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motherofagony · 10 months

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FIRE WALK - one shot

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: au, no outbreak!joel x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+, minors dni word count: 6.5k summary: a chance encounter at a motel has you crossing paths with a stranger in a blue t-shirt. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), very brief references to past non-con encounters (not with joel, no details just shitty men in general), soft!joel, alcohol, mentions of family trauma and ab*se, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f + m receiving), A Scene With a Belt™, slight mentions of reader's clothing but no physical descriptions otherwise, love as consumption and women as fruit a/n: this was a brain-worm of a one shot, so i had to press pause on AHFE and get it out. consider it a dirty love letter to strangers with stories in shitty motels. and i have to give the biggest thank-you to @iamskyereads for stepping in and offering to be my beta reader in the final hour. she was so unbelievably thorough and thoughtful and kind. i owe you big.

New-age boogeymen hang two-way mirrors and jiggle motel door handles with broken hangers.

That’s what the news says.

August licks an unforgiving line of heat up your back, and cutoff denim and halter tops do nothing but give the sun more skin to burn.

It’s sweltering, brutal as an Arizona summer is, and The Palms Motel promises a pool and a mini bar on their dirty marquee. You’ll take what you can get, can’t really afford to be picky with fifty dollars in your pocket, but at least maybe you’ll live like royalty tonight.

Some guy you met — Tom, Tim, Jim, whoever — pulls his convertible up to the front office. Your knees knock together over the speed bump, cartilage kissing bone.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come close to a chauffeur, but the chauffeur you see in movies doesn’t usually take liberties with trying to work his grease-speckled mechanic hand up the passenger’s shirt.

You met him at a gas station in Tucson, thumbing your way from northern Texas to put as much distance between you and your whiskey-breathed dad as you could. He’d torn your clothes apart at the seams with his eyes when he spotted you in the parking lot, swimming in blood-infested waters with sharp, sharp teeth.

There was no plan, no directions penned and cities circled on a folded map, just glass in your hair and a final straw.

He asked if you could buy him some booze — revoked license, baby, y’know how that goes — and you shouldn’t have, but when he flashed a leather wallet thick with cash, you knew you’d be stupid not to.

You hid behind a shelf inside the gas station while he idled in the parking lot and plucked a fifty from the wad, stuffing it deep in your bag. You grabbed some shitty malt-something from a fridge along with a 6-pack, flashing the slack-jawed cashier a wink.

He didn’t try to hide the eye contact with your tits, but neither do most men. Sometimes you milk it in your favor, sometimes it just makes your lunch rise to the back of your throat.

And when you’re by yourself, it’s hot iron, ready to strike. A doe in their headlights, a buck with a nice rack. Skipping through the center of their bullseye.

You bought a little palm-sized bottle for yourself and tucked it safely next to the stolen cash in the abyss of your purse. These tiny cons got you by, made power surge deep in your belly. It made loneliness feel worth it, knowing you had an upper hand to lean on if you were ever in a bind.

He bitched about inflation when you came out with less than was reasonable for the amount you spent, and you just shrugged. Not your cash, not your problem.

You bartered for a ride to the nearest motel, and now Tom-Tim-Jim is asking you over the purr of the engine if you need company for the night.

If you were feeling a little more you, you might’ve taken him up on it. Maybe he would’ve even paid for the room, maybe he wouldn’t get angry like your dad does. Maybe he’d be able to fuck you without hitting you.

You’re good at diffusing the temper in most men, can touch them in ways that make them grit their teeth, can be a good girl and go fetch.

But you’re not in the mood to bend, to give someone’s son — someone’s husband with a tan line around their ring finger — a place to wipe their shoes on. You don’t feel like wiping their dirt, your mascara from your eyes and saying thank you while they zip up their pants.

And you sure as fuck don’t fancy being on a milk carton.

“I’m alright, sugar. Thanks for the ride,” you say, dipping your chin to peer over your sunglasses. “I know where to find you, don’t worry.”

Yeah fuckin’ right.

He doesn’t try to conceal his disappointment, just sucks his teeth and squeezes at the exposed skin of your thigh. His way of saying goodbye to something he could’ve dripped sweat on, came in too early. You think your flesh might rot off in chunks.

You open the door and swing your legs out in a way that’s a little too eager.

Tom-Tim-Jim waves solemnly with two fingers up and two bent, and then he’s gone in an aggressive rev.

The motel might’ve been a kitschy dream in its heyday. It’s not a total dump; more of a vintage skeleton of washed-out pink and umbrellas that’ve been ripped by weather and overuse. There are a million faded emblems of cartoonish palm trees. It’s almost endearing how tragic it is.

You can tell that it was popular and swarming with tourists at one time — there are dusty, water-stained pamphlets lining the wall next to the front desk that brag Named one of Arizona’s top destinations in 1996!

A mounted fan whirs and oscillates, but it might as well be someone blowing hot breath down your neck.

There’s a tired woman holding down the fort at the desk with a name tag that claims Brenda, and she looks surprised to see you. You figure most customers are stopping in for a night’s rest on the way to somewhere more important, their final destination. But you don’t look like you have anywhere better to be.

“Hey, honey,” Brenda trickles, laced with an accent that’s more New Orleans than Arizona. “Need a room?”

“Yeah, just for the night,” you say, fishing out your wallet with confidence that doesn’t meet your eyes. “How much?”

“Forty-five a night, ‘less you wanna upgrade to the honeymoon suite.” She looks somewhere over your shoulder.

That’s nearly everything you have, but it sounds a lot like tomorrow’s problem. At least you’ll be safe tonight from the prowling stares of nighttime predators, and the leftover change will give you a decent vending machine dinner.

“Just a normal room’s fine,” you smile, sliding over the crumpled, stolen fifty.

Brenda types busily on the keyboard, asking for your name but nothing else. And when she hands you a plastic keycard, you finally relax your shoulders. Untangle the nerves in your lower back that are choking one another.

Room 17, it reads. Your oasis awaits!

You thank her, spin on your heel, and immediately bump chest to chest with something hard.

You’re eye level with a worn, cornflower blue t-shirt, ringed with a light stain of sweat at the collar. They’re grasping both of your arms to steady you, and you’re snagging the gaze of a tousled man with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” he murmurs, but it isn’t reprimanding or mean like you’re used to, just sickly sweet and Texan. Syrupy in a way that drips right down between your legs.

You don’t remember seeing anyone else in the lot when you’d pulled up. And the stealth of him entering soundlessly behind you sends a jolt of electricity up your spine, the clench of something that would be fear if it were any other stranger.

But he doesn’t look at you with intent to devour or to claim. Just eyes you like you’re anyone else. An equal. The bare minimum, but rare and shiny nonetheless.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he’s releasing you a little too quickly for your liking. Leaving brands on the creases of where your forearms meet upper and elbow.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

So you don’t.

You brush past him on the way out, a polite nod. And that’s that.

The heat is the kind that feels hotter, unbearable when paired with the shrill sing of cicadas. An endless buzzing that you think might be the sun sizzling on the concrete. If you stood in one place for too long, your flip flops might very well melt you in place.

Your room key clicks to unlock Room 17, and you push the door open to a heavy, humid space that smells vaguely of mold. You’re so grateful for the privacy that you can’t even bring yourself to wrinkle your nose.

Flip flops discarded, your toes sink into shag carpet — a dirty luxury that makes you moan. It’s only been two days since you left home, fled home, but it beats sleeping with one eye open on a bus stop bench.

You up-end your leather bag, dumping all of its contents onto the bed. Cigarettes, some loose film canisters, your toothbrush, a lighter. There wasn’t much time to pack, nothing worth bringing, and the less, the better. Nothing to weigh you down if you had to dip at a moment’s notice.

It takes you only a couple minutes and a light sheen of sweat to realize that the A/C is busted. Smothered, you try to crack open a window in the bathroom, but it’s no cooler than the hell you’re standing in.

When you let Brenda know, she just shrugs with an apologetic kind of half-smile.

“Most of ‘em are out these days, honey,” she says, and you decide then that it’s a small price to pay. “We got someone comin’ to look at it next week.”

You shoot her a smile, figure that she’s had enough rotten backtalk in her day. You scoop a set of flamingo-themed matches from the bowl on the counter and turn around, only to see a familiar blue shirt waiting his turn.

His eyes try not to roam, but he’s giving you a nod and stepping up without hesitation, asking Brenda for extra towels.

The way that she titters and blushes, you’d think he’d asked if he could spit in her mouth.

It irritates you, and you can’t say why.

The door chimes behind you as it closes, and you linger, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. When he emerges, a stack of towels so high it’s hitting his chin, you step in stride on the walk back. Tracing his footsteps, catching up with his shadow.

“You followin’ me?” you quip, a cigarette dangling from your mouth. The cherry ignites on every breath, smoke erupting in tendrils that hug each word.

He answers with a laugh, turns and squints back at you with one eye. Almost as if he was expecting you to ask.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Could say the same to you.”

You stop in front of 17, hand over your brow to shield from the sun that’s winding its way down, getting ready to tuck itself in for the night. There’s nothing that touches your tongue that doesn’t sound exactly like a fuck yes. So you don’t say anything.

“Enjoy your sauna,” he chuckles over his shoulder, passing you with his towels on the way to Room 20.

—

Led Zeppelin filters out through the radio, half-static, half-electric. Your legs are crossed in the air behind you, and you’re posted up face down on the bed, kicking along to the beat while you flip through whatever Cosmopolitan someone left behind in a drawer.

Someone raps a few times on the door, and if it’s a repairman, they’re getting their fucking dick sucked.

You army-roll off the flowery duvet, abandoning a how-to on finding your g-spot, and you peer through the peephole.

Your breath hitches on a soft swear.

When you open the door, you see Blue T-Shirt standing there, skin creasing around his eyes slyly. An unopened beer hangs and swings from his restless fingers. He offers it up wordlessly, the butt of it pointed at you.

It’s ice-cold and slippery to the touch, erupting goosebumps on your forearm. Saliva coats your tongue, and you don’t think it’s the thirst for alcohol, but maybe the tall drink of water.

“Um… thanks?”

“Figured you’d either be dead by now or parched,” he says smugly, and it’s velvet to your ears.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks. I got the fan to work at least,” you mutter, jerking your thumb vaguely behind you.

“Listen, uh —”

He’s rubbing the nape of his neck, and you catch the way the network of muscles flex from his elbow to the seam of his armpit. He looks like he’s in pain, struggling with the fit of a puzzle piece into something rough and jagged.

Something he shouldn’t be trying but has to see it through, exhaust it until it’s definite one way or the other.

You just squint, sucking in the corner of your lip between your teeth. You nearly grin, but it’s much more fun to watch than to connect the dots for him.

“A/C works in my room, so ‘f you wanted to… y’know,” he trails off, not even sure in his own offer. “No pressure. It’s hot as hell outside, don’t want you t’get heat stroke ‘f I can help it.”

This kind of approval you like. This kind that sizzles girl-honey between your legs, winning it from a man that’s playing to earn, not to cheat.

“I try not to make a habit out of going into motel rooms of guys I don’t know the names of,” you harp sweetly. But it might as well be a done-deal.

“D’you make a habit outta accepting beers from ‘em?”

You smile. Typically, yes.

“Joel.”

His hand shoots out, strong and suggestive. Fingers like alligator teeth that’ll grip you, hold you under until you thrash.

And you pluck your cigarettes and gifted liquor bottle from the bed, arms full when you carry them down to Joel’s room.

—

You’re sprawled on the full-size bed next to his, head propped up on hand propped up on elbow.

You’ve been trading your little fist of bourbon back and forth, swapping stories in the same way. Somehow, you fall into it easy like old friends, and it’s nice to follow someone’s lead instead of keeping one step, three, seven steps ahead. Arm outstretched to the door knob, feet ready to break into a run at the change in tone, blackening of pupils.

Without meaning to, you’ve wordlessly agreed that the person in possession of the bottle has the proverbial mic, and they swig to help with details and theatrics. It’s counter-productive in flow, but it makes you laugh when Joel exaggerates the story he’s telling on purpose, reaching out to pass it back and suddenly yanking it back, remembering a shade of gray or a funny expression.

Your knuckles keep zapping each other, brushing a little longer than the time before. There’s no numbness to consensual touch.

Joel’s mid-40s. From Texas, like you. He came to visit his daughter Sarah at college, says she’s growin’ up too fast, doesn’t need her old man anymore. It’s a thrill to see someone talk about their own flesh with love, admiration for who she is and who she’s becoming. You find yourself leaning in, enraptured that there are no IOUs or fine-print that you know to come with a parent’s love.

Mentions of his stubborn brother Tommy who he works with and who just can’t stop getting into trouble. The unspoken guilt that maybe he could be the one to keep him out of jail if he tried harder. It doesn’t work that way, and you tell him so.

You tell him about your dad when he asks about your life, your story, and you don’t know why you do but maybe you know exactly why. No one ever gets close enough to ask, so it comes leaking out of the corners of your mouth.

You’ve never told anyone, not even your diary, not even the guidance counselor who slipped a note to your fifth grade teacher and pulled you out of class. Shaky fingers, shaky limbs when they asked if they could roll up your sleeves just to see and you said no.

Crying because you knew your dad wouldn’t let you go back. Not to school, not to your friends.

You omit the nitty-gritty details, but Joel gets the gist. Swigs his share of the liquor a little too angrily with tight lips. Not like your dad does, but you don’t miss the irony of it all.

He holds anger for you, on behalf of you. It simmers as he listens to you in patient silence, coming to a boil at the bad parts when he gets up and starts walking lines in the shitty carpet. Pretending to look outside in interest at his truck parked at the end of the lot, but gripping the curtains until you can see every expanse of bone in his hand.

You don’t need this from him. It’s a hurt you’ve wedged between the pages of a book and doused in flames of acceptance long ago. But it spreads from your toes to your ears, the burn of someone feeling like this. For someone like you.

He finally settles down in an armchair by the window, a funny corduroy thing that would probably light up under a blacklight on one of those crime shows. Legs parted, a warm stare on the way you take up space on the bed. Facing him comfortably, your vision buzzing around the edges. A loose smile shared as if this room was meant for the two of you all along.

“So, what’s your plan?” Joel’s humming, his words getting lost in an echo of the bottle neck.

You don’t have one. Can’t have one when you have nowhere to go but gone.

It stretches on and on between you — a mouth opened and closed too many times on possibilities. If you admit to it, you end up with pity or an upper hand dealt to a stranger. You can’t afford to owe anyone a favor, nor can you front the cost of needing one.

But you’re so tired.

“Dunno. I’ll figure it out.”

“You got enough time for that?”

And you know what he means. Enough time in the motel, enough time before you’re a thief at wit’s end, doing anything for survival. He doesn’t need to ask to know you don’t have a destination, some relative waiting for you in a California dream.

You’ve excused yourself to the bathroom, soft radio bleeding in under the door, arms braced on the sink, all glossy eyes.

You want him, bad. But he won’t make the first move, won’t take advantage of what isn’t his and what others before him took without asking. You’re a pawn, entitled to the first move. The rejection would kill you, but not knowing would be worse.

He could hold you soft, give you something to think about when tomorrow rips you both in opposite directions.

When you pull open the door, Joel’s frozen in mid-stride towards you, like he’s just made up his mind about something.

He straightens but he’s still. Afraid of moving too fast, saying too much, scaring you into flight. Out of the unlocked cage of his room — something he did on purpose, because he doesn’t expect anything from you and wants you to know he doesn’t.

You meet him in his dusty shag quicksand. You take his wrist in your hand, kiss the thrum of life in the dip where veins meet palm. An offering.

Joel looks like he’s in pain, like what you’re doing is excruciating and thorny. The front of his jeans strains. He’s searching you for any hesitation, any obligation because he did something kind. He knows what currency you feel the need to pay in, and this isn’t that.

“Please,” you whisper simply. And he nods, accepting, succumbing.

There’s a careful meeting of lips, wanting to do it the right way, in the right order. When you push your tongue in, used to the pace of animals, he just holds your face and slows you down. It’s languid, his mouth showing you what sweet and gentle can taste like. Your tongues take their time, and your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, all ribbed muscle with a sprinkling of hair.

He shudders against the lightness of your feather-fingers.

Joel’s hands are peeling your shirt off, his thumbs resting to press against pillowy hips. He’s not letting your lips go, something like impatience stirring in you.

Doesn’t he want to fuck you hard? Fuck you fast and selfish?

Isn’t there a catch?

He’s taking his shirt off now, up and over. Carved by Michaelangelo, thrown up on a ceiling in a library book you read once. You’re touching him in reverence, but not letting yourself learn too much of him.

His eyes are molten. Joel walks you back to the edge of the bed, scratchy quilt tickling your thighs when you fall back on it. You start to pose yourself, angles that make you look more desirable, pliable. But he’s not paying attention to that, just unbuttoning your shorts, kissing the jut of every curve and permeating down to the bone, punching out a soft groan when he slides the denim off and sees the shining ambrosia that’s waiting.

He’s kneeling, tugging you down to meet his waiting mouth. And you’re just breathless, flinching when he pulls you apart, guiding your legs over his shoulders and wasting no time devouring you. Your legs, his bib.

Joel’s tongue flicks through the shell of you, teasing you in alternates of quick and slow, starving and full. It feels like a slice of heaven.

You pitch out a tangled gasp, hands instinctively moving to knot in his hair. Anything to hold onto, a different kind of grounding.

“So wet f’me,” he vibrates lowly into you, all husk. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

He sinks a middle finger into you, and you’re keening, hips canting and unable to stay glued to the mattress. You feel him smile against your cunt, just pressing his forearm across your lower half to keep you still.

Joel’s twisting and working into you, onto you, and you’re so fucking close from just this — a tiptoeing to the edge that grows longer, more erratic in stride. He sucks your clit — pulsing sensitive, so swollen — into his mouth and grazes it with the tip of his tongue just so. Baring his incisors and closing around you in a delicious scrape like a Venus flytrap taking its meal.

You think you see God behind the flutter of your eyes.

You’re close enough to warn him, to rasp it out in the symphony of moans. His free hand reaches up to roll your peaked nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and he stretches you with an added ring finger. You’re writhing. Possessed.

He’s watching you through thick lashes. Letting your heels dig into his shoulders as the drenched sounds of you fill the room.

“Joel, please — I’m gonna —”

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he just murmurs.

You feel that little pull at your navel.

And you’re tipping in a freefall, seeing stars. You clench down around his fingers, fingers that are still pumping against that spongy spot deep inside you. Your arousal gushes, wet and sticky against the scrape of his beard. He laps you up, the sight making heat creep up your chest and wrap around your neck.

When he lifts his head, he’s high on it. Pupils dilated like tiny, round moons. Your orgasm glistens on him, smeared over lips and chin. The fur of a peach peeled back far enough to sink teeth into.

It’s fucking filthy.

Joel places open-mouthed kisses from your hip up to the center of your breasts, a trail of your orgasm shiny on your skin in perfect, sloppy Os. His breath meets your throat where he nips at you, and you don’t have time to drag in a breath before you’re tasting the saltiness of yourself on his tongue.

Your fingers fumble on his belt, practiced with years of releasing the tension on the metal prongs, the slithering sound whooshing from the loops of pants. You’re good at it, like you used to be good at gymnastics until your mom stopped getting out of bed to drive you.

There was always a little gold for contorting your body.

He detaches from you unwillingly, putting all of his weight on his knees and shins as he straddles the space of your thighs.

You’re pulling yourself up in a sitting position, pushing denim and boxers down past his hips. Letting his cock spring free, the head a dark pink and beaded with precum. You swipe the flat of your tongue against it, peeking up at him while you soak up the taste of it.

When you push the length of him into your mouth, ridged hard with veins, Joel tips his head back, chin to the ceiling. He groans something brutish yet helpless, cradling the back of your head. You’re seated in the driver’s seat, all control.

It’s new, different.

But then he’s moving his hips back, pulling himself from your mouth, wiping the saliva from your chin with a steady thumb.

“Don’t need t’do that,” Joel whispers hoarsely. “Not ‘f you don’t want to.”

Confused, you knit your brows. He laughs darkly, shaking his head.

“Didn’t mean it like that, it’s — it feels fuckin’ good,” he says, awestruck. “Would just rather make you feel good instead.”

Oh.

He doesn’t wait for an answer or a negotiation. The rest of his clothes pool on the floor in a pile, and he’s climbing back over you, an anchor or a buoy in a storm.

He lines himself up at the seam of you, puffy and so wet from before, nudging the tip of his cock at your warm center. A thumb coaxing the bud at the apex of you in lazy circles.

Joel’s sliding in slowly by each inch, filling you full until there’s nothing left and his patch of hair prickles the pearl of your clit. All you can do is whine and tense around him.

He’s resting tentative hands on either side of your face, indenting the weak mattress with handprints. He groans, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give in when you try to rock against him.

“This alright?”

You’ve forgotten how to do anything, hoping that digging your fingertips into his forearms is communication enough.

“I’m gonna need a yes, baby.”

You feel around in the dark for the tether back to your body, and it jerks you like a marionette, giving him a nod.

“Yes. Fuck.”

That’s enough. He’s rewarding you with a roll of his hips, and you feel like you’re on fire. It’s a stuttering, painfully slow pace at first, his mouth so close to your ear that every grunt is amplified. But it evolves into something eager, unsatiated, snapping up into you with a relentless sort of fucking.

He’s hitting that place so deep within you, letting you unravel and grow hoarse from the moans tearing their way up your throat. That pressure is roiling, the kind that you get only when you touch yourself but intensified by a million.

It just feels so right, because there’s nothing to prove.

You’re ships passing in the night, strangers making a pit-stop on the way to nowhere. There’s no backstory, no history to make mention of. No shame in the morning when he inevitably rolls over and pretends to be asleep, and you scrub off the smell of him with your provided travel-size shampoo.

It’s not love, but it might be the closest you ever get.

The glow of him above you, a deity with his face screwed in agony. Chasing after you when he feels the tightening of your cunt, the easy glide of every thrust that tells him you’re close.

Then, you’re snapping like a rubber band. Gushing in a dripping mess that trickles to where your ass meets thigh. Crying without tears, overstimulated but blissful. Joel is quick to follow, like he’s been waiting his turn.

He’s trembling, emptying inside you in a warm flood. Groaning low and beautiful, gripping your hips to keep you flush to him.

When pulls out, tearing himself away, he’s slinging an arm over his eyes on the pillow beside yours. One hand on your leg to make sure you don’t go anywhere.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him mutter.

At some point you drift off, his arm draped over you. You open a bleary eye to a neon 2:49AM that casts a halo over the nightstand. Joel’s tucked you in, the thin duvet snug up to your shoulder. He’s not snoring but not not snoring, just breath getting caught in his throat in a satisfied, well-spent way.

It’s all too much, too pure to be real.

Before you let yourself change your mind, you slink out from under the warmth of your generous stranger. You step in your shorts one foot at a time, tugging them up gelatin legs too springy from coiling and uncoiling.

You promise yourself that you’ll take just one mental picture as a keepsake, and it’s this. A sleepy Joel who will be well on his way to a second cup of coffee on the way out of Arizona, maybe even nursing a little headache behind his right eye. And he’ll remember an apparition of some girl he fucked in a motel. The touristy thing to do, a sight to see.

He might even tell Tommy, say you were a crazy little thing with too much baggage, but it was fun to stay up past his bedtime.

You don’t mean to do it, really you don’t, but you flip through his wallet that lays innocently on top of the TV.

If you take a little something, that’ll turn this into another one of your stories that you tell your kids born from a loveless marriage somewhere in the crevices of a future from now. It won’t pull on the tendons of your heart.

And it won’t mean anything. You won’t let it.

—

The next morning, there’s a soft knock at the door, and it’s probably housekeeping kicking you out for overstaying your welcome. Time to turn down the bed for the next lost soul. You imagine Joel’s long gone, hopped in his truck and back to a reality you’ll never meet him in.

Your fingers are slow to gather up your purse, and you’re shoving your toothbrush in from its place on the sink.

“I’ll be out in a second!” you yell in a voice that reeks of years of diner-flavored customer service.

More persistent knocking that borders on pounding. It shakes the chain in the deadbolt.

You’re yanking open the door, and there’s Joel, white shirt and jeans. And it isn’t that cushion of admiration from last night, no greeting with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Just a wolf coming to claim his continental breakfast.

Fuck.

You try to shut the door, suddenly too ashamed of what you’ve done, and to someone undeserving. Someone that showed you kindness, empathy.

But his boot catches the door before it can close, and he’s inside, slicing through the space between you. It’s not quite anger, but it’s shadowy. Sardonic.

Your shoulder blades kiss the cheap wallpaper.

“You’re real funny, y’know that?” he starts, and he’s smiling but not really.

Shrinking small, so small that maybe you’ll disappear.

There’s a tick of silence. His thumb skates to your collarbone and then to the hollow at the base of your throat. He wants to squeeze but he doesn’t, his fingers wrapping loosely around the column to fix you there. Heat creeps up the back of your neck into your hairline.

The instinct to flinch bubbles up against your joints, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Y’think you can fuck me,” he muses, disgustingly deadpan, “‘n steal from me.”

Dread weighs heavy like lead in your stomach. You can’t stop yourself from shaking your head, still playing dumb.

He bristles at that, thunderous. You both know it’s a lie; you’re a hundred dollars richer than you were last night. His fingers briefly flex around you in a way that you’ve seen before, and horror hits a fever pitch in you.

Tears prick your eyes, and you’re putting your palms on his chest and shoving, but he doesn’t give. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and all that.

It’s not so much the blaring punctuation in a sentence, the ticking of dynamite ready to blow. He’s confronting you with proximity, with your own dishonesty. Wanting to shake you and tell you that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Joel just leans in closer, almost grazing noses. You try to breathe around the lump of panic.

“The hell’s the matter with you?”

It’s disbelief, it’s hurt. In the same way, it’s understanding, incredulous. It’s him stepping back and loosening the hold around your neck like no one’s ever done; it’s softening and imploring.

He’s shoving his hands in his pockets, guilty and recoiling. Sorry he could even make himself look like one of them — a forced penance in the flesh.

There’s no answer that can justify what you did. Nothing simple about nothing personal. But truly… that’s all it was. A pie wafting steam on an open windowsill. Something to make you feel better about the void he’d leave.

“‘F you needed money, you coulda just asked.”

He’s disappointed, desperate. In a tone that really says, I would’ve done anything you wanted.

A dam inside you gives, crumbling deep at the foundation and knocking the walls down around you. Words don’t come, but you shove your hand in blind into your bag, pulling out the loose bill and extending it.

Joel sees the regretful offering and your heart with x-ray vision. That you think of yourself as a doll, less valuable without her box. Used without tags. Free to a good home.

He shakes his head, the softness of a keep it barely peeking out of his mouth.

You’re skinning yourself raw, wanting another way out but having none. With half a mind to say that the next night could come with fangs.

You feel the stab of relief, and shame. So much shame.

Like a soothsayer, he foresees the coldness of a bench, the shrinking of you into the safety of an alley.

You drop to your knees in exaltation, thinking you know what’ll fix this. You can’t see through the watercolor blur of your tears, but you touch his belt with fingers that are cold to the tips.

But Joel knows what you’re doing, shaking his head no no no.

He won’t let you do it like this. He drags you up gently by the elbows. Pulls you into his chest, says stop stop stop. Kisses your hair, then your lips. You cry until he can taste the tears, until the front of his shirt is damp.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp out roughly. “I’m so sorry.”

He tells you to never say sorry to him again.

—

Joel pays for a room for two more nights, but only one — his with the working A/C.

You move your toothbrush and your bag over to Room 20.

You go to the pool, swimming laps around him in a tank top and your cherry-embroidered underwear, squealing and splashing in a flail when he swims underneath your legs and stands up to hold you on his tan shoulders.

Sunscreen streaks greasy on your stomach when you lay out together on the loungers after. Joel likes a cat-nap with his face under a towel, grumpy and tired from the sun. But he never snaps at you, never gets impatient when you ask too many questions while he’s dozing off.

You learn the pinched expression he makes just before he comes. That his right palm has hundreds of lines you can see best by lamplight. He misses the noise of Sarah in his house, of sharing the coffee pot with someone. He doesn’t like the small piling of toast crumbs left only by him on the kitchen table.

He learns that you apologize for wet, clean hair on his pillowcase, for laughing too loud. Things that don’t need a sorry. A collection of oversaturated manners that might take time to unlearn, but he promises to teach you.

He learns that you approach an orgasm with tentative toes in cold water, almost unbelieving that sex can give, give, give instead of take, take, take. He learns that you like the meeting of eyes when he’s buried between your legs, pushing your thighs apart to keep from suffocating. That when he does let you get on your knees for him, you know just the spot to caress with your tongue on the underside of his cock.

Joel’s belt is snaked under your stomach, across your hips, fists intertwined in the leather as he pulls you back, slams himself forward. It bites and creates indents in your flesh, and you don’t care. He gives you marks to love, to admire in your reflection, never ones that are ugly. Never ones out of hate over spilled milk.

There’s a dirty slap of skin, growing louder, competing with your moans. Your nails are tearing into the cheap sheets, and Joel’s so close but won’t come until he coaxes another out of you. A grand total of at least four by now, but you’ve lost count.

At long last, you splinter around him. Pitching off the cliff in a cry. Joel’s leaning — his chest, your back — and spilling deep, holding onto you for dear life. You hear him whimper in a strangle. Big, tough game that’s been taken down with an arrow in his chest.

Hot tears are flowing out of you, stuttering sobs close to follow, and Joel pulls out slowly. Seems to know why. And he rolls you over, into him, hand careful in slow strokes against your hair.

You’ve never been good at goodbyes. Maybe that’s what this is.

Men like to say that women like you are insane, too analytical, too tear-streaked, too conscious of the way they look when they sleep. Because waking up with your mouth open, a drying corner of drool threatening your cheek is too human, not pretty.

Sometimes women like you are dead, rotting pomegranate flesh. Long forgotten in decay on the ground when the weight became too heavy to hold yourself up. And those men pick up your seeds and shove them squelching back into places where they don’t fit.

The winters come bitter and harsh, but you’re always reborn in the spring. And without fail, you grow back fiercely into a tree reminiscent of Eden, low-hanging apples plucked and bruised and bitten into once and spit out in tart disgust.

Women like you choke men like this with your pits, strangle them with vines, poison them with berries. They can consume, but so can you.

But then, in the ripe, cool shade of summer, you’ll have a visitor like Joel that will come with a basket and a blanket and they’ll stay and read books beneath you. They’ll enjoy your fruit, you’ll drip from their mouth and dry tacky like flypaper, and they won’t be able to imagine a day before you.

They’ll collect all the pieces of you on a Tuesday morning and give you change to get a Coke after checkout. They’ll tuck you into the front seat of their truck, let you put your feet up on the dash, hand protective and calm on your thigh while the other steers you both back to Texas. A new home without shouting and bottles thrown.

And they’ll stay through every season.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us au #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #fire walk #my writing #joel miller one shot #motherofagony

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kiss-theggoat · 1 year

Note

Would you write for Thomas Hewitt ?

A/N: I just recently watched this version and hubba hubba I’m in love with Mr Thomas Hewitt. I’ve only seen this one twice, so if some characters are out of character, I apologize! I hope you like it as much as I do bc this boy deserves better!

Bluebonnets

Thomas Hewitt x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: You and your friends stopped for gas in a rinky dink little town in Texas, but the Hewitt family thinks that you’d be perfect for their little Tommy.

TW: Violence and Gore, Death, Hoyt is a pervert, Cannibalism, Sort of Stockholm Syndrome, Ends with fluff

The sun beat down on your face as you laid your head back against the rough leather seat, deeply regretting the fact that you agreed to drive in a convertible through Texas in the middle of August. Your sweat broke through the barrier of sunblock, leaving your skin sticky and shiny, the humid wind doing absolutely nothing to cool you off.

“We’re almost outta gas!” Johnny yelled, his hand on Sue’s thigh. She rolled her eyes and scoffed at him. “I thought we gassed up in Austin!”

He shrugged. “We did. Getting bad gas mileage I guess!”

She groaned, throwing her head back in frustration. You were relieved to finally get out of the car and into some sort of building, hopefully with air conditioning. You sat in the back, squished against the side of the car by Tyler and Ginny making out, taking up almost the entire seat. You felt a little bit fifth-wheel-y, but you knew your friends would’ve given you so much shit if you refused to come.

Johnny pointed to a sign up ahead, faded and cracked from the relentless Texas sun. In light pink, what used to be red, the sign said, ‘GAS AND BARBECUE NEXT EXIT’. Johnny laughed, squeezing Sue’s thigh with a sweaty palm. “Barbecue, babe! Let’s go!”

Sue sighed. “Fine.” She turned to everyone in the back, and you saw that she was just as sweaty as you, tanned skin shining in the sunlight. “Everyone okay with stopping here.”

For some reason, this got on your nerves. You didn’t know if it was the fact that you’d been in the car for six hours or the fact that you were baking like a casserole in 100 degree weather. Or maybe it was the fact that everyone in the car was giving eachother fuck-me eyes, like a sick joke you weren’t apart if. And, on top of that, the last thing you wanted after being in 86 percent humidity was fucking barbecue. “Where the hell else are we going to stop? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

Sue gave you a look before you were interrupted by Ginny. “Here’s fine, babe!” She smiled at Sue, her lips red and swollen from being absolutely ravished by her scrawny boyfriend. You crossed your arms and laid your head back down, trying your best to meditate your way out of this road trip.

You guess it worked because before you knew it, you were pulling into the run-down gas station, car switching off with an alarming squeal. You hopped out of the car, not bothering to talk to any of your friends, and went inside. Your stomach turned. Instead of the blissful air conditioning you were yearning for, you were smacked in the face by the putrid smell of rotting meat. Flies buzzed around your face, and you swore it was hotter in here than it was outside.

Looking around, there was a convenience store area, a case to your left with meat inside, and a little old lady sitting behind the counter. You took a deep, stabilizing breath. You were pissed and over this trip, but you knew better than to take it out on some poor unsuspecting stranger. You put on a smile and walked towards her, pulling your shorts further down your thighs. The old lady looked up at you and then back down at her book, before doing a double take. She took her glasses off, then gave you a small smile.

“Hi sweetie. What can I do for you?”

She’s nice, you thought. You liked when old ladies called you cute names. You smiled brighter at her, feeling relieved that one person was making you feel actual joy on this trip. “Hi, ma’am. Is there a bathroom here.”

“Yes, hun, it’s outside, around the side of the station.” She said, handing you a key ring. You tried not to let your face scrunch in disgust, but you were pretty sure there was a real rabbit's foot on this thing. You grabbed the key from her, avoiding the furry foot, and told her, “Thank you so much. My friends are also going to use the restroom so I’ll have this back in a few minutes.” She nodded at you, going back to her book.

You pushed the door open, actually relieved to be outside. You welcomed the smell of dust that Texas had gotten you used to instead of the rancid steaks. As you walked towards the bathroom, Sue grabbed your arm, making you jump. “What the hell is up with you?” She asked, staring at you accusingly.

You sighed, feeling better after your pleasant exchange with the old woman. “I’m sorry for being snippy. I’m just tired and hot and…done being in the car.” You said quietly, shaking her off to go towards the dilapidated bathroom.

“You can have the front seat from now on, you can actually feel the AC a little bit sometimes.” She said, following you.

You put the key in the door and twisted it. “It’s okay. The sun goes down in like…an hour and a half? It should cool down.” The moment the door swung open, you were hit with that same raunchy smell. You put a hand over your nose and grimaced, “It smells like this inside too…” you sighed, slowly walking into the single stall bathroom.

You couldn’t have pissed faster. You quickly washed up and nearly sprinted from the bathroom back towards the car, holding your face the entire time. The cheap soap from your hands also smelled bad, but compared to the smell of the bathroom, it was like the world's most expensive perfume. “Uhm…does anyone else need to use the bathroom? I have to return the key.”

Everyone shook their heads, but Johnny spoke up. “We’ll go with you. We’ll get food and pay for the gas.”

You nodded and opened the door to the station for everyone, watching in amusement as all of their faces twisted with disgust just as yours did when you first smelled it. The old lady looked up again, and instead of her smile she wore a sneer as she watched Johnny walk up to her. “We need twenty dollars on pump one.” He said, not looking at her and pulling out his wallet.

“We don’t have gas.” She said quickly and coldly, holding her book up in front of him. “Haven’t for a couple weeks.”

Johnny scoffed in disbelief, tossing his hands down on the counter. “So you’re the only gas station for 100 miles and you don’t have any gas?”

She shrugged, not answering.

“Well, when are you gonna have gas?” Ginny asked, also putting her hands on the counter.

“Could be a week. Maybe more.”

Johnny looked down in the case, noticing the green meat and flies swarming. “So no gas and I’m guessing…” he tapped aggressively on the glass. “No barbecue?”

The old lady took her glasses off again, irritated. “We got food.” She pointed behind your group to shelves of food that looked like it was from the 1940’s.

Johnny laughed, head rolling back. “You’ve got to be kidding me, lady! You have to take that sign down if everything is a fucking lie!”

You stepped forward, putting an arm in front of Johnny’s torso and pushing him away from the counter slightly. “I’m sorry ma’am. We’ll find somewhere else to go, thank you for your help and letting us use the restroom.” You said, sliding the key back over the counter. You felt bad for her. Obviously this town wasn’t a money pit, and maybe she did have a popular place before, but it looks like everything’s gone out of business. Maybe she’s barely surviving, the last thing she needs is five twenty-something year olds harassing her for things she can’t control.

She gave you her attention, unlike your friends. She smiled at you, grabbing the key back from you. “Thank you, young lady. You’re very polite. Maybe you could teach your friends there some manners.” She said, pointing to Johnny and Ginny with her glasses. Johnny scoffed and started to yell something, but you quickly yanked on his shoulder to usher them out of the building. You nodded at the woman with a smile before leaving. You bumped into Johnny’s back hard, wondering why the hell he stopped in front of you like that.

You moved out from behind him to see a cop. “Great, the old hag called the cops!” Johnny groaned, only shutting up when Sue rubbed his bicep. You never liked Johnny.

“We ain’t get no call folks. Came here for some refreshments.” The cop said, pointing to his badge. “And I ain’t just any cop. Sheriff. Sheriff Hoyt.”

Johnny sighed, nodding. “Okay, Sheriff. Where’s the nearest gas station? This dump doesn’t have gas.”

“It ain’t nice to disrespect someone’s business, boy.” The sheriff scowled, spitting black tobacco onto the concrete. You could feel your heart rate rising, you knew that Johnny was going to get you in trouble somehow. You looked around, finally seeing the sheriff’s cruiser parked behind the convertible. As you peered inside, you noticed a man sitting in the passenger seat. You couldn’t see him too well, but he was large, blocking up pretty much the entire window.

“It’s hardly a business. Pretty sure there’s botflies inside, could kill someone.” Johnny started to walk away, but the Sheriff stepped in front of him to block his path. “What’s your fucking problem?”

The sheriff stared into Johnny’s eyes, scowling. You could sense the tension, and decided you’d be the peace keeper of the day. “Sir…sir, we’re sorry. We’re just almost out of gas and we’ve been traveling for a long time.” You said, stepping towards the Sheriff.

His eyes raked over you, making you feel sort of icky. You wished you were wearing a winter coat, despite the heat. He spit again, a gross squelch breaking the silence. “Finally someone with some manners.”

Johnny laughed, “What the fuck is up with old people and manners?! Jesus Christ, we just need gas!” He yelled, shoving the Sheriff’s shoulder. You gasped, grabbing Johnny’s arm but in the blink of an eye, a revolver was being pointed at Johnny’s face. Everyone froze, staring at the firearm.

“Now are you gonna show some respect, boy? I’m the Sheriff of this town and I’m not gonna tolerate a group of hoodlums messin’ things up.” He said, voice hushed, almost a whisper.

You nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. We’re leaving. Let’s go.” You moved towards the car, but the Sheriff stopped you.

“Y’all think you can just stroll into a town, cause trouble, and go?” He laughed, cocking the gun with a haunting click. “Tommy!” He yelled, turning his head towards the car. The door slowly opened and you watched as a mammoth of a man stepped out, dress shirt and apron giving him an even larger silhouette. He wore a mask with messy brown hair, broad shoulders slouched. Your heart skipped a beat. Wrong situation to think this, but the man was quite handsome. You’d always liked bigger men.

“Please sir…we don’t want any trouble. We’d just like to be on our way, we’ll leave and never come back.” You pleaded, hands out in front of you. Gravel crunched beneath the huge man’s feet as he walked towards your group. The sheriff turned to him. “Whadya think Tommy?” He asked with a cruel cackle.

The ringing of a bell made you turn back towards the station, and you saw the old lady standing there. She held her reading glasses, and pointed at you with them. Your heart dropped. What did this mean? You turned back to the sheriff, and he looked just as confused as you did. She scoffed at his confusion. She wanted to tell him something, but didn’t want you and your friends to hear it. She waddled over slowly, but Johnny had other ideas. He spun quickly, hitting the sheriff’s arm, but unfortunately, it didn’t cause him to drop the gun. Tyler started to run, Ginny tried to help Johnny, and Sue grabbed your arm. “Let’s go! We need to run!” She yelled.

Your ears rang at the close range of the gunshot, you fell to your knees, scraping them, and covered your ears with your hands. You heard a scream, immediately recognizing it as Sue. You turned around to see Johnny, laying on the dirt with blood pooling around him, a perfect bullet wound in the center of his forehead. You felt nauseous, but you couldn’t move. Looking up, you saw the smoking revolver gripped tight in the sheriff's hand, now focused on Sue. She was hunched over Johnny’a body, sobbing and screaming, the tears making trails of clean skin as they wiped away the thin layer of dust.

Somewhere to your right, another scream. Ginny. You saw the large man, who the Sheriff called Tommy, holding her up in the air on his shoulder. She banged against his chest with knees and hit his back with her fists, thrashing and screaming. On his other arm, he held the limp body of Tyler, blood dripping from his head and beading in the dust, tucked beneath his armpit. This man carried two grown adults effortlessly, his strength scared the hell out of you. You didn’t even see if he had a weapon, but he managed to take them both down.

You sat in terror. You wanted to run, but with a revolver focused on your head, what were your options. The old lady appeared on your left, hand touching the Sheriff’s shoulder. She leaned in to whisper, but you heard her.

“Don’t touch her. Keep her for Tommy.”

Keep her for Tommy? What the fuck did that mean? You stared up at them in fear and watched as he groaned, pointing the gun at Sue instead. She didn’t even look phased, too focused on her boyfriend’s dead body. Tommy loaded the other two into the back of the car, and then made his way back towards you. Tears welled in your eyes as he approached, his shadow looming over you and finally blocking you from the sun. As he got closer, you saw the detail in his face and clothes. He had pretty eyes and his hair looked soft, but his bloody clothes and tight leather mask contrasted the softness of the rest of him.

He grabbed your arm in a surprisingly soft grip, the only thing disconcerting about his touch was the slickness from the blood that he left on your skin. He pulled you towards the car, and it was obvious he wanted you to follow. The old woman put a hand on his shoulder and affectionately patted his chest, he leaned down to her level. She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek and told him, “She’s perfect for you, Tommy.”

You finally realized what was going on. They were setting you up with him, like you and your friends were on some sort of sick dating game. You stumbled as you followed him to the cop car, his head was down and his shoulders were slumped as he opened the front passenger side and moved aside. You looked up at him. He wanted you to get in, but he didn’t put you in the back like you thought he would, and for that, you were grateful. The last thing you wanted to do was sit beside the bleeding, passed out bodies of two of your friends.

You took a seat in the scalding car, body swaying with the force that he shut the door. He stood in front of the door as if keeping watch, like a prison guard. You stared in horror as the sheriff finally had enough with Sue, giving her the same fate as Johnny. She laid on his chest, her blood mixing with his as the sheriff walked away from their bodies. You were grateful you were far away from them, both because you didn’t want to see your best friend die, and your ears were still ringing from the first gunshot.

The sheriff entered the car, flashing you a creepy smirk before you felt Tommy enter the backseat. You stared out the window, definitely in shock and confused. Just twenty minutes ago the worst of your problems was having to pee on a road trip and now you just watched all of your friends either die or be brutally attacked by someone who is supposed to protect the community. You had a feeling he wasn’t a real sheriff, given the nature of the recent events.

You laid your head against the door. You hadn’t noticed how tired you were, but you guessed experiencing something like that would be hard on your body. Feeling fairly confident that they wouldn’t kill you, you drifted off to sleep as he drove who knows where.

You only woke up to the sound of a door slamming and you realized that it was dark outside. You had no idea where you were or how long you’d been driving, but you felt disgusting. Cheeks stiff with tears, nose running, mouth dry and eyes burning. Your door opened and you were being yanked out by the sheriff, who was much rougher with you than Tommy was. You winced at how tight he was holding you as he dragged you towards a fairly large country style home.

The door was kicked open and you saw the same old woman from the station holding a pot of food. “Finally, Charlie. Tommy had to help cook.” She scoffed, setting the pot down at the large dining room table, where an old man already sat.

“Dammit, Luda Mae, I told you! It’s Sheriff Hoyt! You hear me!” He yelled, hitting the wall with his free hand, making you jump. You were putting the pieces together. There was Hoyt, or Charlie apparently, Tommy, Luda Mae, and then this old man. They lived together, probably related.

You looked around, saw the table full of food, dusty knickknacks, bones hanging from the ceiling. It all felt like a sick mix of home and hell. The rugs and the quilts on the plush couches looked knit, and the lamps give the room a comforting glow. If you weren’t here under these circumstances, you might find this house cozy.

Hoyt forced you to the table, plopping you down across from the old man already seated. He tied your wrists to the chair with leather straps that were bolted in. Obviously, this wasn’t their first time offense. Your fingertips began to cool with how tight the leather was cinched, and you whimpered at the pain. Luda Mae sat next to the old man, smiling at you.

“Oh dear. The moment I saw you, I knew that my Thomas would like you. We’re so happy to have you here.” She sounded genuinely happy, and you couldn’t help feeling sorry for this family. You heard Hoyt bang in something and yell Tommy’s name, then a loud sliding sound. Thomas walked into the dining room and took a seat next to you, across from Luda Mae. Hoyt took the head of the table, standing over the pot with a giant ladle.

“Well thanks to this pretty lady…” he said, winking at you, warning a scoff from Luda Mae, “and all of her friends… we’ll have dinner for the next couple a’ weeks!” He grabbed Thomas’ bowl and dropped in a ladle full, then the same with Luda Mae’s. As he served you, you noticed large chunks of game-y looking meat inside of your stew. Surely he didn’t mean….

You stared in horror at your food, lips sealed shut in fear that you may vomit. Your mouth watered with the insatiable urge to throw up everywhere, and you felt a cold sweat break out on your forehead. You watched as everyone dug in, eating with a fervor that said they’d been starving for a month. They moaned in joy at the flavor of the food, occasionally complimenting Thomas or Luda Mae for the cooking. Only you and Thomas weren’t eating. He because he didn’t want to remove his mask in front of you, and you because you weren’t really on board with cannibalism.

“Don’t be ungrateful, boy. Eat your damn dinner!” Hoyt yelled, a cooked carrot flying from his mouth onto the table as he slammed his hand down. Thomas jumped and put his hands near his face, like he was expecting to be hit. Your heart ached for him. It was obvious he didn’t want to do this. He wasn’t evil like the rest of them, he was forced to do this. You watched him slowly unbuckle the leather strap of his mask and slide it off, revealing a scarred face, exposed nose cartilage and teeth, mangled jaw bones. You felt terrible watching him keep his face down, hair covering it. He was ashamed.

He picked up a spoon, but still didn’t eat. He just stirred the stew. Obviously you wouldn’t know this, but he didn’t want to eat in front of you, because eating was a little difficult for him. He was more prone to spilling food on himself or getting messy and spilling down his chin. Not exactly the way to impress your new date.

You swore that Hoyt was turning red with rage. “Dammit boy! Your momma made this dinner and you’re just gonna stare at it?!” He growled, slapping Thomas upside the head. Anger filled your chest as you watched Thomas cover his head, eyes clenched shut. What made you even angrier is that Luda Mae and the old man just sat there, eating like nothing was wrong.

“Don’t hit him.” You said. Your throat was hoarse, you haven't talked in a while.

“Fuck you say to me, girl?”

You looked Hoyt in the eyes. “I said…don’t hit him.”

He sneered and leaned over the table, knocking the spoon from his empty bowl. “Oh I see…Tommy needs his little girlfriend to defend him, huh? Listen here, you little bitch-“

“Hoyt, be kind to our guest.” Luda Mae said, eating the last of her potato. She looked over at you, and then at Thomas. She was happy that you stood up for him.

Hoyt laughed at her, shaking his head. “Pathetic.” He grumbled, throwing his bowl to the center of the table. “Neither of ya wanna eat dinner? Fine!” He walked over to Thomas and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back, and with the other hand, he grabbed his mask. He slammed his mask hard against Thomas’s face, making him wince. “Ya can just go back to your little fuckin’ basement then.”

He walked over to you, roughly unstrapping your wrists. Blood flowed back into the white spots, and you knew it’d bruise. “And take your bitch with ya.” He growled, shoving you over towards Thomas. Thomas had just finished securing his mask, and he gently grabbed your sore wrist. You followed him while looking behind your back, staring spitefully at Hoyt, who shamelessly watched your ass as you walked away.

Thomas slid a huge wooden door out of the way and led you down a staircase. The basement smelled rancid, like stale metal and rotting meat. As you walked in, you knew why. Weapons hung from the ceiling, a workbench in the center of the room. Blood coated the entire floor, and some dropped steadily from the table, giving you the sound like a very messed up metronome. A bed in the corner called your name despite the stained mattress. It had no pillows, no sheets, no blankets. You looked at Thomas.

“You…sleep here?” You asked meekly and watched as he gave you a very tiny nod, looking at the bed. He led you over to it, and held your shoulders, sitting you down. He let you sit there for a second and then he walked away, going to sit in a chair on the other side of the room next to his work table. He wanted you to sleep in his bed, but he wasn’t going to?

Your chest swelled with the kindness of this poor man. A pure soul forced into the mud by his corrupt family. You stood up and took a step towards him. “I don’t want to take your bed. It’s yours.”

He shook his head and walked back to you, grabbing your shoulders again to sit you down. You gave in because the feeling of this stained, thin mattress was like heaven, despite the fact that you could feel the springs digging into your back as you laid down. You stared at him for a moment as he began to rummage through items on his shelf. Your eyes began to close, eyelids feeling like they had ten pound weights attached.

He turned around, holding something small and dainty in his large and veiny hands. He sat at your feet, a gentle hand placed on your ankle. You glanced down at him as he held out a dried Bluebonnet to you. You smiled softly and took it from him, feeling its soft stem and looking at its pretty periwinkle petals. “Thank you…” you mumbled sleepily.

You thought, just before you fell asleep, that there were two things in this basement that didn’t belong. Everything in this house was drenched in blood and fear and grime, this basement was disgusting and horrifying. But, in all of the terror, you had this beautiful Bluebell, a reminder of the open, sweet smelling fields of Texas, and even more pure, you had Thomas.

#slasher x reader #slashers #horror movies #horror fanfiction #slasher x y/n #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x y/n #thomas hewitt x you #leatherface #texas chainsaw massacre

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bluecollarmcandtf · 2 months

Text

M O O N L I G H T ™

Pulling into the lonely gas station, my eyes quickly find what I'm looking for, a pair of blue lights emanating in the darkness. The glow is coming from the gas attendant's skull: clear indication that he's a Moonlight™ employee.

"Good evening, sir," he says with the overly-endearing tone of a gracious host, "How may I be of service tonight?

I don't hide my distaste for the pathetic menial worker, leaning on his mop and waiting for my reply like he's got the best job in the world. He doesn't actually believe that. He doesn't even know what he's saying, let alone doing!

"Just fill her up," I grunt.

"You got it, sir!" he beams, tending to my car with a pep that's out of place for the late hour.

Moonlight™ was the app that revolutionized working culture forever. It allows the user to sign up for a job while they sleep. All they have to do is doze off and some insufferable AI from Moonlight™ will resume control of the body via remote connection. People like it because they get paid work without experiencing all the boring hours and insincere customer interactions. Subsequently, they always get the same unbearably eager personalities stuffed in their bodies. Even without the glowing eyes, their idiotic grins would make them stand out a mile away!

"How has your day been, sir?" he contines mopping as the gas slowly pumps.

"Don't try to chat," I snap.

"Of course, sir," he doesn't miss a beat, smiling as he returns his neon gaze to the sidewalk he's swabbing.

I just roll my eyes and wander inside. The app doesn't record memories while it's in control, so this guy has no idea how humiliated he should feel. No one should have a shit-eating grin on their face working the night shift as a gas station janitor! I'd die before I gave up my dignity to Moonlight™ like this fucking loser!

On the TV behind the register, an ad plays...

The costumed man on the left steps forward and announces, "Join the revolution. There are over forty-two-million Moonlighter's taking advantage of their sleep! That could be you!"

The statistic makes me cringe. It's nearly doubled since the last time I checked...

The man on the far right of the screen happily taps in, adding, "We're constantly expanding our scope, so check with your employer! If your job doesn't already have a Moonlight™ option, then ask your boss to give you one!"

God, they're pressuring people now? Some jobs should not be done by an AI puppeteered Moonlighter...

Finally, the man in the center steps forward to deliver his lines, "Remember, Moonlighting is a safe and healthy way to not only make money but also get a good night's rest! Why work all day, when you can do it in your sleep!" his head turns, making it seem like he's smiling at either of his coworkers, "After all, we are!"

The three men laugh in unison, like true colleagues chumming up at work, but I know the truth. These three are worse than actors, they're empty marionettes for the Moonlight™ corporation. I doubt they'd ever even met each other in real life...

"Shut up!" I groan, smashing the power button to turn it off.

This world is going to shit. Moonlight™ has grown too large over the past year for there not to be some conspiracy or ulterior motive. I don't know what it is: the elite keeping the working class in their place, our government influencing our decisions, a foreign country converting us into their slaves! It all sounds crazy, but I don't think a single theory is impossible with an app like Moonlight™.

I'm the only one probing into this mess. I may have only worked as a detective for a few years, but I never did any of it fucking asleep!

A few days later, I track down my first lead...

"Good morning, sir," the garbage man says in that unnaturally smooth cadence they all have, "Is there any trash you need collected?"

"I just have some questions," I snort.

One hand pulls the hem of my shirt over my nose while the other swats at the flies. These garbage trucks are absolutely filthy. I doubt the garbage companies even bother washing them out anymore, but why should they if their workers are soulless husks without the ability to care? The man in front of me seems completely oblivious to the mixture of rotting smells and accompanying bugs. His glowing eyes don't even blink as a fly lands on his face, crawling through the hairs of his beard. He's probably lucky that he goes home with no memory of this downright awful job.

"Are you looking for employment with Moonlight™ incorporated?" his smiling lips stir the bug on his face, but it quickly buzzes into the moist retreat of the man's dark armpit, "I'd love to help you install the app and-"

"No," I cut, "Just open the truck. I accidentally threw out something I shouldn't have."

I study the man's frozen grin for anything. It's a test. The Moonlight™ AI is designed to accept demands from free-willed customers, but I have a suspicion that the building nearby is an undocumented base for the company. If I'm right, the company would hate for anyone to root through the garbage of their secret lab...

"...I apologize, sir, but the garbage has already been compacted, and it is unsafe for non-employees to look inside. Please let me know what it is you are looking for and I will search for you."

His artificial glee didn't wane, but the blue light in his eyes did flicker just barely. This guy might be asleep, walked around by remote AI tech, but I could still tell he was lying. I'd like to see one of the Moonlight™ detectives figure that out. As I said, some things are better done the old-fashioned way...

"Well, thanks anyway," I snark, planting a slap on his sweat-soaked back. He says something about it being his pleasure as he resumes handling the garbage, flies eternally buzzing around his smiling head and glowing eyes.

Continuing my investigation, I pop down in the sewer, looking for an underground entrance to Moonlight™'s secret lab...

"Are you lost, sir? Let me help you."

I've had to breathe through a mask to put up with the heavy cloud of steaming sewage, but the Moonlight™ septic worker seems fine, smiling with an open mouth, specks of God-knows-what dried on his teeth.

"No, I'm where I should be," I dismiss him and march past.

Suddenly a muddy glove sticks out and holds my chest. "I'm afraid you cannot pass, sir," his smile is as strong as ever, but the trademark glow of his eyes intensifies.

I've never felt more sure about my suspicions. This mind controlled worker seems ready to fight rather than let me pass. I wonder if this poor soul knows he's being used as a guard as well as being a Moonlight™ sewage worker.

"Why don't you show me the way out then," I relent.

"Of course, sir," his hand removes itself from my chest, leaving a dirty print, "The sewer is a dangerous place for civilians."

I follow as he marches me out of the sewer. It's better to leave and come back later with a plan. Today, I confirmed my suspicions, but tomorrow, I'll finally see what secrets they're cooking up in that lab. I return home and end the day with the satisfaction of being close to a major discovery. Sleep finds me quickly...

Waking up in my bed, I check my phone and find an unsettling message waiting for me...

"Congratulations on finishing your first shift with Moonlight™!" the text reads, "Here is a photo of you hard at work last night!"

"What the FUCK!"

I jump out of bed, but instantly everything feels off. My back aches and my legs are more tired than they were last night! My pajamas are uncomfortable, pinching in areas like someone else dressed me in them! My mind is racing with confusion, and an overwhelming sense of self-consciousness rushes over me. My face burns from the violation, but most of my fear is focused on the strange feeling lingering in the back of my private area.

"What did they do to me?" I try to be pissed, but all I can do is whimper.

Suddenly my phone rings...

"Hello," I growl.

"Good morning, sir," a familiarly gracious man's voice rolls through the call.

"Tell me who the fuck this is!"

"Someone who noticed you snooping the other day, sir," his voice sounds like it's smiling.

Suddenly it clicks. Whoever's calling me from Moonlight™ would never use their own phone and voice. They must be using some poor schmuck that thinks he's working an honest job right now. How am I ever supposed to find who's behind all these layers of lies?

"You can hind behind your brainless puppets," I sneer, "But I will not stop looking into this fucked up company!"

"But now you're one of our puppets, sir. I'm not sure how much credibility a detective has if he spends his nights working the room at the dirtiest club in town..."

"That's sick..." I whisper, thinking about the picture on my phone. The idea of me gleefully stripping for a room of disgusting old men makes me shiver.

"Good luck with your investigation, sir," the voice continues, "But just understand that every time you sleep, your body will get up and report to that club. I have to admit that you're hiding a rather tight body under that trench coat of yours."

"You were there?" I mutter.

"Oh I had to meet the man poking his nose where it didn't belong, sir. I got very familiar with you. You were very friendly last night, so I poked something of mine where it didn't belong."

The voice on the other line laughs, and all I feel is utter humiliation. I hang up the call and stare at the photo he'd sent. It was me alright, smiling like a maniac in the gayest outfit I've ever seen. I didn't like my body being dressed like that. I hate that I was happily busting my ass for the enemy. He had to have been getting off at my humiliation last night. I'm sure he relished every second of what he did to me. I don't even want to think about the sensation left in my ass.

I need to push this investigation faster.

Because tonight, when I go to sleep, I'll be helpless to prevent this from happening again.

#gay mind control #blue collar worker #unaware #work slaves #moonlight

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mamasturn · 3 months

Text

how many drinks? benny cross

pairing: benny cross x black fem oc (sennett aliah) summary: she's new in town and the infamous biker benny cross invites her for drinks. warning: suggestive themes. light language. tags: @faephoria @thetaoofzoe @turn-thy-paige @contrarybeliefs @qveendiorsworld @blukit04 @neewrites

She was in a new era of life. Single, childless, and without any burden on her shoulders. On her way through a town with whom she knew not a soul. It was quite bold of her, she had to admit. To trudge into a small town in the heart of Illinois with a smaller Black population than the spectacles on the bottom of her shoe, from a city in Georgia where everywhere she turned, someone looked like her.

She was far from nervous or afraid. The most they could do was call her out her name, but who was she to get bent out of shape over misplaced anger and lack of intelligence? No one.

So, she packed her car with her belongings, drove to Illinois, sweet talked her way into a small house for less than it was worth, and began to make herself at home. Home. As best as she could, she figured.

She kept in contact with her mother and cousin, who both cursed her for going to Illinois, but praised her courage and determination. She’d done what they never would have dreamed of.

After a long day of packing and sweating like a dog, she took a cold shower, shoved her legs into a pair of old Levi’s jeans, threw a distressed cropped shirt on, slipped on her boots, and hopped into her 1952 convertible.

Her dark hair blew in the wind as she cruised down the street, no care for the speed limit sign. She glanced at the speedometer. 67 in a 25 wasn’t bad, right? Her fingertips drummed along the body of the car as she hummed along to the song playing through the static radio.

If you’re looking for trouble…you’ve come to the right place.

She’d heard of a bar in town from a group of men at the gas station. Owned and oftentimes filled by outlaw bikers from Chicago. Dangerous guys, the men insisted. To stay clear of at all times. While she wasn’t easily scared, she wouldn’t do what her heart desired to do. She’d be on her best behavior; just get a drink or two, flirt with a man with a scruffy beard, and go back home to look for jobs in the paper. A solid plan, she thought.

It seemed like the world grew silent when the door of her convertible slammed shut. All eyes were on her. By their facial expressions, she knew what they were thinking. Who the hell is she? An unfamiliar woman with an unfamiliar face. It didn’t phase her. She simply gave a raspy, “Hello,” and tried to brush past the lunkheads at the door who refused to make it easy for her to enter.

“What’re you doing?” One of them asked roughly. Her eyes dropped and her lips straightened. The tough-guy act wasn’t threatening; it didn’t put the fear of God in her heart. Hell, she could have laughed at how their chests blew up like a balloon and their arms crossed over them.

“I want a drink. Heard this was the place to be,” she said simply with a shrug. She stood on her toes for a moment to eye the scenery behind them. Men and women in the corners, bikers’ wives gossipping over cigarettes and cold beer, the sound of balls colliding against each other on the pool table. “So, can I come in?”

The lunkheads glanced at once another. They were prepared to say no. She could see it by the way their tongues lifted against the roof of their mouths and their lips rounded. She rolled her eyes in frustration. What the hell did a girl have to do to get a drink around here?

“You know what, forget it.” She threw her hands up in surrender and prepared to walk away. She spent hours driving and even more time unpacking, the last thing she wanted to deal with was a lunkhead rejecting her from the bar, especially when she had money she was willing to spend on a drink.

Then suddenly, she heard a voice say. “She’s with me. Let her in.” Her head bounced like a spring. The owner of the voice stood behind the lunkheads. He nodded toward the entrance and she knew better than to think too long, so she smiled slyly at the men outside and brushed past them. “Thank you, boys.”

This was the place to be, she noted. The smell of smoke and strong liquor burned her nose and she loved it. Her eyes closed as she inhaled deeply. Finally. She was brought out of her fantasy world when he asked, “Do you want a drink?” His voice was hardly above a whisper, but his blue eyes on hers forced her attention to be directed to him. She nodded.

He led her to the bar which was crowded but they were swift to move out the way for Benny, she heard them call him, and some pretty thing from around the way. At that, she became the star of the evening. The men glanced at her like they wanted to eat her or kill her, and the women tilted their heads in interest as to who she was. She chose not to respond. Nothing would keep her from getting the buzz she so rightfully deserved.

“Pick your poison,” he said, pointing toward the wall of neatly organized liquor behind Johnny, who took on serving for the time being.

“Whiskey neat,” she told Johnny, whose eyebrows raised. The corner of her lips turned upward. “Need something strong.”

Johnny chuckled, “You got it, darlin’.”

The man, Benny, wasn’t a man of many words, she noticed. He only spoke when he needed to. She presumed he was a man of action. He had to be if rather than asking her a million and one questions at the door, he simply told the guards to let her in. Rather than asking her what she wanted, he told her to pick for herself. A man of action, she noted.

He was incredibly handsome, too. She had never seen herself finding herself attracted to a man again after her split from her husband a year prior. But Benny, he was a sight for sore eyes. Dirty blonde hair styled messily, daunting blue eyes, and a scruffy beard. Lord, she was a goner for beards.

She appreciated the dirt on his boots, rips in his jeans, and crinkled in his cut. A seasoned biker. She’d never been with a biker before. Was it worth what the women in here giggled and blushed over when their men walked in the room and gave them a wink? She wondered how bad she’d be for wanting to find out.

“You’ve got a wandering eye,” he said after some time. He didn’t look at her as he said it. His eyes were trained on the liquid he swirled in his short glass. She should’ve been embarrassed for getting caught but she was far from it. “You stare at strangers often?”

She smiled slyly. “Just the ones who get me a drink. Which, I appreciate, by the way. Haven’t been able to find a decent joint all day.” She thanked Johnny who’d handed her a drink and knocked it back in one go. That caught Benny’s attention. How she didn’t flinch when it went down her throat. How her full lips pursed just slightly, how a drop of whiskey escaped her lips and slid off her cheek down her neck until it settled at the valley of her breasts. He sighed deeply.

“Look who’s starting now, Benny,” she teased. For the first time that night, Benny met her eyes. God, he was so beautiful. She’d grab him and lick the drop of whiskey right off his lips. He beat her to the punch. She was jealous of his lip; having the ability to be caressed by his tongue.

“Never caught your name,” Benny said, not directly addressing her comment. He nodded at Johnny, who had filled both their glasses. “I’d assume it compliments that unique personality of yours.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, a smile spreading across her blood-red lips. “Sennett.”

Benny nodded, intrigued. Sennett. She was something spicy. She moved without a care in the world. She was bold and free. He knew from the moment she strutted to the door after hopping out of her convertible that she was a force to be reckoned with. He wanted to reckon with it.

“Sennett.” Her name tasted tangy on his tongue. Like a piece of sour candy that he knew would cause a tinge of discomfort before it got delicious. With his hands folded on the table, he asked, “How many drinks do you think you’re having tonight, Sennett?"

She shivered. “How ever many you’re willing to treat me to.”

His eyebrow raised in interest, “Good.”

She knew how to handle her liquor, but it didn’t mean that it didn’t affect her in more ways than one. Liquid courage was a beautiful thing. It had her pressed against a wall in a dimly lit closet filled with dust and cobwebs but she didn’t mind it at all.

Benny was mysterious. So mysterious and so under the radar that she didn’t expect his boldness and assertiveness to boil over the way it did. He had his hand wrapped around her throat as he claimed ownership over her lips with a dominance and intentionality that knocked the wind out of her chest.

Her red nails combed through his dirty blonde hair and tugged at the roots. Her body was on fire, lit up like a flame. She could feel the sweat gather at her forehead and droplets slid down the valley of her breasts. The throbbing between her thighs pounded like a drum. She was desparate to soothe the ache and used his thigh to rid the tension building within her.

Benny chuckled against her lips, snaking his hand between their bodies. His calloused fingers caressed her stomach, his thumb and forefinger tugging at her belly ring. She winced. Then, they dropped to the crevice between her thighs. Her jeans were thick but she could feel the warmth of his fingertips grazing her clit and she jolted. “Benny…”

His lips fell to her neck and she moaned loudly. He nipped and sucked until her chest and collarbone were bruised. Against her skin he whispered, “Not here…not now.” She released a guttural groan of frustration. Sennett could appreciate a man with logic, but goodness, all she wanted to do was have him take her right then and there.

“Why not?”

Benny broke away from her. His arm stayed wrapped around her waist with his hand stroking her backside. His right thumb swiped along the sides of her mouth to wipe away the remnants of their oral tango. “Cause contrary to popular belief, I’m a man of class.” His words were stoic but she heard the playfulness in them. “And uh, a closet isn’t comfy for anybody.”

Sennett’s hand didn’t fall from his hair and his didn’t fall from her waist. She hummed and nodded once. “Well, we’ll see how many drinks it takes you to take me in a closet next time, yeah?”

His eyebrow raised. A force to be reckoned with for sure.

#black authors #austin butler x reader #austin butler x black!reader #austin butler #writers and authors #black!reader #support black writers #benny cross #the bikeriders #benny the bikeriders #benny cross x reader #benny cross x black reader #benny x you #benny x reader #benny cross x black!reader

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pathetichimbos · 1 year

Note

Hii! May I request Thomas Hewitt overhearing reader talk with her friends and saying that she came across this very cute guy whom she smiled at when they accidently made eye contact? (The guy is, of course, Tommy <3) And maybe Tommy spares her afterwards and decides to hide her away so that Hoyt doesn't order him to turn her into a human stew-

Thank you!

You're Mine

Includes: Thomas Hewitt / F!Reader

SFW

TW: Hoyt is a creep again / Very very slight Yandere!Thomas

...

Thank you for sending in this ask! Sorry for the long wait time and I hope you enjoy!

The cool wind rushed across your face, whipping around your body and sweeping through your hair as you leaned back on your own hands.

Your eyes stared up to the bright blue sky, a few tuffs of cloud floating idly through the giant blue mass as you sped down the highway, your best friend behind the wheel.

You were sat in the passenger seat, feet planted on the dashboard as the radio blasted loudly enough to try and rival the open hood of the convertible.

Carly was screaming along to the music, open beer in hand as she swung around her seat behind you, loud laughter repeatedly breaking up her own singing.

Brooke was singing as well, pausing often to puff on the cigarette stuck in her left hand, the smoke immediately obliterating in the harsh winds as soon as it left her lungs.

You three had been on the road for two and a half hours, not even making it a quarter a way through your trip. Time was dragging on as Brooke sped past the desolate Texas fields, pushing well past the speed limits.

Carly's laughing suddenly dies down as she leaned past the front seat, turning the radio down to match her new tone.

“Hey, look! There's a gas station up ahead!” She pointed at the large red sign standing prominently on the side of the road, the faded red and white paint being about the only thing you can register about it as you quickly pass it.

“Oh, perfect, we're almost out.” Brooke sighed, flicking her cigarette butt to the road.

“I told you to fill up before we left!” You furrowed your brows as you looked your friend up and down, “We sat at that first place for twenty minutes, what gives?”

“Not the cute cashier, that's for sure.” Carly giggled as she wrapped her arms around your neck and leaned her chin on the seat, “You know how our Brooke is, always the romantic.”

You rolled your eyes and playfully nudged her, “Oh, like you're one to talk. Didn't you tell Freddy and Taylor you'd go out with them next week?”

“But I've got taste,” She insisted, “My men have to have culture. I don't just go for the first cute gas station clerk that comes my way.”

“Oh, get real, Carls,” Brooke scoffed, “The only 'culture' Taylor has is whatever's growing on his dick after sleeping his way through the entire town.”

Their smiles were wide as they continued to poke playful fun at each other, filling the few minutes it took to find the gas station with conversation and laughter.

The station wasn't anything fancy, no one in sight as the three of you parked next to one of the only two gas pumps out front.

The building was old and small, the white paint faded and chipping off the sides from the apparent decades it spent under the relentless Texas sun.

The glass door was smudged and unclean, the pumps rusted and stained, and the air was filled with the red dust Brooke's car had stirred up from driving through the dirt that laid out in front of it.

You couldn't help but think of how perfect this scene would be in a horror movie.

“Here.” Brooke dug a ten out of her small pink purse, shoving it your way.

“Why do I gotta go into the creepy old gas station?” You frowned, still taking the bill.

“Because I'm pumping the gas and Carly's already drank so much she's about to piss herself.”

You turned back to see Carly had already evacuated the back seat, hurrying off to look for the bathrooms.

You sighed and gave in, stepping out of the car and taking the opportunity to stretch as you made the short walk to the front door.

The metal was hot as you swung the door open, the creaky hinges screaming out as the heavy, rancid smell of old meat swept through your nose.

You couldn't help but cringe a little, nose scrunching and feet faltering at the old pig set inside the glass counter of the small deli to your left.

You brushed it off and stepped up to the counter to your right, greeting the older woman with a smile as she puffed on her cigarette.

She looked you up and down, a slight scowl on her face as she nodded at you.

“I need ten on, uh...” You glanced back through the door, “...The pump that's closest to the door.”

“Ain't got no gas.” She deadpanned, leaning on the counter with one hand as she looked down to the ten you had sent on the counter.

Your heart dropped and you sighed, crumbling the bill in your hand, “Is there another gas station around here?”

“Not for another fifty miles.”

“I don't know if we can make it that far. Do you know when you might get some more gas?”

“'Fraid those pumps haven't worked for the better part of five years.”

You let out a huff and chewed your bottom lip, “I- I don't, uh... I don't suppose you have any idea of what we could do?”

She let out a long sigh through her nose and rubbed the butt of her cigarette into the ash tray, “I can call the sheriff. I'm sure he won't mind taking you to the nearest station.” She punctuated her sentence by looking you up and down once again.

That implication made you more than a little uncomfortable, but knowing Carly and Brooke were with you was enough of a comfort let her call the man.

The lady turned to the phone behind her, spinning the dial as you tapped your foot impatiently.

You were looking around the station, taking in the old, dusty atmosphere as you waited for the sheriff to pick up on his end.

Flies buzzed, darting around the room as the dull lights flickered in the empty display fridge across the store, a couple of old wooden tables and matching chairs filling the space between it and the shelves.

A small radio sat stiff and silent on the table behind the counter, right beside the phone the lady was speaking into.

“Sure you ain't. And I don't know, only one of 'em came in.”

You balanced on the balls of your feet for a moment, letting out a short sigh as you finally tuned into the one side of the conversation you could hear.

“Watch your tone, boy.” Her voice was threatening as she pulled the phone away from her ear, “How many of y'all are there?”

Your brows furrowed as you stopped for a moment.

It was a bit of a strange question, but you supposed that he would need to know how many people he'd be driving, so you brushed it off and gave her an answer.

“Three, including me.”

“There's three of 'em.” She didn't acknowledge your answer as she continued speaking on the phone.

You pursed your lips as the faint sound of a loud man drifted from the phone, but you had no idea what the hell he could be saying.

“If you say so. I'll see you in a bit.” She finally responded before hanging up the phone and turning to you, “He says it'll be about five minutes.”

Hope blossomed in your chest as you thanked her profusely, “I'll go tell my friends.”

She didn't say anything as you hurried out the door, meeting Brooke and Carly at the car.

“The pump ain't workin', Y/N. What gives?” Brooke was repeatedly pulling the trigger as the pump sat in her gas tank.

“She said they don't have no gas, and the next station ain't for another fifty miles.”

“Oh, what the hell...” Carly groaned from the backseat where she had been laying out, sunglasses protecting her eyes from the harsh light.

“Don't worry, she called the sheriff and he's gonna come give us a ride!” You explained, climbing back into the passenger seat, “She said it'll only be five minutes.”

Brooke huffed as she put the pump back in place before climbing into the drivers seat, “Just our luck, eh?”

Carly shot up, beaming, “It could be! I bet the sheriff is an absolute hottie.”

You snickered, “In a place like this? He's probably a hundred years old!”

“Hey, Carly likes the gray foxes.” Brooke smirked, leaning back on her seat to face the two of you.

“Oh, sick.” She made a gagging face and grabbed her throat, “You are a freak, Brooke!”

“There's nothing wrong with an older guy!” You defended the idea, “They're more mature.”

“Oh, so you're the freak.” Brooke laughed, “It would be you, you've always been a weirdo.”

“True! Remember when we went to that haunted trail a few years ago and she hooked up with one of the zombies!?” Carly pointed out, making you groan.

“Don't remind me. He was such a clinger, I practically had to fake my own death to get him off my leg.”

The conversation continued flowing easily, as it always did between you three.

Before you knew it, the loud slamming of a car door caught your attention and halted your conversation as the three of you looked ahead to the sheriff's car parked some feet ahead of your car.

And older man began walking from the driver side, graying and white hair, a matching, thin, goatee stained by the dip he haphazardly spit to the ground.

“Oh, nasty.” Carly whispered, pulling a face, “He really is old.”

“Don't say that!” Brooke nudged her with her elbow before gesturing to you, “You'll give the old home's heartbreaker here a boner.”

You gently slapped her shoulder, “Shut it, he's coming this way.”

“Who's that in the passenger seat?” Carly asked no one in particular, sitting up further to get a closer look.

“Well, howdy there, ladies. What brings you to this little slice of paradise?” The sheriff drawled, a creepy smirk on his face as he finished crossing the path to Brooke's door, leaning a little too close for comfort.

“Just passing through, sir.” Brooke gave a tight smile, leaning back a little, “Ending up running out of gas.”\

He tsk'd a little, shaking his head, “Well, that just won't do, will it?”

You tried your best not to pull a face as your attention turned back to the sheriff's car, hearing the passenger door finally open and close.

Out stepped a man, much much different from the first person to emerge.

He was tall, towering over the car as he shuffled in place, head hanging low as his eyes stayed trained on the sheriff.

His long, black curls brushed against his shoulders, and seemed to be held down by the homemade mask covering his face, though you couldn't see any finer details from here.

He wore an old, dirty dress shirt, and black slacks to match, almost as if he were in his Sunday best, despite the stains and wrinkles adorning his clothes.

As you stared he seemed to notice, eyes darting to focus on you.

A deep heat flooded your cheeks as you flashed an awkward smile before shrinking into your seat, and mostly out of his line of sight. Staying up just enough to peek back out at him often.

“Oh, don't worry about it.” You tuned back into the sheriff, flashing his stained teeth as he finally stood straight again, “I'll just go in there and tell Mama to keep an eye on your stuff and then I'll take care of y'all.”

You could practically feel Carly shuddering as he stalked off towards the gas station directly across from your car.

“Thomas!” The man yelled as he reached the doorway, and you watched as he motioned the second man over before whispering something to him none of you could hear.

Assuming he was going back into the gas station, you turned back to your friends, who seemed to be avoiding looking at the gas station all together, thanks to the creepy sheriff.

“What a fuckin' sicko!” Brooke shuddered, “I don't want to go anywhere with him!”

Carly nodded, making a sick face, “Did you see the way he kept staring at our boobs? I don't trust him!”

“Who gives a shit what you guys are talking about.” You loudly interrupted their quiet complaints, “Did you see that second guy!?”

They both shook their heads, having been too focused on the creepy advances of the sheriff.

“Oh my god.” You groaned, running your hands down your face, “He was so fucking cute. I'm talking tall, dark, brooding, absolutely huge build. Guy looked like he lifts in his sleep.”

“Uh, you mean that guy, right there by the door, who can absolutely hear your bat shit talk?” Carly pointed to the man, who was standing a few feet away, completely avoiding looking at the car now.

You face dropped and you slunk into the seat, practically screaming, “NO, oh my god he must think I'm such a freak.”

“Um, you kind of are.” Brooke leaned down and whispered, “He's not that cute.”

“You are so stupid.” You let out a sigh, “That man looks like what every man wants to be.”

“Well, maybe he didn't hear you.” Carly offered a small smile, “Even though he definitely did.”

“Fuck.”

“Go talk to him.” Brooke nudged you.

“No way! I'm not looking to embarrass myself even more!”

“It's too late anyways.” Carly reluctantly gestured to the sheriff who was now returning.

Brooke rolled her eyes as she turned to climb out of the car, “Come on, girls.”

You sighed as you followed suit, Carly not far behind.

Brooke was the first to make her way to the sheriff's car, opting for the backseat, much to your and Carly's dismay.

Not even giving you a chance, Carly darted ahead, loudly announcing, “I'll sit with you, Brooke!”

You groaned, knowing it would be rude to try and insist to sit in the back as well.

You glanced back to the station door, noticing Thomas was coming over too. You sighed this time, hoping that he'd take the front seat, as he seemed to know the sheriff better.

But before that even became an option, you heard the loud protest of Brooke and Carly as they pulled faces at the open back door.

“There's stuff all over the backseat! We can't even fit.” Carly pointed out.

“Oh, yea.” The sheriff mused, “Well, c'mon then. Start grabbing stuff, we'll throw it in the trunk.”

He opened the trunk and your friends gave you looks as they started grabbing armfuls of various things crowding the backseat.

You finished walking to the car, planning on helping but walking slow so there hopefully wouldn't be anything left for you to grab.

Thomas was only a few steps behind you, watching as you stood beside the open back door, waiting on your friends.

His hands twitched, and his mind was torn.

His entire life he was ridiculed and bullied.

If not for his deformities and looks, than for his lack of education and inability to fully understand and control his emotions.

When people looked at him, they saw a monster. A freak.

But... You didn't.

You, a complete stranger, if even just for a minute, thought he was cute.

Cute enough to tell your friends and feel embarrassed by his opinion.

You treated him like a normal person, for a brief moment.

And he was hooked.

He craved more, more of that feeling. To have someone look at him like he was normal, like he was more than just a deformed monster hiding behind a mask.

He wanted to get your attention again, to selfishly hear your sweet voice say more kind things, things that no one had ever said before.

He stared holes into the back of your head, trying to will you to give him just a little more of your attention.

He thought you were beautiful too, and he wondered if you knew.

Could you tell, with the way he stared every chance he got?

God, he didn't even now your name, but he needed to. He would do anything to learn more about you, to keep you close and safe.

He was so lost in his own thoughts and emotions he didn't even notice how severe the situation had gotten between the sheriff and your friends until you darted forward.

Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. His mind screamed, his hand shooting out to stop you.

The skin of your wrist was so soft compared to his calloused hands, he never wanted to let go.

He wondered if the rest of you was just as soft.

Your confused eyes flickered back to his own, questioning him without any words being spoken.

He shook his head, tightening his grip just enough to get his message across without hurting you.

You were his now. And he would give his life to protect you.

#slasher fandom #slashers #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x s/o #thomas hewitt x y/n #thomas hewitt x you #thomas hewitt x reader #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x y/n #Jamie Writes

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 2 months

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Ford Torino

This car was not only a beauty but when properly equipped packed some serious muscle under the hood.

Here's why the first-gen Torino is a winner.

The Torino started as an upscale version of the Fairlane. By 1968, it became the top trim level.

You Could Get It Any Way You Wanted: The first-gen Torino offered several body styles, including a two-door hardtop, fastback, convertible, four-door sedan, and station wagon, catering to a wide range of tastes.

Gas Saver or Circle Track Beast: It came with impressive engine choices, from the 200 cu in I6 to the mighty 428 cu in Cobra Jet V8, making it a favorite among muscle car enthusiasts.

NASCAR Roof: While not as aggressive as the Superbird's design, the fastback "SportsRoof" model had excellent aerodynamics, proving advantageous on the race track and contributing to its NASCAR success.

Looks that Kill: The 1968 redesign featured a full-width recessed grille, horizontal quad headlights, and a sleek body with a horizontal crease running from front to back, giving it a distinct and stylish look.

A Plush Interior: The interior boasted a new dashboard with four round pods, ample padding, and even optional shoulder belts for front outboard passengers.

The GT Package: The Torino GT came with special name plaques, GT markings, and a handling suspension package with heavy-duty springs and shocks, which really made the big car handle.

It was a Huge Success: 1968 was a great year for the Torino, with 172,083 units produced, reflecting its popularity and positive reception by the automotive press.

And, It Paced the Brickyard: The 1968 Torino GT convertible was selected as the Indianapolis 500 pace car, which was (and is) quite the honor

The first-generation Ford Torino was more than just a car; it was a symbol of style, power, and innovation. Whether cruising down the boulevard or tearing up the race track, the Torino left an indelible mark on the muscle car era.

#ford torino #ford #torino #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

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alannah-corvaine · 2 years

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A Scion road trip would look like:

Thancred driving

Y'shtola in shotgun with the map

But she's really navigating from memory from making the same trip 7 years ago

They are 682 malms off course

The twins are squashed in the middle

Between Urianger and WoL in the back

Raha's in a carrier taking a nap after yowling for two hours

The radio only plays Eorzean NPR (Y'shtola's preference), American 80's classic rock (Thancred's), or acoustic KidzBop on AM radio

Alphinaud is out of juice boxes

Alisaie has to pee

Urianger is using tarot to divine if they'll all survive this trip

Tataru absolutely did not account for WoL stress eating an entire gas station worth of snacks in their trip budget

Or the side trip to see Eorzea's largest ball of yarn (Raha's idea)

The gas tank is on E and the nearest gas station is two Thancred mental breakdowns away

Followed by 10 hours of driving by nothing but scenic out of season corn fields (so basically Ohio)

Ryne and Gaia took their own car (a dark purple convertible) and passed Thancred hours also while blasting California Gurls at an obscene volume and singing along

They made it to the hotel just fine and now wont answer their phones because they're chilling by the pool

At one point Thancred stops the car to get out and yell at the sky for 45 seconds, then gets back in and resumes driving like nothing happened

#unfortunately you all are sometimes subjected to my nonsense #tbd

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penny00dreadful · 1 year

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Brain worm! 🪱 Just a lil silly somethin written in a daze.

Eddie had to wrench the wheel back so he didn't run the fucking van into a tree.

Did he seriously, seriously just see what he thought he just saw?

As soon as there was a gap in the road Eddie swung the van around and pulled into the gas station he had just passed, trying to keep as low a profile as possible.

Which was no mean feat considering the state of his catalytic converter but once he'd pulled up into a dark corner, a glance in the wing mirror told him he hadn't been spotted.

It also told him that, yes. He'd been correct on his initial passing glance. He was actually seeing this shit.

Eddie glanced down at his clothes. Ripped up jeans, his 'Hell Awaits' Slayer t-shirt depicting a giant inverted pentagram, demons and hellfire, chains, rings, leather jacket, battle vest, boots.

Yeah, he looked sufficiently scary.

Night was starting to fall around him so he still went unnoticed as he slid carefully out of the van and made his way over to the two lone figures just barely lit up by the harsh artificial exterior lights.

He planted himself just behind, what looked like, some middle class dad type who was standing just a little too close for comfort.

Eddie crossed his arms and spoke to the second figure barking out in the lowest tone of voice he could muster.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, young man?"

The middle class dad whipped around. The second his eyes landed on Eddie he had a look on his face like the devil himself had just manifested behind him.

Without a second of wasted time he scampered away, tail between his legs, leaving Mike Wheeler standing there, wide eyed, pale faced and terrified.

Good.

"Edd-" Mike swallowed, slowly backing away as Eddie advanced. "What are you doing here?"

Mike's back hit the wall and Eddie took one more step forward, looming over him. "You don't get to ask questions, Wheeler. You get to answer them. Now I'm only going to ask this one more time: Just what THE FUCK are you doing out here?"

"N-nothing! We were... I was just-"

There was a clatter and some hushed expletives before the rest of The Party appeared around the corner.

"He's not here alone!" Dustin shouted, apparently under the impression that that was going to calm Eddie down in any way at all.

"And you think that makes this better, does it?"

"Yes! Safety in numbers!"

"There is no safety in whatever the hell I just witnessed!" Eddie exploded. "There is no safety in being at a remote gas station on the outskirts of town at night and talking to strange men for whatever reason!"

The kids all looked to be in various stages of shock, clearly not expecting Eddie to lay into them so fiercely but he didn't care. He refused to feel bad for them.

"Tell me, oh braniacs, what would have happened if someone had come along and snatched Little Wheeler up, huh? Would you have chased after the car on your bikes?" He sneered. "How would you have contacted anyone? How long would it take someone to get here? What if one of you had been attacked? Or robbed? Or murdered? What would you have done then?! How could you all be so stupid?"

"It's not stupid! We weren't being stupid!" Dustin shouted back. "We have our walkies-!"

Eddie laughed, cold and mean and so, so angry but Dustin continued to dig his own grave.

"You all never let us try anything! You never give us a sip of beer or a smoke or any of your weed which we know you still have-"

"Watch it, Henderson." His voice was low and dangerous.

"So we were just trying to get someone to buy something for us, that's all!"

"Oh that's all? That's all, is it? And you have money to pay for this purchase?"

Dustin scoffed. "Of course."

"So tell me, what would have happened if someone went in there and bought you your beer but then decided that wasn't payment enough? What would you have done if he started asking or demanding something else?"

"Like what?"

"Oh I don't know, what could a grown man possibly want with a fifteen year old little boy?" Eddie shook his head. "You know what, I'm not having this conversation out here. Get in the van."

"But... our bikes-"

"GET IN THE FUCKING VAN, HENDERSON!"

Eddie observed in stony silence, his face thunderous as the kids all loaded their bikes into the back of the van before they scuttled in themselves, quiet and cowed.

He slammed the drivers side door closed before turning his key in the ignition and pulling out of the gas station, the silence in the car suffocating, bouncing off the walls.

"Um..." They were nearly halfway back to Hawkins by the time Will's small voice cut through the air. "You're not going to tell our parents, are you?"

Eddie looked back at him in the rear view mirror. The kids were all watching his reaction with worry and Eddie refused to drop his anger in the face of Baby Byers. Not this time. Not for this. He had to stay angry because if he stopped being angry he might just lose himself in what if's.

"No. I'm not going to tell your parents."

The kids all sighed in relief, somehow still believing they were being let off the hook.

"But I am going to tell Steve."

The explosion nearly shook the van. The kids were all screaming, begging, nearly crying not to tell him.

"No! No, Eddie, please!"

"You can't tell him, he'll kill us!"

"Yeah, then he'll bring us back from the dead just to kill us again!"

"You can't do this to us!"

"You know what he's like, Eddie! You can't sell us out to him like that!"

"I can and I will!"

"Can you... can you- shit. Can you please tell him, like, gently? So he doesn't freak the fuck out? He's your boyfriend, he'll listen to you!"

"You all are in no position to be asking for favours right now." Eddie brought the car to a stop in the Harrington driveway. "So here's how it's going to go. We are going to go inside. You are going to tell Steve exactly what just happened. Then the two of us are going to explain to you exactly why what you all just pulled was so monumentally dangerous. Whatever he decides to do with you all after that is up to him. He is your babysitter. You all bestowed that title on him. I am just the babysitter's boyfriend. It's out of my hands."

"Oh, but... you could be our babysitter too?" Dustin tried, a clear and pathetic attempt to make the incoming shitstorm go smoother.

"Not a chance, Henderson." Eddie hopped out and made his way around, throwing open the back doors of the van and gesturing to the now open front door where an extremely distinctive swoopy haired silhouette stood. "Go and face your fate."

#they're such dads #those kids are in SO MUCH TROUBLE #steve is gonna pop a blood vessel #steddie #stranger things #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #fanfic #steddie fic #penny00dreadful #stranger things fic #dustin henderson #mike wheeler #will byres #steve harrington #eddie munson #penny ficlet

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gravehags · 4 months

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ghoulette roadtrip where aurora rents the most obnoxiously colored convertible available and they hit every tourist trap they can find. sunshine takes pictures constantly of them being silly and goofy and texts them to the ghouls (whenever they spend the night in an old roadside motel, the pictures get uh...racier. the guys always eagerly anticipate those ones.) cirrus is the most responsible driver but occasionally cumulus will take over, insisting on turning the music up ridiculously loud and singing along, every once in a while getting distracted and drifting into the other lane. aurora, in her comfy little pink tracksuit and white sunglasses, gets hit on at a gas station too aggressively and all three ladies corner the dude in question, baring their teeth and snarling. out in the desert in the heat they check in to a motel and hang around the pool as the sun goes down in their tiny bikinis, being the hottest things the other guests and motel staff have ever seen. they take the bible out of the nightstand in every room they stay in and make lewd notations in it, cracking up the whole time. cumulus and sunshine in the back seat, slumped over and sleeping on one another with cirrus looking fondly in the rearview mirror. hitting up a small town dive bar, with the mosquito lights buzzing in the hot evening, and cirrus cleaning every local out when she shoots pool while the girls smugly watch and cheer her on. taking turns eating each other out in the backseat - they caused an accident when sunshine went down on aurora in broad daylight while on the road. finding the swimming holes wherever they go and skinny dipping. i just need the ghoulettes being soft and silly and insanely fucking hot together. on the road. send tweet.

#nameless ghoulettes #cumulus ghoulette #cirrus ghoulette #sunshine ghoulette #aurora ghoulette

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whore-ibly-hot · 2 years

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Outsider in.

Yandere!Cultist x Reader

Minors DNI

Warnings: Gender neutral reader, dark content, suggestive content, manipulation, mentions of violence, murder, general manhandling of reader, religious references, cult behavior.

(AN: Two posts in one night? Look at me go. I re-watched Children of the Corn recently, so that was the inspiration and vibe for this. Some obvious similarities will be seen.)

🔔🌱🔔🌱🔔🌱🔔🌱🔔🌱🔔🌱🔔🌱🔔🌱

It wasn't your fault when you crashed. You couldn't have known that the unmapped zone you were driving through had been scrubbed from the maps and records for a reason. You couldn't have known that the gas station attendant would cut your brakes while you were inside getting snacks, and you certainly couldn't have known what awaited you just beyond that gas station parking lot.

The smell of smoke and burning rubber fills your nostrils, causing your lungs to burn as they rise and fall rapidly. Your head pounds, vision blurry. Sat in the front seat of the now busted up car, you can see through the front of the car where a windshield once was, now shattered across the dashboard and floor. You see what looks like some sort of well, lodged up against the front of your car, the metal around it bending to fit around the rounded edge of the construction. You had left the gas station and began north down the mostly empty farm road, when a turn came up. You had attempted to slow the car to make the turn, but were unable. The cars steering wheel froze up, and the brakes jammed. You were unable to stop the vehicle and let out a cry as it continued forward, barreling through the rows of corn that had lined the road. The crops had actually been quite scenic just a few minutes ago, but now as they rushed past in a blur of yellows and greens, they were nothing but overstimulating. Suddenly, you had jolted forward as the car hit the well, glass shattering around you. As you now lay there, feeling your consciousness slip away with every labored breath. As your vision blurs, and finally fades to black, you see several dark, blurry forms emerge from the crops and surround the car. Then, all is quiet.

Yan!Cultist had been in the chapel, observing with watchful eyes as the younger followers listened to the leaders sermon. As the first convert, Yan!Culist, born under the name of Joseph, had been appointed as the leader's right hand, despite his not being the oldest in the commune. Joseph stood to the side of the worn wooden pulpit, hearing, yet not listening to Gabriel's sermon. On top of the pulpit had laid a worn leather journal, upon which the sigil of "The Children of His Divine Judgement " was carved. The book, of which only Gabriel and Joseph had copies, detailed how the incident, or as the group would refer to it, 'the salvation', came to fruition.

Gabriel had been the first to speak to him, their lord. He spoke only through Gabriel, cementing his word as law. It was Joseph, who had witnessed first-hand the divine power of the lord, who converted first. Knowing how stubborn and angry Joseph had been, his sudden allegiance to Gabriel had shocked the towns youths, and soon they came to listen, and even revere the sermons and orders Gabriel gave. It was then, several months after Josephs conversion, that another demonstration of the lords power took place, this time in front of all the converts. A drought had taken place, killing the crops and cutting the town off from both food and financial security. While the adults and elders of the town starved, their children miraculously stayed healthy. They thought of this as a miracle of the christian god, though the children knew this was rather a curse from their deity, one met to rid the county of non-believers. A small area behind the old chapel had been set aside and blessed by Gabriel. It was here a well was dug, and a garden planted. The garden bloomed even in drought, when all other crops had shriveled and died. Soon, as the non-believers began to die off, Joseph grew impatient. He had asked Gabriel if their lord would permit 'speeding up' the cleansing. While Gabriel had scolded him for daring to suggest something to him and their all-knowing deity, he returned to his room for a period of just a few hours, before returning and allowing the slaughter. All followers above the age of 13 years grabbed the available weapons, farming tools, and even sticks, and carried out the slaughter of any remaining adults and elders that the drought had not yet killed off. When the bloodbath ended, only children and youths from the ages of 2-18 remained. Several years have passed since then, and many of the once young converts have grown. As Joseph recalled all of this, one of the followers bursts through the door.

The boys explanation is fast-paced and loud, though both Joseph and Gabriel manage to understand. An outsider has been caught, after one of the children sabotaged their car on the outskirts of town, while out on a fuel run for the community. "They crashed into the well, we think they may still be alive. What would you have us do?" The boy asks. Gabriel furrows his brows. "Who damaged the vehicle?" He asks. His voice is cold, and Joseph recognizes the tone, for he knows it well. "Sermon is over, return to your homes, and do not leave until the outsider has been dealt with!" Joseph yells, causing the children to spill out from the pews and into the aisle of the church, rushing out the door.

"Mary cut the vehicles brakes, y-you had instructed we needed more creative ways to lure in outsiders..." The boy explains, now feeling meek under the shared judgmental gaze of the two leaders in front of him. The boy feels himself shrink before them. "I had ordered for more lures, this is true, but Mary has inadvertently caused the outsider to crash into the well. The first well, and the very one that our lord blessed in the first drought, in order to give us sustaining water. Now tell me, is this monument damaged?" The boy gulps, and Joseph can't help but suppress a smirk, the feeling of power, though he is not the one wielding it, is invigorating. "No, no that I am aware of. Mary, she, she had no control over where the car went, she just wanted to help. Please-" Gabriel raises a hand, silencing the boy. "Mary must face punishment for this mistake. Do not mistake that I understand her good intentions. In the end, she did bring us an outsider, and for this her punishment shall be minimal." The boy sighs, relieved for his friend. Gabriel smiles and nods, and Joshua can't help but feel an annoyance grow in his stomach at the 'holier-than-thou' attitude of the pious young man.

Joshua had initially been willing to listen and follow Gabriel's plans, as the boy had promised the lord would bless them with power and glory, placing them first in his holy order. However, though the lord had both protected them and shown them his fury, it often did not feel like enough. Watching the praise Gabriel received for being the lord's messengers angered him, and he had no doubts that Gabriel knew this. While Gabriel gave out his fair share of cruel orders and punishment, as his right hand man it was Joshua's task to carry them out. While Joshua had no problem with this, he knew it was only a duty given to him to further darken his reputation in the commune, and shed a more angelic light on Gabriel. While Gabriel was respected and feared, he was still a religious figure, and one that the people rallied behind. Joshua was just feared, both before the creation of the cult and after. He had been a bit of a bully before, but it became much worse once he had an outlet under the guise of Gabriel's orders. He also knew this duty was given to him and Gabriel saw himself as too good for the manual labor required to carry out the punishment. While Joshua ran all across the commune, delivering messages and orders, building houses with the others and working in the fields, Gabriel sat in his priestly chambers, 'conversing' with the lord, according to himself. Gabriel turns to him then, and he snaps out of it. "Joshua, go and collect the outsider. I trust it won't be too hard for you to handle, considering they are unconscious." Gabriel smirks. Joshua holds in a remark, and only nods, trudging out of the church.

Upon approaching the well, he sees the dilapidated car crumpled on the southern side of the well, the fire having been dealt with by the first converts to arrive on the scene. Joshua orders for a group of the strongest boys to begin deconstructing and salvaging any fuel from the car. No outside influence needs to enter the commune, Joshua and Gabriel know this well. A group of children are huddled around a figure. Joshua's anger flares, and he pushes into the crowd. "Move! Have I not instructed you to remain in your homes until this has been dealt with?" He shouts, and the group scatters. He grunts. He knows that only the young children in the church had heard his instruction, but he needs an outlet for the frustration caused by Gabriel. As he approaches your figure, he feels as though a force is halting him. His breath catches in his throat. A young outsider lays before him, certainly no older than 19. Though dirt and bruises litter your arms and shoulders, it does not distract Joshua from the sight of such an attractive person before him. You're dressed in the garb of outsiders, which reminds him greatly of the time before the lord came. Since the massacre of non-believers, all outside influence was placed in a locked area in Gabriel's home, and is occasionally brought out for sermons. Clothes were changed to ones that could be easily crafted, worn and worked in for years, then handed down and eventually reused for other purposes. According to your clothes, style in the outside world has changed much since then.

Joshua kneels on the earth beside you, his eyes focused intently on your calm face. He reaches out a hand, brushing your face with the back of his palm. He had intended to use his touch to jolt you awake, but found himself enraptured. Your soft skin contrasts heavily with the calloused rough skin of his hands, worn from hard labor around the commune. As his breathing becomes heavy and his face flushes, your eyes crinkle. You let out a soft groan, and he recoils his hand quickly, as if suddenly aware of the trance he was in. He shakes his head, his features returning to the bitter look he was so well known for. You flinch once more, before your eyes flutter open. You gasp slightly, as light floods your eyes. You attempt to sit up, but let out a hiss of pain at the feeling of your sore muscles. You lean forward as much as you can, and try to look around. You're laid on the ground, near your car. Memories of the crash flood back to you, and you jolt, ignoring your pain in order to go find help. Just as you do, a sudden sharp pressure lands on your wrist. You look over, and see a much taller boy in odd, old-fashioned garb gripping onto your wrist like a vice. While you should be glad to ask someone to help you, something about the boy is wrong. His eyes are filled with an unplaceable emotion, one that looks not unlike the gaze of a predator on the nature channel, about to pounce on small prey. This look only increases your fear, adrenaline from the crash still coursing through you. Your heart beats wildly, and your breathing rapidly increases as you stare at the wild boy. "W-who are you, where am I?" You ask, attempting to squirm away from him. His ignores this, not releasing you from his grip. He stares at you intently for a moment more, before opening his mouth to speak. Before he can, another male voice rings out.

"Joshua, display to me the outsider." The boy glares, before his hand moves to grab your free wrist and yank you up, causing you to whine once more at your sore body. Joshua, as you assume his name must be, holds your wrists behind your back. He keeps uncomfortably close, even for a captor. His chest presses against your back, and you feel hot breath on your neck, making you shiver. Before you, a shorter boy steps forward, a book in one hand. He is dressed in a similar old-fashioned manner to Joshua, though his garb is darker, and a little cleaner. It seems as though this boy may be of a higher standing than the boy restraining you. "Hello, outsider." The young boy before you coos, his eyes calm, yet his tone makes you cautious. He's a few years younger than both you and Joshua, but his attire and outfit suggests he's more than meets the eye. "You've certainly made an entrance, what brings you to our home?" He asks. You immediately shake your head and launch into an explanation, anxiety evident in your ramblings. "I didn't mean to intrude, or trespass on your land, I-" You catch your breath. "My car crashed, something went wrong with the brakes. I didn't mean to crash into your well, really. Maybe we can just call the police, I don't want any trouble. I'll pay for damages-" The boy puts a hand up, and squints his eyes at you, as if shushing you. You fall silent, a little offended at being hushed like a whiny child.

"Do not worry, we have taken no offence to your intrusion." He says. "My name is Gabriel, and you have stumbled onto our holy land." He explains. You tilt your head, you weren't aware anyone lived out here, and there certainly wasn't anything about a town on the map. "I didn't know anyone lived out here..." You say. Gabriel chuckles, a cold laugh. "We do our best to keep a low profile. Contact with the outside world is heavily limited." As he explains further, you look around and notice all of the buildings are outdated farm houses, barns, and a chapel. Their attire suggests they must be a very religious sect that lives out here. "I understand, sorry to have intruded. Let me just call a ride-" You try to reach into your back pocket, but your arms are still being held by Joshua. You see Gabriel grin as he shakes his head. "I'm sorry to repeat myself, outsider, but as I said we keep contact with the outside world limited. We've had to confiscate that phone of yours." That feeling of dread creeps back into you. "But, I really need to call someone, it won't take but a minute." You beg. Gabriel sighs. "Outsider, our lord commands that we cleanse those who are impure, and destroy what he approves not of. Our town was once full of the non-believers, but now, look around." He motions to the buildings, and you notice there are very few people. No cars exist in the town you can see down the way, and all the inhabitants seem rather young. "W-what do you mean 'cleanse the impure'?" You ask, feeling your knees weaken. "Most are too dirtied with the ways of the world, and obey gods other than our lord. They would corrupt and defile land and society with their impure ways. The elders, men and women were too far gone, to set in their ways. My lord sent me a message, and told me they would not see the light." He rants. He suddenly stops, and glances at you, a small gleam in his eyes. "What... what did you do to them?" You ask softly, fearing you know the answer. "They had to be killed." You let out a choked breath, your knees buckling below you. What had been a simple road trip had turned into a life-or-death situation. As you kneel, sobbing and shaking on the floor, Gabriel pouts, looking at you as if you were a scared child, his gaze patronizing.

"Joshua." Gabriel motions down at you, and Joshua grips your chin, softening his grip slightly when you inhale sharply. He feels tear drops falling from your cheeks and landing on the backs of his palms, rolling down his arm and staining his shirt. He stares at the wet patch for a moment, considering not washing that sleeve again. Gabriel leans in and coos. "Fear not, outsider. You are still young, and it is not yet too late for you. I wish to offer you mercy, as our lord granted us." You blink, a few more tears leaking out of your eyes as you wait for him to continue. "Join us, and offer yourself to our lord and our ways-" He pauses and looks towards the town with a thoughtful gaze. He then turns back to you and continues. "-or join the impure. The choice is yours." He leans back, rearing to stand over your kneeling form. Joshua's grip on your wrist tightens, not in annoyance, but rather excitement, and surprise. Gabriel rarely lets any outsider join, though he supposes he was just a little younger than you when he converted.

Scared, hungry, and tired, you figure you have no choice. Maybe, once you've regained your strength and healed, you could escape. For now, you know you must remain here. "O-okay, I'll join you. Just, please don't hurt me." You whimper. Gabriel smiles, and clasps his hands together. "Wonderful! You know, just a couple of days ago we had to inflict a rather severe punishment on one of our own, so we actually have a room available. I'm sure Joshua will help set you up." Gabriel and Joshua share a few words before Gabriel departs back to the chapel. Joshua roughly pulls you up, parading you to a nearby farmhouse. He heads upstairs, entering a quaint bedroom with a bed, floral wallpaper, and a wash-basin.

He closes the door behind him quickly, before rifling through the drawer of the wash-basin. From inside, he pulls out an outfit of similar simplicity to his own. The well folded fabric hits you lightly in the chest as he tosses it at you. "Clothes from the impure world are not allowed, Gabriel will want you to change into something more appropriate." He says. You only nod, and begin to unfold the fabric. As you examine the outfit, you notice Joshua is leaning against the wash-basin, not leaving. "Um... aren't you going to leave. You said I need to change." You say. "I did, and I'm not leaving so you can try to make a run for it." He snaps. "Can you please turn around then, this isn't very appropriate." He rolls his eyes. "Turn my back to an outsider and leave me vulnerable to an attack? Unlikely. Stop whining, and change!" He slams his hand onto the wash-basin, making you squeak in fear. He stops when he sees your fear, and huffs. He doesn't enjoy that seeing you afraid isn't pleasurable like it is when he torments the other followers. When he glances back up, he feels his face grow warm, face colored a deeper shade of red than it was the day he spilt the blood of the townsfolk. You've taken your shirt off, and are now attempting to undo the buttons on your pants, a task that proves difficult due to your trembling hands. Once you finally remove them, you step out, now exposed save for your undergarments. The stress of the day on top of the embarrassment of being bared before this boy sends you over the edge, and you refrain from redressing in the new clothes. Instead, you begin to sob once more, and cover yourself with your arms. Joshua's eyes widen. While he likes the sight of your exposed form, he doesn't enjoy the trembling person before him. Unfortunately, Joshua is not equipped to handle comforting someone, and approaches you in the only way he can think of that is mildly comforting.

"God, you outsiders can't do anything for yourselves, can you?" He pushes you back onto the nearby bed, forcing you to sit down. He grabs the lower garment of clothing, and begins to slide it up over your ankles, and onto your waist. His breathing grows unstable as he moves the fabric upwards, the thin cloth the only thing between him and your plush thighs. Before now, all marriages and courtships had been approved through Gabriel, and Joshua himself had had no time for impure thoughts and boyish crushes, much less a courtship. But now, as your weak, frightened self sits before him, almost entirely naked and alone, he feels a stirring in his pants, as a warmth builds. Much more, he feels a stirring in his heart. He grimaces, trying to shake off those thoughts as he finishes buttoning up the lower garment. He slips your arms into the sleeves of a shirt, and begins buttoning the front up. Just a few buttons from the top, he pauses, just under your chest. He stares, and you watch in fear, unsure what he's thinking as he stares intently at your chest. He doesn't stop himself as he slips a hand just into the fabric for a moment, allowing him to brush a hand against the left most part of your chest. His cold touch makes you gasp, and he removes his hand, finishing up with the buttons. "Why did you do that?" You ask. "I had to fix a crease. Gabriel prefers a neat follower." He coughs, standing back up. "Come, we need to get you to sermon. Gabriel will want you in the front row." He practically pushes you out of the door, and as you stumble, you don't notice he takes an extra minute in the room, slipping your previously discarded shirt into his overall pocket.

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