his enhanced senses helping him navigate around the other tables.

Monica rushes forward and takes what remains of the broken glass from you, before scrambling back to the table.

“Gabriella is my daughter, and I will give her the best damn quinceañera this city’s ever seen, and you will have to fucking watch from outside.” You continue, until Miguel slaps a hand over your mouth and drags you outside.

Tag list: @miggyoharaswife, @badbishsblog, @imisshim2much, @wanderlustingcastaway, @lynn-9703, @sleepyamaya, @erensbbg, @sweetea85, @ilovemiguelohara, @natthernandez, @stxrrielle, @ihateuguys, @jenniferdixon05207, @blep-23, @luvisaaxoxo, @minimari415, @emerald-09, @violet-19999, @kenchosaikuo, @groovycass, @youcantseem3, @lovefks, @nightshxdex, @dusstory, @aesniri, @munsonssecretblog, @kirke-is-my-name, @starbearieee, @chatoicboy, @act1839, @needsleep3000, @totally-not-georgia, @witchy-lizard, @cxmeiloorun7, @justrandomlolidk, @chimpkinnuggies, @alicefallsintotherabbithole, @loser-alert, @wwwellacom, @ryantryan6969, @lollipopin, @blakeaha, @youcantseem3, @a-cult-leader, @verexi, @purpleskiesandroses, @they2luv1naia, @sophiaj650, @idolautism, @rheannajrs, @merakiq, @rexs-wife, @sukaretto-n, @twilight-loveer, @f1shb0nez, @callsign-blue, @marcelineormars, @sxnasbitch, @111gltzpzy, @lucilavenxoxo, @ray-rook, @elizamelody, @soapbar99, @trashieboii, @erissco, @gardenof-venus, @vlads-dracula3

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

during - part fourteen

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

life goes on, for a time.

a/n: a BIG one wowowowowow okay the end of this one fully got away from me and I was possessed by SOMETHING but idk man fuckin’ enjoy, more on the way, thank you always for the love 🤍

word count: 6.4k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, angst, backstory, canon typical violence and injuries, death/murder, guns, knives, drinking, some rough sex, ass-play, spit-play (POSSESSED I TELL YOU), joel miller is a menace and so am I.

✨follow @friskito-library for updates on new chapters/works!✨

You keep going.

It’s easier, honestly, that it’s ever been before. There had been so many moments, between the outbreak and seeing Joel again at that gas station, where you didn’t know if you could keep going, if there was enough left to make you want to.

Deanna had her ways, yanking you out of it more often that not with a bottle of gin and a you keep your chin up, girl. And the kids — well, one toothy grin from Emily or a cheesy joke from Henry and you knew you had more in you. Nick helped some too, though he was more of a distraction than a solution, something infinitely more evident to you now, to you both.

You’d hurt him, ending it finally, completely, the way you did, and his reaction had cut you deep, but it had to be done. You couldn’t keep up a charade, and in retrospect, yes, maybe you should have waited, stopped yourself from falling into Joel’s arms (and bed) again until you’d told Nick what was happening, but…

I can’t love anyone the way I love him.

It’s always gonna be him.

It would have unfolded the way it did no matter what.

It’s Joel. It’s always gonna be Joel.

And despite the guilt you chase away with deep kisses and glasses of liquor, it’s easier, to keep going. It almost feels…normal, in a way you haven’t felt in a long fucking time.

+

Life is still bleak as hell; there’s no getting around that. FEDRA’s been kicking into high gear in Boston, handing out punishments more than ration cards, refusing people at the gates, falling back on some bullshit about overpopulation, that there’s not enough food or beds or resources for any more people. 

You’ve heard rumours that the QZ in Philadelphia was overrun, that the reason there have been so many survivors at the Boston gates is because they fled to the closest QZ still standing. You’ve heard rumours about Kansas City, that FEDRA’s become more ruthless there than anywhere else in the country, that getting caught out past curfew gets you hung rather than beaten. Or worse.

Joel moves in, officially. Not that he has that many things to move into your apartment, but his clothes take up space in your closet, his toothbrush beside yours, and you wake up beside him every morning. You let yourself get used to it, to feeling his breath on the back of your neck when the sun comes up, arm slung around your waist, always keeping you fit against him while you sleep. It’s nice. It’s really fucking nice.

Joel and Tommy take the handyman jobs in the apartment buildings, and you and Tess try to stick together, taking the same gigs more often than not. You pool your resources, and the three of them are quick to offer up help to support the kids, to take the pressure off you and Deanna. You’re grateful as all hell, and so is Deanna, despite her relatively grouchy demeanour towards you, ever since you told her you ended it with Nick, officially.

You thought she’d understand, to a degree. It had taken nearly a half bottle of gin in the early days of the QZ, but she’d gotten the full story out of you, the epic love affair of Joel Miller and Liv Stone, the unfettered version. You’d fallen asleep on her couch covered in tissues that night, woke up with the worst hangover you’d had since you were eighteen and got drunk with Anna on wine coolers over Spring Break. Deanna had offered you some sympathy, then.

But now, she’s been taking your — could you even call it a breakup? — your severance from Nick a little too harshly.

“He’s the reason I was in lockup the night Angie beat the shit out of me,” you’d reminded her, feeling a twinge in your side at the memory. “Or did you forget that?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Liv,” she’d thrown back, her face the harshest you’d ever seen it. “He put you in lockup to smuggle your friends through the gate. I’m not a fucking idiot. Don’t try and blame that on him. You got your ass kicked cuz you pissed Angie off, plain and simple. That’s not on Nick.”

“Oh, so then I should blame you?” You’d thrown a hand in her direction, and she’d glared so hard you thought she was gonna burn a hole through your skull. “I pissed off Angie trying to get those meds for Henry, which you asked me to do. So if you wanna start pointing fingers, start looking in the mirror.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t have gotten the meds for Henry?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You can’t talk yourself out of this, Liv. You knew what you were doing with Nick, all five fucking years. You knew exactly what you were—”

“It’s Joel!” you’d nearly screamed, tears crawling up your throat. “I never thought I’d see him again. It’s a second fucking chance, Deanna. I can’t waste that. I won’t. And I was as honest as I could be with Nick from the start. He knew about Joel, he knew I still loved him, he knew I couldn’t ever love him the way I love Joel. I never once told him I could.”

“Oh, and that makes it all better?”

“I know that I hurt him. But he hurt me, too, in case you give a shit. I know that I did a terrible fucking thing, I’m a terrible fucking person, and I’ll feel guilty about it forever, but it’s Joel. And I just…I can’t do anything else.”

She’d stared at you long and hard then, not so harsh a glare as before. She put her hands on her hips, boot tapping against the floor. “I have to go get the kids from school. Just…I’ll see you Friday, for dinner.”

You just nodded, swallowing hard, the tears retreating. “Friday.”

“Bring Joel.”

“Okay.”

(Dinner had been awkward as hell, to start. The kids had stared Joel down for the first hour, but by the time the table was being set, Emily was showing off her latest drawings and Henry was trying to rope Joel into a game of Monopoly. You helped Deanna with dinner, and while she was mostly quiet, before you left that night, she hugged you tight and whispered: “You’re not a bad person, Liv. You’re not.”)

After your official reconciliation with Joel — and subsequent fallout with Nick — Tess was the next person you went to. She stood firmly by the conversation you’d had in the food bank, kept to her agreement to join up with you to smuggle, and that was that.

You can’t force his hand in this.

Maybe I can.

You knew she had — Joel had given you the brief version of their conversation — and you were grateful, but it was just another thing you felt guilty for.

“You don’t have to,” she says to you. You’re outside the wall, heading for the hotel a few blocks out of the QZ, to scope out your route. Your drop is almost at the city limits, with some smugglers from Hartford, ones you’d happened across on the radio. You’ve been spending more time with Abe in the radio room in your spare time, trying to make as many new connections as you can. “Feel guilty, I mean. I didn’t give him to you. He was never mine to give. I knew that from the start.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He says your name in his sleep. I thought he was just mumbling for the longest time — y’know, Liv, live — then I figured it out. I asked Tommy once, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. And well, I know the rest now.”

You chew at your lip, bat swinging lightly in your grip, adjusting the backpack strap on your shoulder. Your bags are mostly empty; you’re anticipating a good food drop from the Hartford people, and they’d asked mainly for drugs in return, which you were happy to supply. You still have some left from the Providence drop, before Joel and Tess had showed up. It feels like a year ago, not a few weeks.

“I don’t want to be the reason you’re alone, Tess.”

“I’m not alone,” she tells you quickly, an actual smile on her face. “I have you. And Tommy. And Joel, still, in a different kind of way. It doesn’t matter. Life’s too fucking short, and I couldn’t…” She trails off, shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders. “I’m not alone.”

You shoot her a glance, seeing the way her thumb is rubbing at the wedding ring still on her finger. It’s her nervous habit, you’ve noticed. “We’ll find you someone,” you say, almost jokingly, trying to lighten the mood, elbowing her gently. “I’ll set you up, add QZ matchmaker to my resume.”

Tess barks a laugh. “Please, god, just no fucking FEDRA soldiers, yeah? I don’t think I could deal with the amount of testosterone that fucker Cowan is carrying around.” She squints at you, turning to you slightly. “Tell me he was at least good in bed. He must have been, for you to put up with that bullshit.”

You force yourself to laugh in return, staring at the ground ahead, kicking pieces of debris from your path. “He was much nicer, when it was just me and him. And I hurt him bad.” You shrug, sighing. “It’s the past but he…yes, to answer your question, he was very good in bed.”

“As good as Joel?”

You nearly choke, sputtering out an actual laugh at her bluntness. “You really want me to answer that?”

“Hey, it’s just us out here.”

“No one’s as good as Joel,” you say, and she throws her head back with a louder laugh. “Best I ever had. Ever. In my life.”

Tess just keeps laughing, pulls the knife from her belt and taps it against your bat. “Amen to that.”

The conversation wanders as you walk. She tells you a bit more about Baltimore, the few smuggling jobs they’d pulled before they’d gotten kicked out of the QZ. Turns out, her plans had been similar to yours: get a FEDRA soldier on her side, entice them with the goodies she smuggled in, threaten them with blackmail. Rinse and repeat. And it worked, for a time.

“There was this one guy, Anderson. Joel never liked him, and really, neither did I, but he was one of the first we got to agree to help. And…you know, Cowan actually reminds me of him.” She huffs a laugh. “That’s probably why I hate him, just out of fucking principle.”

“You don’t have to hate him.”

“He’s FEDRA, he put you in lockup, and he’s a jackass.”

“I also cheated on him, technically.”

She shrugs, giving you a conspiratorial grin. “Best you ever had? You did what you had to.”

You just laugh, but the sound feels hollow.

“Liv,” Tess says, and you stop short, turning towards her when she grabs your arm. “Jokes aside, I just…I get it. Why you did what you did. I know you feel guilty, and I know Cowan said some shitty things to you, but…we do terrible things, sometimes. To survive.”

You scoff. “That’s the understatement of the fucking century.” With a sigh, you push forward, gravel crunching under your boots, and Tess follows suit. “Joel said that too. That he did some terrible shit out there to survive. That we’re not the same as we were. And we’re not. I’m not.”

“Yeah, well, the world hasn’t exactly left much room for shit to stay the same, has it?”

The bat swings in your grip, and you let the tip knock against the toe of your boot. “Not so much. Never thought it would turn me into a killer, mind you. But…we do terrible shit, right?” You glance at her from the corner of your eye, feeling her gaze locked on you. “And no, I’m not just talking about Infected.”

Tess nods, slowly, her throat bobbing. “I…I shot that soldier, Anderson. First FEDRA soldier I ever killed, probably won’t be the last. But, it was either me or him, and I shot first. Then again, cuz the first one didn’t kill him.” Her brow is hard, fingers twitching over the gun strapped to her thigh. “It was either me or him.”

You nod, and the memory is rising in your throat and spilling off you tongue before you can stop it.

It was early days, just after the wall was completed, when restlessness got the better of you and you wanted — no, needed — to get out of the QZ, just for a while. There were fewer connections, back then, less people out in the open, more dead on the roads. You didn’t like Geoff from the get-go, something about him just made you feel super fucking uncomfortable, like every word out of his mouth was drenched in grease. But, you didn’t know any better, back then, and you wanted to believe a deal was a deal.

“He set me up,” you tell Tess, tightening your grip on the bat. Retelling the story makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. “He’d managed to get a few Infected locked inside this old hair salon, and threw me to the wolves, basically. Took the bat from me. I got fucking lucky; there was a straight razor left in one of the drawers, and I took them both down. It was the first time I’d killed one since the outbreak.”

“What happened to Geoff?”

“Once I got away, found him a couple hours down the road, got his gun off him and put a bullet in his head, got my bat back. I figured if he kept going, he’d just try and screw the next person he made a deal with, and on and on it would go. I had to end it.”

Tess nods. “You did what you had to.”

You scoff. “That’s not the worst part.”

After Geoff, you got jumpy. You didn’t want to let up on the smuggling, and you were still trying to find new connections, but you took more precautions. You brought a gun every time now, along with the bat. You only met in locations you chose, and refused anyone who tried to persuade you to go somewhere else. You didn’t trust people; you couldn’t.

“This guy, Eric, he just rubbed me the wrong way that day. He wasn’t a bad guy, per se; I knew he ran with some shitty people but he didn’t seem so bad. He met me down in the subway, simple ammo trade.” You blow out a breath. “I thought he was reaching for a gun, and I pulled the trigger before he could. Like you said: it was either him or me. And I chose me.”

You pause, waiting for Tess to say it again. You did what you had to.

“Three days later, his wife shows up at the gate, asking if he’d come through, toting this little boy that was a dead fucking ringer for his dad. I thought I was seeing a ghost.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek. “They still live in Boston. Her son is the same age as Emily.”

It’s a few minutes, before Tess has anything more to say. “You couldn’t have known.”

“You’re right,” you agree, nodding. “I couldn’t. But it still doesn’t hurt any less. When they’re infected, it’s easier. Almost. I sometimes wonder if they’re still…them inside, but same thing. It’s either you or them, and you have to decide. You do what you have to — even if it’s terrible — to stay alive. To survive.”

Tess opens her mouth to say something in response, but all hell breaks loose before she can get a word out.

You’ve turned down the road the hotel is on, and there are cars everywhere, craters in the earth from the bombings, debris and decay everywhere you look. The bullets ring out from behind the vehicles, and you grab Tess by the handle of her backpack, yanking her behind a nearby truck. The gunfire makes it rattle. “Fuck!”

“These the guys from Hartford?”

“Shouldn’t be. We’re not even close to the city limits yet.”

When you chance a look around the truck, your heart jumps into your throat. There’s at least five of them, all with dark-coloured bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces, two of them closer than the rest. Guns drawn, scores of ammo hanging from their belts. You adjust your grip on the bat just as Tess screams, and you turn to see her being pulled away, one of the raiders yanking her by the hair. You shout as one tries to grab you the same, but you slip out of reach, swinging the bat. It makes contact with his knees, a loud crunch making you flinch. He falls like a rock and you pull your knife out quickly, slamming the blade into his skull.

You do what you have to.

Abandoning the bat for the moment, you grab the guy’s gun, averting your eyes from his face. It’s an automatic, and you pop up from behind the truck, taking aim and pulling the trigger. The three that hadn’t advanced don’t stand a chance, bodies falling before they have the chance to shoot back at you. 

The one holding Tess is trying to pull her into one of the storefronts along the side of the road.

“Hey!” you shout, the word nearly a growl. “Let her go, asshole!”

The guy turns, seeing his fallen comrades, and fumbles. It’s just enough for Tess to get her knife out and swing upwards. It ends up lodged in his throat rather than his head, and he drops awkwardly, clawing at his throat, blood pouring around his fingers. Bile rises in your throat, and you breathe slow as he hits the ground. Tess pulls her gun out a moment later, and the gunshot echoes through the road.

You sprint over to her, each of you giving the other a once over. “You good?”

“Fine. You?”

“Fine.”

“Who taught you to shoot like that?”

You actually laugh this time. “Cowan.”

Tess’s jaw drops. “Motherfucker.”

You collect all the guns and ammunition you can carry. One of the raiders has a nice-looking bowie knife on his belt, and you take it, sheath and all. Tess makes the rounds, filling her bag with ammo, while you try and leave some space; you still have to make it to the edge of the city.

Being as heavily armed as you now are earns you some weird looks from the Hartford smugglers once you reach the city limits. The chain link fence that was once the only thing standing between you and getting the hell out of Boston has not done well over the years. The metal is cut in a million more places, bent in others, no doubt the result of years of Infected climbing over, survivors trying to make it to the QZ gates. When you explain what happened, the leader — the one you’d been dealing with over the radio, a tall woman named Gwen — softens. “We lost a few of our own to raiders in New Haven. Shit’s getting dark.” She sighs. “Darker than it already was.”

The deal goes easily, which you’re grateful for. You throw in one of the guns and some ammo you pilfered from the raiders to sweeten the deal, and Gwen returns your generosity with some of her own: a carton of eggs. Fresh ones. It’s been a while now, since the Boston food bank has had anything fresh that wasn’t an apple or a tomato. Meat was becoming more and more scarce, and so were eggs. The ones Deanna used for breakfast were the powdered kind, sat like a lead weight in your stomach no matter how much coffee you washed them down with.

“If you have eggs, does that mean…chickens?” Tess asks, curiosity dripping from her voice, and you can’t help the way your stomach growls at the thought of chicken wings. 

Gwen laughs. “I’m not having the chicken or the egg debate with you, but yes, there are chickens. I don’t suppose you have seeds, in Boston? Fruits, veggies?”

“We do,” you nod.

“Bring us some next time, and we’ll bring you one of the hens in return.”

You and Tess debate the best way to cook a chicken all the way home.

+

Once you’re safely back in the QZ, you and Tess unload the guns in one of your caches, head back to the apartments to divvy the food up between you and Joel’s apartment, Tess and Tommy’s, and Deanna’s. She goes to take the food up to Deanna, and you pull out the bowie knife you’d nicked.

It’s as good an olive branch as any.

You find Nick out on patrol, standing outside the same alleyway you’d stopped in when Tommy had arrived in Boston, when Nick told you Deanna was looking for you. At first, he makes no indication he’s even noticed you, his eyes trained forward, hands glued to his gun, his jaw set.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” you say, your voice low, forcing yourself to look casual. “But, there’s something I want to say. Need to. Please?”

After a beat, Nick turns, his face still schooled blank, but when you step after him, deeper into the alley, the mask cracks. “What?”

“This is for you,” you say, pulling the bowie knife out from where you’d stashed it in your jacket.

Nick told you once, about a gift he’d received from his father, when he first joined the army. A knife, similar to the one you now hold towards him. The blade was engraved with his family name, the date he enlisted, sheathed in fine leather. He lost it, on Outbreak Day, in a fight with an Infected soldier.

“It’s…I know, it doesn’t make up for what I did. I don’t think anything can. But I just…I want you to know that I’m sorry, truly sorry, and if hating me makes you feel better, then that’s okay. But I never meant for things to turn out this way. And what I said before, about Joel, it’s the truth, but I never wanted to hurt you like I did, and I hope you know that.”

He takes the knife from you, pulls the blade from the sheath, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he inspects it. “Where’d you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

Nick scoffs a laugh. “If I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that to me.”

“I’m sorry, Nick,” you say, nearly reaching a hand out to him, but stopping yourself. “I really am.”

After a long moment, he nods, still staring down at the knife. “I only ever wanted you to be happy, Liv. To be safe. And if that fucking…if Joel is the one to do that, then I have to be okay with that.” He swallows so hard you can see his throat bob. “It’ll take some damn time, but I’ll…I’ll get there, I think. I’ll try. Just don’t expect me to be friends with him, yeah?”

You laugh. “I don’t. I just…I am sorry, Nick. I feel like a broken record, but…”

“It helps,” he says with a nod.

“Good.” It feels awkward, suddenly, and you take it as your cue to leave. “I’m gonna go.”

“See you around,” he says, and you just nod, heading towards the street, out of the alley. “Hey, Liv?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not a bad person. You did a shitty thing, but you’re not a bad person.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “Thanks, Nick.”

He nods again, and you turn on your heel, heading back towards the apartments.

+

Time moves on. 

Nick still keeps his distance, but he doesn’t look at you with sheer hatred in his eyes anymore, so that’s nice. Deanna learns you’ve made peace with each other, and tells you you did good. It helps. The guilt still lingers a bit, but it helps. 

You keep up your smuggling, bringing Tess and Joel and Tommy — and any combination of the three — along with you every time. You teach them your routes, your hiding spots, where your caches are. Joel’s impressed, if not a little hesitant, Tommy of a similar mind. Tess remains firm that you’re a badass, and is always the first to volunteer to come with you.

You’re all still quiet, about your pasts, about the time leading up to the four of you being in Boston together. Except for what Tess told you, the story you returned — one she swore she wouldn’t pass on to Joel, one you knew you had to tell him yourself.

You will, in time. You know you have to. But…you’re not there yet. And in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t fucking matter.

None of it does.

Before you know it, it’s been nearly six months since they arrived, and you decide to celebrate, the only way you can in the QZ: food and booze.

“Family dinner?” Joel repeats, his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side. It’s early in the morning, you’re both getting ready to head out, pulling on clothes and shoving feet into boots. You usually sleep fully dressed, boots and all, but Joel’s tendency to get you naked has become a nightly occurrence, and sometimes you’re too worn out to redress when you’re done.

You turn on your heel, head for the kitchen, opening one of the cabinets and pulling out a jar of tomato sauce and setting it on the counter. Joel’s close behind, grabbing the jar when you put it down, smirking down at the label. “Look familiar?”

His jaw twitches, something nostalgic in his eyes. “Same shit I used to buy in Texas.” He smirks, setting it down again, sliding his arms around your waist. “Didn’t we make spaghetti, at my place? What was that, our second date?”

You lean back against him, covering his hands with yours, lacing your fingers together. “I made spaghetti; you tried to make risotto.”

“That’s right,” he agrees and his hands move to your hips, turning you to face him. “That was the first night we—”

“Uh-huh,” you cut him off, leaning up on your toes until your mouth brushes his. “It was.”

Joel slides his hands up under your shirt, palms curling around your ribs, giving you a hungry kiss. “And now you expect me to sit through dinner with…?”

“Tommy and Tess.”

He growls, ducking his head to bury his face in your neck. “To sit through dinner with my brother and Tess, thinking about that the whole time.”

You hum, tangling a hand in his hair. “I’ll be thinking about it too, if it’s any consolation. I’m always thinking about it.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, woman,” he groans, nipping at your throat.

You’re both late, Tess giving you a pointed look when Joel pecks you goodbye when you meet her out front. “I swear, you two are worse than teenagers sometimes,” she mumbles, and you just laugh.

The day goes quickly — you and Tess each work a shift in the donation hall, which you’re told is shutting down, and the food bank — and before you know it, you’re back at the apartment, putting pots on the stove, pulling a bottle of whiskey from the space behind the fridge. 

You and Tess are already a little sauced by the time Joel and Tommy come through the door. Tommy has paint smeared on his cheek and Joel is laughing, that kind of belly laugh you haven’t heard since Austin. You grin as he kisses you hello, Tommy pecking your cheek once Joel disappears towards the bedroom to get changed. “Kisses from all the Millers,” you laugh, stirring the sauce on the stove. “Aren’t I a lucky gal.”

Joel pokes his head out of the bathroom, brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

Tess laughs with you, pulling the chair beside her out for Tommy to sit. She slides him a glass of whiskey a second later. “What the hell is on your face, man?”

“Ah, hell.”

The evening passes so comfortably, you wonder if you’re dreaming, for a moment or two. The boys both won’t shut up about how delicious your spaghetti is — even though the pasta is the flourless crap FEDRA hands out, your sauce more than makes up for it — and it’s not long before you’ve polished off the bottle of whiskey between the four of you. Your chest feels warm, from the alcohol, the good food, the company.

Once you’re all done eating, Tommy produces a deck of cards and convinces you all to play a few rounds of euchre. You and Tess team up and kick the boys’ ass, to the point where Joel declares you must be cheating, which Tess is having none of. “Never thought you’d be a sore loser, Miller!”

The game changes from euchre to war, and Tess and Tommy make their own rules, deciding to smack the table as hard as they can when the card matches, even if the other’s hand is already there. It has them both howling after a couple rounds, you and Joel just chuckling as you watch. Joel slides your chair closer to his, close enough that he can loop an arm around your neck, hauling you against his chest.

He buries his nose in your hair as you lean against him, moving down until his mouth is close to your ear. “How much longer we gonna entertain these two, hmm? I need you all to myself, baby. Need to be inside you.”

Your thighs clench, cheeks flaring with heat, and you smack him in the chest, burying your face in the collar of your shirt.

He just chuckles in your ear, low as anything. “You like that, huh, baby? You gonna let me fuck you, aren’t you? Always so good for me. Promise, I’m gonna make you feel so damn good, baby.”

You elbow him in the ribs. Hard. Hard enough that he lets out a low oomph, and both Tess and Tommy’s heads snap in your direction. You stare back at them, feigning innocence, whiskey buzzing in the back of your skull. “What?”

A few more games of cards, and Tess literally falls out of her chair, laughing the whole way down. Joel declares the night officially over, and Tommy gets Tess to her feet, half-carries her towards the door. “You need help?” Joel asks, and Tommy shakes his head.

“Nah, we’ll be fine. You two have a good night. Thanks for dinner, Liv.”

“You’re welcome, Tommy.”

The door closes behind them, and Joel lingers, locking the door, closing the curtains, clearing off the table. Meanwhile, you head for the bed, fumbling with the buttons on your shirt — Joel’s shirt, always Joel’s shirt — before giving up and falling forward onto the mattress, reaching for Joel’s pillow, bunching it beneath your head.

The bed creaks a moment later, Joel’s weight settling over you, hands planted either side of you, mouth at the back of your neck. “You’re wearing far too many clothes, missy.”

“You should fix that,” you slur at him, turning your face enough to see the shadow of him above you. You wiggle your hips, lifting your ass until it presses against his crotch, and Joel hisses. “You got promises to make good on, Joel Miller.”

“I do,” he replies, letting out a low hum as he drags his hand down your spine. “Don’t I?”

He shuffles back, and the loss makes you whine, but he slides your needs apart a moment later, grips your hips and lifts until your ass is in the air, face still pressed into the pillow. Joel doesn’t waste any time, fingers curling in the waist of your leggings and pulling them down, taking your underwear with them. You barely have a chance to breathe, his mouth covering you a moment later, tongue darting between your folds. “Fucking christ, Joel.”

He hums again, the noise vibrating through you, one hand coming down on your cheek in a quick spank a second later. You can feel yourself flooding his tongue, already wet from his teasing at the table. Reaching one hand back, you card your fingers through his hair, keeping him against you, angling your hips back to push yourself further into his face.

“Pretty girl,” he rasps, dragging the flat of his tongue up and down, back up and back down again. The rhythm makes your muscles tighten, the promise of an orgasm prickling at your senses. “Always taste so good.” He gives you another quick spank, the motion making your flesh tingle. “Always feel so good.”

“Joel.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” he grumbles, diving back in for a moment before pulling back once more. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, just like I promised.”

You moan into the pillow, whining again when he pulls back, your hand falling out of his hair, flopping sideways onto the bed. You curl your fingers in the bedsheets instead, gasping loudly when he presses two wet fingers into you, right to the knuckle in one fell swoop. His thumb reaches up, pushes lightly between your cheeks, and you let out a choked noise you didn’t know you were capable of.

“That feel good?” he asks, and you nod, your face still pressed to his pillow. “You want more, baby?”

You nod again, furiously.

“Want you inside me,” you murmur, your eyes rolling back in your skull as his thumb presses harder. “Fuck, Joel, please.”

There’s the shuffling of fabric, the clink of his belt buckle, the front of his thighs pressed to the backs of yours. You turn your head slightly, just enough to see him, the hem of his t-shirt tucked between his teeth, his cock in his hand. The sight alone makes you clench around his fingers, biting your lip as he pulls them out. They dig into the meat of your ass a moment later, spreading you open just a touch more. His thumb stays where it is, and you watch, stomach coiled in anticipation as he leans forward just slightly, drops his jaw until the t-shirt falls from his mouth, and spits.

It lands right where his thumb is, slides down over where you’re already drenched, and he flexes his hips forward. You try to bury your moan in his pillow, but Joel reaches down with his other hand, fists your hair in his hand, tugs a little.

“I wanna hear you, baby.”

“The neighbours—”

“I don’t give a fuck, Liv. Let me hear you.”

A choked moan falls out as he slams all the way forward, burying himself to the hilt, his thumb pressing down at the same time. You keep your face to the side, keep your eyes trained on his. He lets go of your hair just to take hold of your hip, pulling back just to slam forward again, the feeling and movement making your thighs shake.

“Joel, fuck—”

“That’s right,” he grits, and his pace only gets faster, the apartment filling with the sound of skin on skin. It drives you wild. “That’s fuckin’ right. Say it again.”

He spanks you again, just that much harder, and you cum.

It hits you like a freight train, your back arching fiercely as you lose it, eyes screwed shut, thighs shuddering against Joel’s. Faintly, you hear him groan, barely aware of the next spank he gives. You’re half-sure you’ll have a handprint on your ass come morning, but you don’t fucking care. His name spills from your lips, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, and your stomach flutters as he fists his hand in the back of your shirt and drags you up.

You can’t catch your breath, your chest heaving as he takes your chin in his hand, one arm banded around your middle as he keeps slamming into you, dropping his fingers between your legs. You don’t know where one orgasm finishes and the second begins, but he covers your mouth with his, drinks your noises down like they’re whiskey instead of moans.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers against your lips, his hips stuttering against your ass. “Love you so goddamned much.”

You flail a hand back, diving your fingers into his hair, tugging until his head moves back slightly, so you can look him in the eyes. “Then cum,” you murmur, leaning forward enough to bite at his bottom lip. “Cum for me.”

He does, his entire body shuddering with it, his grip on you like an iron vice. The warmth is delicious, spreading through your lower half like the whiskey had, only the feeling of Joel is that much more addictive, always leaving you wanting more. You both collapse forward a second later, a tangle of limbs and lips, never far from reach.

+

Joel wakes with a jolt. The nightmares have been less and less common, since he got to Boston, since he started sleeping in the same bed as you again, but they still show their faces every once in a while. Usually the drinking keeps them at bay, but tonight they’re intent to haunt him.

You’re not where you should be, tucked against his chest, and for a moment, panic seizes his heart, makes his hands go cold.

“Liv?”

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up to your chest, staring out the window. His mostly unbuttoned shirt is falling off your shoulders, and when he calls your name, you glance at him quickly before your gaze moves back out the window. Joel doesn’t miss the shine in your eyes, and sits up slow, reaches for you, rubbing one hand up your back.

“You all right?”

“I’m happy,” you reply, head tilting back on your shoulders, face illuminated by the moonlight. “I am unreasonably happy, Joel. I’ve done so much terrible shit, and yet here I am, stupidly, unreasonably, unfathomably happy.”

He reaches up, pinches your cheek lightly, catches the tear in the corner of your eye. “Then why you cryin’, baby?”

“Cuz I know there’s a chance that I could wake up tomorrow, and it could all be gone.” Your voice cracks, and Joel sits up further, slides down the bed until he’s pressed against your side. “That you could be gone.”

“Never,” he tells you, and opens his arms to you, sighing when you fall into them, presses his mouth to the crown of your head. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, baby. I’m right here, you hear me? I’m right here.”

PREV | NEXT

[elvsz]

ARE YOU NEAR, MR PRESLEY? “

summary : Elvis chose someone else and you did too, it was one late night in his Vegas penthouse when he told you the truth — the love he felt for you was becoming too much, even for him. His constant need of having to be near you, to see you and to make sure you were safe was making him feel insane. You both being busy with shows was also becoming too much, you hardly saw each other. The breakup was hard but you both ended it on amicable terms yet every night he finds his heart asking the same question, are you near? when he sings on stage; Do you watch him the way he watches you?

warnings : ex!yandere!elvis. female!reader. Kidnapping. reader is the lead singer of a 70’s pop group (abba was in mind). possessiveness, protectiveness and threats of violence. reader is calm and collected but also arrogant (lolz). mdni. cheating! kissing. age gap, elvis is 41, reader is 25. priscilla is his ex wife, reader is his ex gf. lisa marie doesn’t exist in this. can be read as austin elvis. BDE!elvis. 70’s elvis. petnames. substance abuse, alcoholism (from main characters). reader is named ‘delilah’ as her stage name / y/n is used.

based on : love me, suspicious minds & too much.

by elvsz / yandere / mdni

It was 1972 when you were told the news by one of elvis’ men.

Elvis and Priscilla were to be married - again.

In many ways, you wasn’t surprised. Elvis hadn’t been a fully faithful man when you were together, back in 1968 when you were merely 21. Though you must admit that when Son called you - his own voice full of sympathy that she could only shake off - to tell you the news, your world stopped for a moment or so.

Elvis was getting older, as were you, but the drugs he took seemed to make him believed he felt young. You weren’t a completely pure woman, your own intake of alcohol when your stage name name - Delilah kicked in on stage wasn’t healthy either. But you knew when to stop.

You only said okay to Son, trying to come across like it didn’t bother you - which it shouldn’t of done. You were with somebody knew, Max Charlton was his name, the 27 year old who fell in love with Delilah but ended up loving you only a few weeks after you and Elvis had the cruel break up.

You don’t respond to Max when he asks you who called, merely shaking your head and getting back into bed next to him. Your heart is heavy and her mind is full of guilt when you wonders to yourself; Elvis, are you near?

You turn onto your side to turn the lamp off on your bedside, letting the darkness indulge her into something better, calmer. Letting Max sit there and wonder what had happened. You still feel Elvis’ hands on your skin, when Max puts his on you..

Elvis didn’t ask who was performing in the International Hotel that day, he already knew who it was. Roses, the band you were in had started rehearsing for the late show that night. Yet he couldn’t hear your voice at all, it was the one thing he always wanted to find no matter where he was.

The voice he had known for what felt like all his life was too far for him to hear, you were too far for him to feel. And it made his heart hurt, almost burn with something cruel and sinister.

Then he hears you, your soft voice calling out to him as you sing Season of The Witch, the song you and your band had decided to create over night. He can feel the passion in your voice root itself in his soul, making his head fuzzy.

Elvis shakes himself out of a haze when Jerry — one, if not his greatest friend — tells him to come over and see them. You and your band who spray out before him, two members by the speakers. Some laying on the floor. Jerry being a big fan, which was funny to many as he was a member of the greatest’s inner circle, he’d always get up and dance to the music you made.

There you were sat there with your hair up like a doll, pretty headband on, ear piece long forgotten about as you sang and danced with your backup singers.

“C’mon! Give me somethin’!” Elvis heard, you were talking to the guitarist, who with the your very sweet, but arrogant pressure ended up making a very good riff for the song.

You knew Elvis was there, the way your other band mates seemed to quiet down into whispers told you it all. But you ignored him and Elvis was sure his heart was cracking.

“Ms. Y/N?” Tom Parker had always been a man you hated, so when your name left his mouth you wanted nothing more than to swing for him. Your turned her head over her shoulder, eyes bitter as they landed on the man.

“What?” You spat out, annoyed at being distracted, she took her music very seriously. The paper’s said even more than Elvis did which truly was something, you can only shake your head as the man tries to tell you something.

You turn to finally look at Elvis like you used to, back when fans would push themself against you and you’d look like a fawn, eager for him to do something. Your own heart threatening to break, but Elvis saves it again — patting Parker on the shoulder, telling him to come and see his plans for his new album.

You can only send him a nod as a thank you when he gets the man far from you. You turn back to your guitarist, but your soul begs for the man who just walked away. Your heart begs for Elvis, like every night before.

Elvis can only lie to his manager’s face, he had no album planned but he didn’t enjoy the way you tensed up under the cruel man’s harsh gaze and his weird words. Elvis nods for Jerry to go and take his manager away, he doesn’t say anything when he leaves.

He can only sit before the mirror, his head in his hand as he feels his heart beating more than usual, the pills on the desk before him are calling his name.

But then he hears your voice, your very, very angry voice.

“Like hell I will!” You spit out at your manager, who follows you to your own dressing room — Elvis requesting for yours to be next to his, he can only sit there and listen as you practically scream at the poor soul — and then he hears you cry.

“You said I could go goddamn home after tonight!” Your voice is breaking and Elvis knows you’re sobbing at this point. He can hear things breaking, you probably stand there throwing things at the man. Elvis’ door is opened, he watches your manager shake his head as he walks out.

Elvis stands up, calmly walking to your dressing room, your own door open. There you sit on the floor, things broken on the floor, smashed into pieces as you hold your head in your hands.

“Baby..” You don’t reply to him, merely sobbing into his hands, he shudders as he sees the broken mirror, he looks at your hands and there they are, bloody.

“Someone get a damn medic!” He calls out to the people hanging in the hallway, he hears footsteps running around. He crouches down to you and he can nearly sob himself when you flinch from him.

You look up at him and he wants to break your manager’s face. Your mascara is down your face, headband broken by the door, blood smeared near your mouth where you put your hands. Hands which are cut by the glass shards.

“He..” you mutter, choking out. You put your hand on Elvis’ arm, your grip week. He comforts you by whispering sweet words.

“He said I could go home an’.. I’m gonna die here Elvis.” His worlds stops, he looks at you confused, angry and dazed.

“What?” His southern drawl comes into play when he’s angry, his gaze darkens.

“I gotta stay here for ‘nother five years.” Your own gaze is hazy and angry. But the tears that won’t stop running down your face is what really anger him.

“Sweetheart, what’re you talking ‘bout?” You wish to answer him, you really do, but then your eyes fall to his engagement ring and you can only get up on shaky legs and a heavy heart.

You walk passed him, the man who sat down next to you who now is quick to follow you. Asking you questions. You don’t say anything when you walk into the bathroom in the hallway, you only lock the door; refusing to look at him.

You stay in there for what feels like forever, and when you finally open the door you don’t see Elvis to be anywhere.

Elvis is so close to your manager - Chris - that he’s sure the younger man can almost feel his red, hot, rage. Elvis is asking him questions because he needs answers and for the fact that he loathes seeing you so upset.

“Listen.. I had a talk with the hotel owner, he wants her to sing for him!” Chris tries to come across friendly, he knows he tries, but Elvis can see his anger building and the gun that rests in his holster is becoming heavier.

“For what!” Elvis shouts, “Another five goddamn years!” His fist finds the wall next to Chris’ head and the man watches Elvis become a monster.

A man turned cruel because of sin, is nothing less than a monster once adored as a king. He can feel the rage that made him leave you - he was tired of watching people beg for a kiss from your pretty lips every night on that godforsaken stage - begin to blossom in his gut again.

His world spins, the drugs and the alcohol kick in, Chris barges past the man who now sways. He runs for the door and he finds it, not before Elvis tells him to get rid of that contract.

Or he’ll blow his brains out.

You sit in a chair in a new dressing room, letting the make up artists put eyeshadow on you. The lipstick on your lips feels thick, your hair now all done up feels wrong and your eyes still gloss over.

It had been a long day. Too long of a day, by now you would’ve cancelled the show and gone home to your cats, but alas you sit there and let them prod at you like you’re no more than a doll.

“Five minutes!” Your manager shouts down the hallway, your open door letting you hear it clearly. You can only hum one of the songs he’s making you play tonight.

The dress you wear is white, and it’s so tight you can feel every stitch as if you did it yourself. One of the makeup artists wipe the tear off your cheek, her smile is sympathetic.

The walk up the hallway is cruel, heeled covered feet aching for something kinder, you read over the set list for the night that sits in your hand.

How can you mend a broken heart, Take me in your arms, Somethin’ stupid— you don’t finish looking at it. Only crumbling it up in your hand as you find the door to the stage.

The red curtain is down, you wish to see Elvis. You wish to feel him but the guilt eats at you alive.

He’s getting married again to somebody who isn’t you, stupid girl. That’s what rings through your head; you nod your head to the band members, the back up singers. They all compliment you.

Your eyes gloss over, you can feel your manager tapping your shoulder as you stand before the mic. He passes you a cup of what you can only imagine is alcohol.

“Welcome back, Delilah.”

The first song you play isn’t any on the list you read before, you start with Son of A Preacher Man, swaying as you let the music take you.

Your breathing is heavy and your words are yet to be slurred, Elvis watches from his own table with Jerry and a few other friends. Priscilla is yet to be seen by any of them.

Your voice is like silk when you bend down to the crowd, letting a twenty something year old man kiss you softly, you smirk as the crowd screams.

“Was a son of a preacher man..” you smile, teeth white and pretty, eyes full of something.

You can only watch Elvis and his reactions, the way you grip the end of your dress; giving the crowd something to blush and whistle for.

They knew you as this, the woman who made people feel dizzy with sin, dizzy with desire as you suddenly shake your hips.

Trouble suddenly comes on, your hips are moving as are your legs. You can feel the aura of the audience change, people stand up, pushing against the stage to touch you.

Hands close to your heels, as you rock your way around. Elvis hated this, hated watching people and their nasty desires try to get to you.

But he loved that glint in your eyes when you got what you wanted, which when Elvis was involved, was all the time.

This went on for two hours, you smiling at the crowd, shaking with them as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. You took your final bow, this was it — the last show at the international. No matter what your manager said, this was it.

The last person you look at is Elvis. Who happens to be the one to find you first when the curtain goes down, he’s by the end of the stage waiting for you like always.

You practically run to him, suddenly your world is hazy, breath heavy. Your world goes dark and the last thing you remember is him and his strong arms wrapped around your body.

“Elvis?” You mutter, the bedsheets you lay on aren’t your own, they’re too soft and a different colour. The covers are draped over your body, you feel like a small child who’s been tucked into bed.

The room is almost pitch black, if it isn’t for the lamp on the desk in the corner. You know he’s there, and the whine you let out is almost pathetic.

He remembered how much you hated the dark - childhood trauma you explained to him - and how much you feared to be alone if left in it.

He walks towards you slowly, a robe is all he wears, your eyes are full of tears and you ache for him. Your soul aches for him.

You crawl to the edge of the bed, you notice the nightshirt you now wear, soft and in your favourite colour, you look up at him.

His hands are soft on your face, cradling it softly as he kisses you ever so gently. You pull away, “you- you said the love you felt for me was too much.”

You repeated the words he said to you that night in ‘68, your heart heavier than anything. You watch as he shakes his head, his voice is deep and husky.

“I lied. I.. I didn’t want to hold you back anymore.” He hints at the age gap between you both, his mouth moves to your cheek, your jawline and your neck as he pushes you back down onto his bed.

You cry out, feeling overwhelmed as you push yourself away from him. “You went back to her, Elvis.” You move off the bed, standing away from him as he watches you in the dim light.

“Baby.” His voice holds so much adoration, he finally has you back where he wants you. Finally has you back to himself, the sob you let out when you see your hands now wrapped with gauze is sad.

He cared for you. He always had. He always will.

You let him pull you into a hug, his arms tight around your waist as you sob into him. You hit your fists against his chest and he lets you, all he wanted was for you to come back to him.

And now you were back together, his engagement ring long forgotten, purposely thrown out, and there was nothing Elvis wouldn’t do to get you back to him.

Such as making your manager sign you into a five year deal at the place he performed.

Like making your manager and his sign a deal that stated if either yours or Elvis’ career ended, the other would have to.

You were his, sweet girl. No woman, man, or person would ever change that. He’d make sure of that.

[vanwritesfan-fiction]

Addiction

Part Seven: We Went Looking For Trouble

Series Masterlist

Warnings: language

A/N: The seventh part of the series, and things are finally getting serious lol

When you were a little girl, you were determined to learn how to swim. You were always incredibly headstrong, so instead of learning by instruction, you decided to dive head first into the lake behind your house with nobody around.

Still in your clothes, you dipped a toe into the ice cold water, a shiver running down your spine as you felt a surge of confidence. You could do this. How hard could it really be, right?

The first sense to leave you is sight, your eyes shut tight as you hit the water. You began to panic, your arms flailing with all your might as your fight instincts kicked in, but you weren't strong enough to keep your head above the surface. You were determined to survive, but it was a losing battle. For every bit of confidence you had, the water was stronger, all consuming, a reminder of how weak and insignificant you were.

It was like dominos knocking down after that, your limbs going numb, the only sound a ringing in your ears, your lungs filling with gulps of water as you took futile breaths.

You were on the edge of a precipice, and once you stopped fighting, allowing your body to slowly sink to the bottom, your mind was clear, not a thought of worry or fear, and for a moment you were overcome with a sense of peace. There's an ironic ease that sets in when you accept your fate. That regardless of how hard you fought or your best intentions, you were always going to end up here, nothing more than a memory of the many times your self-conviction had failed you.

You couldn't breathe. It was like someone had sucked the air out of the room, and had a vice grip on your lungs as you sat across from Jack. The ringing in your ears grew louder and louder, your heart beating out of your chest as you tried to keep yourself from panicking. You could only make out snippets of what he said, but you got the gist- Claire, relationship, pregnancy, fake.

Jack had been lying to you, that much you already knew, but you had no idea how deep this went. There was months of planning, manipulation, and deception not only to you, but to the world. Tears stung your eyes as you blinked them away, trying to focus on Jack's face, watching his mouth move as he spoke. You felt the bile creep up your throat, you were going to be sick for sure. You swallowed, trying to take short breaths to keep yourself from crying, vomiting, your body was reeling from a variety of visceral reactions to what you now knew.

"Please say something." Jack gripped his thigh, digging his fingernails into the skin to stop it from shaking. There was supposed a be a sense of relief that comes with telling the truth, but he knew he didn't deserve that. It wasn't even why he was telling you everything. He had learned to live with the guilt, knowing that no matter what he did, there was no going back from this, and telling you everything meant that he might lose you for good.

He would take any reaction from you, he just needed something. He was desperate for something. "I'm begging you. Scream, cry, yell at me, anything, just please say something. Please."

Please. That word brought you hurdling back to the present moment. You didn't even notice that he went quiet, your vision had blurred, red and black spots creeping into your sightline. You gripped the side of the table where you sat, feeling the grain of the wood, how it felt in your hand, cool to the touch, trying anything to ground yourself. This couldn't be your reality. You loved Jack, more than you had ever loved anyone else, and he just admitted to lying to you about everything, after months of wringing you dry of every bit of sympathy that you had for his situation, and now he wanted something else from you?

"I don't believe you", you finally croaked out, choking back a sob.

"I'm telling you the truth." Jack knew his words meant nothing, they held no weight, but still he had to try. "I want to be honest-I'm trying to be honest with you." He wanted you to know that this was intentional. That he wasn't trying to save face; he was way past that. He cleared his throat to try to get rid of the lump building, trying to keep his composure.

"You expect me to believe that your relationship with Claire was all contrived in a conference room? The interviews, the photos of the two of you kissing, holding hands, the engagement, the baby, was all just for show to save your career?" You ran a hand down your face, feeling the tears roll off your chin. "You must think I am so fucking stupid. I-I just can't believe you. I don't believe you", you shook your head. You were sucking in breaths so hard, you felt yourself growing light headed.

"It wasn't supposed to get this out of control. We were supposed to take some photos, look like a couple to the press, but behind the scenes, we weren't together. But she took it too far. The engagement and the pregnancy were all created to try to trap me. Keep me under her father's thumb." Jack frantically wiped at his face, trying to stop himself from crying, but it was futile.

You let out a humorless breath. "What, am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

"No, I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I just wanted to tell you the truth. I owe you that much."

"Just stop it!" You slammed your hands down on the table in anger, making all of the chess pieces fly off the table, clattering against the marble floor. Jack leaned back in his chair, stunned. "Stop pretending like you give a fuck about me, Jack! You say you owe me the truth. Start there. You never loved me, you never gave a shit about me!"

"That's not true, baby. I do care about you." The fact that you thought there was no love between the two of you crushed him, a pain radiating through his chest. It was the only thing he was sure right now, how much he fucking loved you.

You looked at him through blurry lashes. "God, do you ever stop lying?" Jack ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls at the back of his neck. "What do I need to say to make you believe me?" He gripped onto his laptop. He still needed to show you the sex tape, but he was sure that would send you over the edge, and he couldn't do that to you right now. He hurt you enough for five lifetimes.

"Nothing. There is nothing you could say or do that would make me believe you, Jack." You were sobbing uncontrollably, running the last few months through your mind. God, how could you be so stupid? You were weak, so incredibly unhappy, and you blindly entered into a relationship with Jack that was going to haunt you for the rest of your life. "Why not?", he picked at the open wound he caused; it was like he just couldn't let it go. He couldn't let you go.

"Because-", you let out a quiet whine in pain, your stomach in knots. "Because then I would be admitting that this was all for nothing. The months of pining for you, loving you when you didn't love me, lying to the people close to me to protect you, hiding in the shadows so I didn't anger Claire, missing you so much that I couldn't breathe, it meant nothing." You weren't sure what hurt worse, the lies or knowing you were being played. You thought you were the other woman, but you were the pawn. You were the piece on the chessboard that players sacrifice for the sake of the move. You meant nothing to no one, forgettable and easily replaced.

"I have to get out here", you mumbled to yourself as you stood, pushing the chair behind you with such force it slammed into the wall. Jack was quick to his feet, chasing after you as you walked to the bedroom to gather your stuff. "I can't let you leave." He grabbed at your arm, but you pulled away from him, stumbling back. "Do not touch me!", you edged out between clenched teeth.

You wanted to swing at him, beat on his chest till you had no fight left in you, make him feel just a bit of the hurt that you were feeling, but as you took in his face, you realized he was already there. The red and sunken eyes, the tears stains on his cheeks, the way his body basically collapsed into itself as if he was going to fall at any minute. He was already hurting, just as much as you were, and it was wearing him down to the bone. "I can't let you leave, yet, okay? For your own safety, I need you to stay here."

"I can't stay here. I'm done. I want out of whatever twisted mess this is." You grabbed your clothes, only carrying as much as you could hold in your arms. "I'm done, Jack."

He really wanted to let you go, but he couldn't. Partly for his own selfish reasons, and partly because he knew once Claire found out that the two of you were together again, it was only a matter of when she would release the tape to the public. He was going to fix this. He was going to figure out a way to do right by you, but first, he had to hurt you again. "I need to show you something."

You stopped moving for a second, your body tensing up as you contemplated hearing him out, but you eventually continuing walking to the door. "I don't want to see whatever you have to show me. Whatever it is, I don't care." You were inches away from freedom, your hand on the doorknob.

"Its a sex tape." Jack winced, closing his eyes. He could hear you turn on your heels. Without looking at you, he continued. "She's been recording us to use as blackmail to keep me in line." That familiar bile crept up the back of your throat again. You thought it couldn't get worse, but you underestimated the monster that was Claire. "Have you seen it?" Jack opened his eyes just in time to see your body language shift, your face stoic. "Yes, I can show it to you. Its on my laptop. She gave me a copy just so I had a reminder of what was hanging in the balance."

You held up a hand in disgust. "I don't want to see it." What were you going to do? If that tape leaked, you would for sure lose everything; job prospects, your friends, the media would make a martyr out of you for entertainment, and you'd never be able to show your face in public again.

"I'm gonna be sick." You made it to the sink in time just in time to empty the contents of your stomach, tasting the mix of alcohol on your tongue as it came back up.

"Why did you do this to me? Why did you do this to me?", you repeated over and over again, your head still in the sink. Jack placed a hand on your lower back, sending a shiver down your spine. You weren't sure if you wanted him to hold you or if you were disgusted by his touch, but his hand never left your back, trying to comfort you. "I'm gonna fix this. I promise I'm gonna fix this, baby."

When you were sure everything that passed, you allowed Jack to help you back to the bedroom, settling into bed with a groan. You were exhausted, every bone in your body ached. He covered you with a blanket as you retreated into yourself, tucking your knees to your chest. You closed your eyes, allowing silent tears to run down your face.

All this time, you thought Jack was the water in this sick and twisted metaphor, and if you just fought hard enough to keep your head above the surface, kept treading water while he worked to consume you, you'd prove your worth. That you weren't just an insignificant way to pass the time, that you should, and do mean more to him. You were stupid enough to think that if you waited around long enough, eventually he'd see that you were what he wanted, and that he'd leave Claire and come running to you. You fell into that mistress trap, and oh, it was so much worse than you ever thought possible. This was some sick game to Jack and Claire, and you were right in the middle of it. Every bit of control that you thought you had over your life was gone, or even worse, was never there to begin with. With that sex tape, Claire had something to hold over the both of you.

Jack's eyes shot open into the darkness. He felt around him to remember where he was. At some point, he must have fallen asleep on the couch, he was so tired. For a brief moment, he felt at peace before the events of today settled back in his mind. The look on your face, the tears, the way you looked so fragile as he helped you into bed. Fuck, you were still in the bed.

He quickly got up and ran to the bedroom. Before he even stepped foot in the room he could tell that something was wrong. He pushed through the threshold to find that the bed was empty, all of the dresser drawers open and bare. He spotted the note you left on the pillow, your handwriting messily scribbled across the paper.

I can't do this. I can't be here and pretend like you didn't hurt me the way that you did. Tell Claire to release the tape. I think we all deserve the karma that's coming to us for our part in this, including me.

Don't come looking for me, I'm leaving the city.

Y/N

Jack crumbled up the paper in his hands, tossing it across the room in a fit of rage. "Fuck!" He tore through the room in anger, knocking over furniture, like a tornado touching down, leaving destruction in its wake. He didn't leave an inch of the room untouched with his tirade, hurling a vase against the wall, sending pieces of glass across the floor. His chest heaved with each breath as he stopped and looked at the damage. 'Fuck! What have I done?!", he pounded against his head with his hands, choking back sobs as he tried to breathe. Feeling dizzy, he sat down on the bed, his head hanging in his hands.

He wasn't sure if minutes or hours had passed before he finally looked up at the mess he made. You were right about one thing. Karma was coming for everyone involved, but not you. He'd do anything to protect you, because that was the least you deserved.

He shot off a text to Claire and received a reply in seconds like she'd been waiting by her phone.

Jack: We need to meet, now

Claire: my office 15 min

Claire let an arrogant chuckle out as Jack came through the door.

"There you are. You're lucky I was in a good mood after our engagement party or I-" In a matter of seconds, Jack had her pinned against the desk, his large frame towering over her. His face was contorted with a mixture of hatred and disgusted as he eyed her up and down. "We're done", he spat out.

"Done with what?", she smirked, "This? Because last time I checked, honey, we were just getting started." She was always very good at hiding her emotions, but Jack could smell the fear on her, her pupils dilated as she cowered under his presence. He backed away, trying not to let his anger get the best of him in the moment. He needed to stick to the plan.

"This is over. We're calling off the engagement and we'll tell the media that we lost the baby. I'm sure you could spin it. That the loss of the baby drove us apart or something." He sucked in his teeth, knowing she was probably already thinking of a hundred different headlines.

"No, we're not doing any of that, Jack. The only thing you're going to do is continue to play your part, or your did you forget about the tape that I have? I know you care about her, and that tape will destroy her and her reputation." She crossed her arms over her chest, concealing her shaking hands. "You wouldn't do that."

"She left", Jack whispered out, looking up at Claire. "What? What happened?" She pushed off the desk, and Jack could tell that she was panicking. Her plan only worked if you stuck around to see everything unravel. You were Jack's weakness, and with you gone, he had nothing to lose.

"She left this morning. Said she wanted you to release the tape, that karma was coming for all of us."

"Well, go find her." Jack shook his head. "No, she's been through enough. This is between you and me, and I plan on ending it."

"How?" she let out a huff through her nostrils. "I release that tape and your career is over. You got into this to try to save your career, you would never do anything to jeopardize it. You're not that stupid."

Jack flexed his jaw in frustration. "See, that's what I thought too." He paced toward her, forcing her to step back. "I thought that there wasn't anything that I wouldn't do to save my career, but I was wrong. I'd give it up for her, all of it. I would throw myself into the fire for her."

He could see the flash of anger on Claire's face as he spoke. "There it is." He stabbed a finger into her face. "It bothers you. No, it kills you that I love her and not you. I always thought you had the upper hand here, but all of this was contingent on the fact that I wanted you back, right? That eventually I'd come around. That I'd chose you."

"No-no, that's not what this is about at all", she stumbled over her words trying to get them out. It all was starting to make sense. She fell for Jack, wanted him for herself, wished that at some point this twisted grab for fame would turn into a real love story.

"You're all talk, Claire. You won't release that sex tape, because sure, I'd lose my career, and Y/N would lose a lot, but you'd lose me. The only thing you really wanted in all of this." Jack felt the power struggle tip in his favor for the first time. He took one step closer, listening to the breath hitch in her chest. "What was it that you said? The Beckham's don't like to be told no?"

"Jack, think about what you're doing here. We all have so much to lose." Claire could feel her face heating up with anger and embarrassment.

"That's the thing, "honey".", he let out a laugh that made Claire's skin crawl. "For the first time in all of this, I'm thinking about what I'm doing. I've made a lot of fucking mistakes over the last year, but I can fix this for Y/N. She deserves that."

"Jack, please-". Claire covered her mouth, stopping herself from saying anything else. The pleading surprised him, but he thoroughly enjoyed it, a grin creeping on his face. He turned to the door, able to hold his head high for the first time in a while.

"You have 48 hours to get everything together. Call your PR team, your daddy, anyone who can help you save face, because I'm telling everyone about all of the lying we've been doing. I might go down for this, but I am taking every fucking member of the Beckham family down with me."

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[prettysweetprettysweet]

I spend so much time dwelling on whether there was any sincere sorrow from Lestat in the story we were told, which is almost certainly pointless but I'm vindictive and hold grudges and always crave vengeance and feel an enormous amount of righteous indignation on Louis' behalf, so at this point for me the single most spiritually and emotionally satisfying thing that could happen in season two is Lestat truly recognizing all the pain he's caused and becoming completely dismantled by the weight of his guilt (and in a way that affords him absolutely no sympathy!!)

on that note...the show has us assume that Lestat stowed Antoinette a town away 'by design' in a bid to be discovered and catalyze some sort of passionate reaction from Louis, that Louis' actual reaction of numbness, dissociation, and suicidality was near immediate and kept completely inside, that Antoinette was listening in during this period, and that Lestat was aware of it enough at least to opine to Claudia that Louis couldn't pick an apple in his current state and that he is in worse shape at that point than he ever was during Claudia's absence. Sam mentioned that by this time Lestat was able to hear their thoughts.

I wonder with his chronic self-absorption if he had managed to draw a line from his own actions to their impacts, if it truly registered for Lestat that through his machinations and manipulations he bent Louis so far that he broke in half, that Louis was hurting in a way and with an intensity that he had never hurt before, and that Lestat more-or-less extinguished the flame that made Louis so beautiful in the first place. Did he feel any responsibility and did it cause him sorrow? of course from the story that we've seen so far, its nearly impossible to ascertain Lestat's genuine position emotionally and mentally at any given point.

one moment that causes me to stop is the bench scene when Louis thinks to Claudia 'every night i feel a little crazier' and Lestat makes this face and rapidly jumps up to leave:

with the assumption that Lestat heard this, this could be any number of emotions: exasperation, rage, denial/evasion, fear. but i want it to be at least somewhat sadness and guilt and painful recognition of the ways he is responsible for his husband's devolution into a crazy and suicidal state, his husband who is suffering exactly like Lestat's first love Nicolas, and is increasingly indicating that he will end up exactly like him.

I'm inclined to think he is feeling guilt/sadness/worry because of the way he parts with an earnest and understated declaration of love. to me it just seems like the subtle quietness of it would be the best way to reach Louis through the fog. it's also really delicate and caring in a way that reminds me of how you might talk to a child who has the flu.

the dead look on Louis' face is devastating. I think that because Lestat knows his husband is sick, he's trying to offer warmth and reassurance and encouragement. keep going because i love you. please remember i love you.

[kimchikrust]

You Made Me Into This (2099)

check out this cool ass Venomized Miguel (Rapture) by @ramshackledtrickster . It gave me some inspo for some contamination!au

tw: mentions of rape

series list

“Ew, pervert,” you hum nonsensically, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. Miguel shoots a look at you, but you’re suddenly too lost in thought to care. “So, you’ve seen everything?” You can see in the corner of your eye how Miguel’s expression falls into something sad. 

“Yes,” he says with finality, but your interest is peaked. 

“The night I met Venom?” You wonder tentatively, turning slightly to get a better view of his face. He nods once but avoids meeting your eyes. 

“Had to locate your first interaction.”

“Of course,” you murmur, brows furrowing as a confusing feeling begins to stir in your stomach.”Has it happened before?”

“What-”

“You said you oversee and travel the multiverse. And you’ve come across other versions of me,” you start talking, and your mind begins jumping to different conclusions. “How-…How many times do I go through that night?”

Your stare burns into the side of Miguel’s face as he refuses to look back at you. 

“The night you met Venom, you were supposed to die,” he says quietly, and the definitive way he tells you makes your chest tighten. There’s a long silence as you attempt to ignore Venom’s whispers as you sort your thoughts. 

[Saved you. Protected you.]

You were supposed to die, though. Miguel confirmed your nightmare, and you felt a wave of nausea, lurching as you suppressed a gag. You hear Venom hiss your name. 

“Does it-…” You’re gasping quietly for air. “In all of them?”

“Every universe.” 

You feel sick learning about your fate, the alternate versions of you suffering horrifically before dying slowly in the back of an alley — in every universe. Your knees buckle in shock, but you catch yourself, freezing up when Miguel finally turns to look at you.

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with emotions you’ve repressed for years as you catch the guilt swimming in Miguel’s amber pools. It feels like you’re back that night, crowded and unsure what to do. It all feels too familiar.

Your fear. 

Anger. 

Betrayal.

“How many times have you let it happen?” Your voice gets tight as you grind your teeth, pleading inwardly to Venom that you’re wrong. “If you know it happens in every universe, what do you do to stop it?” 

Miguel’s eyes close like it hurts him to look at you, and his fallen expression tells you everything you need to know. 

It’s hard to breathe, and it makes your head spin. Stepping away from Miguel, you catch his jaw clench, and his brows twitch – he’s trying to school his face. He’s trying to shut you out.

“You allowed it to happen. You could’ve saved me,” you whisper. Reality sets in as you touch your chest and try to control your racing heart. “Look at me.”

When his nose flares and his chin tilts away from you, you almost think he’s trying not to cry. And it makes you flare with rage. 

“Fucking look at me!” He dares to look at you with watery eyes, and you’re not sure if the goosebumps that spread wildly around your collarbone and neck are from you or Venom. Your eyes narrow at him, and you have to ask, dripping with malice, lacking all sympathy–

“The fuck are you crying for?”

“Please, understand,” he croaks with a grave voice. “I’ve already made the mistake of intervening in canon events. It affects the entire universe.”

“Did you try?” You wonder, desperate for details. 

“I couldn’t risk it,” he insists pleadingly. 

You’re left breathless, your heart fracturing. You thought you could trust Miguel for a moment, but it was all bullshit. “You let it happen to me in every universe. You let them hurt me. Leave me for dead.”

Miguel twitches where he stands, moving forward to reach for you, but stops when you step away with a wide stance. He whispers your name, but the ringing in your ears drowns him out. 

“Venom was right,” you murmur through your teeth, glaring at the floor as you dig your nails into your palms. “I should’ve never listened to you.”

“Please-“

You summon Venom before Miguel can finish his sentence. The black symbiotic suit grows over your torso and limbs, Venom’s face falling over yours to mask your teary eyes. You reach Miguel’s height, intimidating for a man that towers over everyone around him.

“You need to separate from Venom,” he implores, holding his palms out to placate you. Venom hisses at Miguel’s claws, and your fingers manifest into talons. “You have to return to your universe. For the sake of everyone.”

His words make you shiver, deepening the crack in your heart.

“Fuck you, Spiderman,” you snarl. “I’m leaving with Venom.”

Miguel sighs deeply through his nose. “I can’t let you do that,” he says quietly.

“What are you going to do about it?”

He pleads as he calls out your name. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Then fuck off.”

You leap at him, catching him off guard when you backhand him into the wall. Without checking if he stays down, you race in the opposite direction, flying over buildings at Venom’s speed.

It pulls up the interdimensional watch and prepares to open a gate, but Miguel tackles you to the ground before it’s able.

“Think of all the people you’rejeopardizing!” Once again, his mask is materialized over his head, and he attempts to restrain you before Venom kicks him off.

“Think of all the versions of me that are raped and murdered!” You roar as Venom manifests a boulder at the end of your arm and swings a heavy blow into Miguel’s side. 

He flies through the air with a pained grunt, shooting out webs to assist his landing. Before they can hit anything, Venom is before him, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him into the ground, twice for good measure.

“The universe has done nothing but infinitely torture me, so why should I give a damn?” You sneer, holding him up and landing a heavy fist on the side of his face, knocking him back and making him roll over the ground. 

“Do you know how scared I was that night?” You ask him as your voice breaks. “How desperate I was for someone to help me. Save me.” You watch as Miguel weakly pushes himself off the floor. 

“I needed you,” you wheeze, tears held back behind your mask. 

[Not anymore.]

“I’m sorry,” Miguel desperately gasps. “Please. I’m so, so sorry.”

You feel a little relief at the anguish in his voice, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

“Fuck you, and your stupid-ass club,” you croak. “You’re not a hero, you’re a fucking prick.”

Miguel doesn’t move from his spot on the ground, his head hangs low, and Venom’s senses aren’t tingling. You take it as your opportunity to leave. 

When the gate opens, you turn to look back at him.

“Don’t come after us again,” you warn him. His mask is gone, and a few tears have escaped his eyes as he watches you. “Next time, I’ll kill you.”

He blinks, and you’re gone. 

a/n: send in hc & requests for venom!reader !!

[triforce-of-mischief]

Trypanophobic Whumpee ✨

Whumpees who hide their wounds to avoid medical attention, out of fear rather than pride.

Whumpees who scream and sob and plead when Caretaker brings them to the medic/doctor/hospital.

Whumpees who are too quiet and submissive, terrified to act out.

Whumpees who are jumpy and completely snap at the first sudden move.

Whumpees who lock themselves in the bathroom to delay the inevitable.

Whumpees who want to be sedated but not with a syringe/IV, anything but that.

Whumpees who can't stop reliving the trauma of being physically restrained in the past.

Whumpees who try to flinch back, to run away, and find themselves in Caretaker's gentle but unyielding embrace.

Whumpees whose hands shoot out in self-defense only to be grabbed and held by Caretaker.

Whumpees who have to tell Caretaker, voice hushed, about their phobias, and watch the horror and sympathy spread over Caretaker's face.

Whumpees who only trust Caretaker to get anywhere near them, even if Caretaker is holding a needle, not knowing why they feel safe when they should feel scared.

****

Caretakers who can't decide if it's better to tell Whumpee where they're taking them or if it would be a mercy to keep the secret just a little longer.

Caretakers who know about Whumpee's phobias and feel the crushing guilt as they force Whumpee to live through their greatest fears for their own good.

Caretakers who don't know what's worse, the utter betrayal in Whumpee's eyes or the resignation once they stop fighting.

Caretakers who have to tell Whumpee to Don't look over there, eyes on me, you'll make it worse for yourself if you look.

Caretakers who know if they should stay quiet, tell Whumpee what's happening, soothe and distract with words, show them how to breathe deep and steady.

Caretakers who scream just as loudly as Whumpee when the medics/nurses have to hold Caretaker back from fighting the ones who are holding Whumpee down because Caretaker knows it's wrong.

Caretakers who apologize and praise Whumpee, even- especially- when Whumpee knows they were not brave, but they got through it anyway.

****

Please reblog if you like these, and tag me if you use them or have any recs that use them! I would love to read! 💜

[joshriku]

drabble request 👀: xmcu cherik’s erik finding out charles has been paralysed

i keep saying 'drabble' and then it gets out of my hands u_u here! post xmfc, bit of altered dofp scene. thank you for the prompt!!!!

Erik grips the headboard tightly.

Charles sleeps so soundly, so peacefully, like nothing has happened to him. Erik’s chest gets smaller, tighter, like not enough blood is being pumped and like the oxygen is out of reach for his lungs. The nurse, still under Emma’s control, keeps talking: 

“It’s a good thing the bullet was removed,” she explains, the weight of the words crashing upon Erik with each intonation. The bullet, so small and light, never truly left his hands. Every time he looks down, he can see it again. “It lessened the neurological effects it could have…”

Erik stops listening. There’s sand everywhere, leaking through his suit, and it’s so, so hot. It’s so hot. When he looks down, Charles is still sleeping, not having moved an inch. 

He removes one of his gloves, cradling his face. He doesn’t wake up. It’s better this way, perhaps, because every time his thoughts trail back to Charles, the thought of his disappointed and heartbroken stare makes him sick. I’m sorry, but we do not. The tremble of his voice, the tears that refused to fall, the pain he must have been in—

And the pain he will continue to be in, because of him—

“I’m sorry,” Erik leans down, pressing his lips against his forehead. It burns him. His skin tastes of sand, of bullets. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so very sorry.”

No reaction. When he turns around, the nurse has left the room, and all that remains is Emma staring at him with what seems to be her version of pity. 

“It shouldn’t have been like this,” Erik says. He gestures at Charles. “It should have never ended like this. This—this is a mistake. It can’t be like this.”

“Erik…”

“No, I could—” he runs a hand through his hair. “An exo-skeleton suit, is that what they call it? I could make one for him—I could—the pins in his spine, I could—”

“Erik,” Emma says, firmer, the sympathy in her eyes gone. “You can’t fix this.”

A broken cry threatens to escape his throat. He turns around to stare at Charles, still sleeping, and would still be when Erik left, unaware he was ever here. And perhaps that’s for the better, isn’t it? Erik’s caused him a lifelong injury. Every time he wanted to get up, he’d remember Erik did this to him. Every time he took a breath, he’d remember the mistake he made when he trusted Erik. He loved him as he was, and Erik retaliated with a bullet to his spine.

Charles would never forgive him.

“You can’t fix it,” Emma repeats, a bit softer, reaching out to move him. “We have to go, Erik, I can’t keep the rest of the staff frozen any longer.”

Erik nods. 

He takes a second to hold Charles’ hand again, kiss it. “I’m sorry.”

Even if he never forgave him, the least Erik could do is change the world for him. Make the world a better place, for him and for all mutants. 

“Erik,” Emma urges again.

Erik gives him one last look, grabs his helmet, and leaves with Emma.

------

“I’m sorry, Charles…  for what happened,” Erik says. The apology hurts less to say, but carries the same meaning. Ten years did that to a person. “I truly am.”

Charles takes a sip of his drink, avoids his eyes, and focuses on the board in front of them. It’d be an admirable strength of feat, if Erik couldn’t see how hard he’s trying to not look at him. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Erik continues, a bit addicted to the feeling of confessing this guilt. “I hope—I hope by stopping this madness, I could—”

“I don’t…” Charles stops. It silences Erik immediately. When Charles looks back at him, Erik finds it hard to hold his gaze. But he does. He hasn’t stared at him in so long—being able to do it again, it’s downright hypnotizing. His next words pull Erik out of his little fantasy, though: “I don’t forgive you.”

“I know. I—”

“I don’t forgive you because I don’t blame you,” Charles finishes. Another sip, like it could give him more strength, but once he realizes his glass is almost empty he sets it aside. “I did, at first. I wanted to—oh, so badly,  I wanted to hate you.”

“Charles…”

“The first few nights at the hospital, I would sleep through it all. Until the anesthesia wore off, and it was as though—” he tries gesturing with his hand, but there are no gestures that encapsulate what he must have felt. “I don’t think I could describe it. I would ask my legs to move, and they would not. Every time I woke up, I thought, perhaps this time it’ll work. And every time it didn’t, I wanted to curse you. Just curse your name and blame you for every single thing. And I couldn’t.”

“Why?” Erik asks. Does he sound hoarse? “Why couldn’t you?”

“You loved me, back then,” Charles says. “I knew you would never hurt me like that, willingly. How could I blame you for an accident?”

Charles looks shocked by his own words. Erik’s chest tightens. 

“I only ever blamed you for leaving. I wanted you to be there, to be with me through this change. To adapt with me. To… just be there,” Charles shakes his head. “How foolish of me, truly.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I hope… with time, you can forgive me for that, then. And if not—” Erik tries to reach out with his hand. Charles doesn’t respond to it. “If not, I will still not leave.”

Charles chuckles. He looks at Erik as if asking, how could I ever believe you again? 

“Logan… Logan says we sent him, together,” Charles tentatively brushes his fingers against Erik’s. It’s not enough. He could be under Charles’ skin and still not begin to make up everything he missed. “I suppose we shall see, then.”

Erik swallows. He needs to close the space between them, he needs to hold him, he needs to—he needs to—

Erik leans back. “You have the first move.”

Charles looks at the chess board as if he forgot its existence. “It’s been a while since I played.”

“I’ll go easy on you,” Erik promises, slightly teasing, and for the first time in a decade he stops tasting sand.

[qcoded]

Small Analysis on Belos/Philip, and the many chances at Redemption he missed.

I think the reason why I loved the scene in Watching and Dreaming were The Collector hugged Belos while saying "I get it! You just need kindness and forgiveness, huh?" was because it encapsulated perfectly how many chances Belos didn't take to fucking redeem himself.

I think we all kinda know that if he was just self aware, and reflected on the shit he did for ONE damn second, maybe, just maybe he could have turned out way better than what ended up happening.

Analyzing his backstory and what we can decide actually happened with Caleb (mostly based on all the pictures that were released from Hollow Mind with additional ones), it's not like he was ever exempt from sympathy, don't get me wrong.

Can't really go into the reality that Caleb, being Philip's sole guardian, most likely abandoned him to go with Evelyn into the Boiling Isles (not with bad intentions but still) since THAT'S a whole 'nother can of worms, but like hey! It's fucking understandable, who wouldn't be hurt by that?

But at the same time, what Belos decided to do, it was all on his own accord.

It was all his own decisions tha he could have actually thought on but no! He was too stuck in his delusional beliefs.

Could have stopped anywhere. After he killed Caleb. After he was tricking and offing witches and demons. After the whole encounter with Luzura/Luz and Gertrude/Lilith. After the making of the Grimwalkers began. After instilling glyphs on witches.

There are probably more examples, but basically, Belos had so many damn chances.

But nope! Never took them.

And again, The Collector was so willing to forgive him, even after manipulating and using this kid for centuries on end. After all the horrific shit that Belos has done, there was still a sliver of hope for him to actually just think, 'What am I doing? '

Of course, that didn't happen. It was a 'Friendship is Magic, but gone wrong' and he attempted to kill The Collector once again.

You know what's the best part of this? That there's a scene that just adds onto what I'm saying perfectly.

Later on when Luz revived into the super cool form that is Titan!Luz, she ripped out Belos from the titan's curse. And when he reformed again, he turned into his Philip Wittebane look.

And he had the fucking audacity to blame that dark magic (presumably his curse) was the one who made him commit all those horrendous acts.

This would make pretty much be his very first, and only attempt towards redemption.

But the thing is, it's too late.

Belos threw out his very last chance at redemption with The Collector.

And now? He has nothing more but than to deal with the ultimate consequences that have been building up.

This is also why I'm not that mad that Belos wasn't shown to finally realize the severity of what he has done, or to feel all that built up guilt flow it.

It's because it shows amazingly how far up his ass he was in his beliefs that even when he was DYING, he was just too fucking stubborn.

The more ironic part, like I mentioned earlier, that 'dark magic' was pretty much just his curse. That I want to mention, is fucking SELF AFFLICTED. Belos was literally the one eating all those Palismen, which are the cause of the curse. He's quite literally blaming himself!

And even though he tried to claim that Luz somehow cured him, got quickly called out on his bullshit when the boiling rain revealed him to still be purely goop.

Till the last minute, he was trying to keep a facade that quite literally, crumbled.

TLDR; Belos ultimately gave up every chance to be a better person, and he pretty much got what was coming for him.