#gasoline firefly | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joelmillerisapunk · 7 months

Text

unbelievable

mechanic!Joel x f!reader

masterlist

wordcount: 4,489

summary: the 'It's not just your car that needs fixing, is it?' Trope

warnings: 18+, unprotected p in v, lots of fingering, there's a joint, lots of 'sweetheart', some aftercare but like a bit different (I don't wanna spoil it) mentions of anxiety (bc I'm an anxious bltch and this would happen to me) fluffy smut?

notes: hiii 🥰 I hope you like mechanicJoel because I fell in love with him so fast, he has no right being so hot 🙃 The title is unbelievable by diamond rio, it felt pretty accurate to my inner Joel dialogue. a big thank you to @saradika-graphics & @firefly-graphics for the dividers (graphic designers deserve the world honestly)

You've always had a thing for rugged men, and Joel Miller is the epitome of a handsome, rough-around-the-edges mechanic. His strong hands, grease-stained clothes, and confident demeanor make your heart race every time you see him, which has been a lot recently since your old car has been having its fair share of problems.

It's a hot summer day, and you decide to visit the garage where Joel works, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. As you walk in, the smell of oil and gasoline fills your nostrils, making you feel a little lightheaded. But then, you see him. He's hunched over a car engine, his muscular arms covered in sweat and grime. Your heart skips a beat as you take in the sight of him.

You approach Joel, trying to act cool and collected, even though your insides are turning to jelly. "Hey, Joel," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "I was wondering if you could help me with my car again. It's been making a weird noise, and I don't know what to do."

Joel looks up at you, his beautiful brown eyes meeting yours. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of grease on his face. "Sure thing, sweetheart," he says with an almost knowing grin. You've been coming to see him every couple of weeks for the past few months. "Let me take a look for you, darlin."

As Joel inspects your car, you can't help but steal glances at his muscular physique. You imagine what it would be like to run your hands over his firm chest and his stomach, to feel his stubble scratch against your skin as he kisses you. The thought makes you wet, and you squirm, trying to hide your arousal.

But Joel notices. He looks up at you, his gaze intense and seductive. "You seem a little flustered, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and husky. "Is there something on your mind?"

You swallow hard, trying to gather your nerves. The heat in the garage is making you feel more and more flustered, and the idea of Joel noticing your arousal only adds to your embarrassment. "Uh, yeah, I guess so," you manage to reply.

Joel's eyes rake over your body, taking in the way your shirt clings to your body and the way your nipples are hardening under the hot conditions. "I can tell you've been coming to see me for a while now. It's not just your car that needs fixing, is it?"

Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you can feel the heat rising to your face. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," you stammer, trying to deny the truth even to yourself.

But Joel isn't backing down. He steps closer to you, his body towering over yours. "I can help you with your car, sweetheart," he says, his voice a low growl. "But if you're looking for something else, something a little more personal, I can do that too."

Your mind is racing as you try to figure out what to do. On one hand, you've always had a thing for rough-and-tumble men like Joel, and the idea of being with him is almost too much to bear. On the other hand, you're not sure if you're ready for something like that with someone you're not even dating. As you stand there, frozen in indecision, Joel reaches out and gently takes your hand in his. "It's okay, darlin," he says, his voice soft and reassuring. "You don't have to decide right now. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Joel continues working on your car, he takes his time, making sure to do everything a little slower. He runs his hand over the engine, and with every turn of the wrench and every adjustment of parts, you can't help but feel your heart race, your skin tingle, and your body heat up. He's wearing a pair of tight jeans that hug his thighs, and every time he bends over the car, you catch a glimpse of the outline of his bulge. You wonder what it would feel like to touch him there, to feel him hard and ready against your skin. Your mind races with fantasies of him taking you, claiming you, making you his in ways that go far beyond the mechanical fixings of a car.

Joel takes a bit of a break from your car, and you think he's about to tell you what was wrong with it. "You know, sweetheart, I could fix more than just your car," he repeats himself again, " I could fix all your problems, make you feel good in ways you've never felt before."

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. "What do you mean?"

Joel grins, a knowing look in his eyes. "I mean, I could show you the kind of fixings that only a man like me can provide," he says, his voice low and seductive. "Make you mine, take you right here. I promise you, it's something you'd never forget.”

“Oh, uh I, uhm I need to -” You pause, looking at your phone, “I have a thing soon. So I should uh go when you're done.” You can barely keep yourself together as you fumble through your sentence.

Joel smirks, "Of course, sweetheart," he says, his voice reassuring. "When you're ready, I'll be here.”

As you exit the garage, you feel a mix of excitement and anxiety coursing through your veins. Joel's words have left you feeling both turned on and terrified at the same time.

You spend the next few hours trying to shake off the encounter, but your mind keeps wandering back to Joel's words and the way his body made you feel. You can't stop thinking about the way his muscles bulged under his tight jeans, or the way his hair curled, his strong jawline, or the way those lips would part everytime he would focus on your car. You want to touch him, taste him, feel him- anything. And you're desperate to hear him speak that sexy accent of his once again.

When you finally arrive home, you let yourself into your apartment and immediately head straight for your bedroom. You shed your clothes as fast as possible, trying to rid your entire day from your skin. After your shower, you pull on a pair of shorts, your favorite oversized t shirt before padding barefoot across the carpeted floor of your room.

Just as you're opening your bedroom door to get a snack, your phone rings. You glance at your screen - a number with no name showing up - before answering the call, your heart pounding in anticipation. “Hello?”

You can hear a woman's voice in the background, "I told you not to come in my office. You can't just call random clients." Then you hear a muffled males voice and the woman again. "Yes... I understand she hasnt paid, but we don't contact clients until the end of the month."

You sit there unsure of what to do, should you say something? Should you hang up? Should you ignore her? Suddenly, you hear yelling. "Out - now!" she exclaims before apologizing for the misunderstanding and hanging up the phone on you. As you hang up the phone, you can't help but feel a sense of confusion and disappointment wash over you. You had been hoping that it was Joel on the other end of the line and that he was calling to follow up on his earlier proposition. But instead, it seems like you were caught in the middle of a heated exchange between a man and a woman, and you can't help but wonder what it all means.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You know that you can't let yourself get too caught up in the idea of Joel. You need to focus on yourself and your own needs rather than getting swept up in the allure of a man you barely know. You've got plenty of people who love you, and it's better to prioritize your relationships than get carried away with a man like Joel. You know you wouldn't be able to handle it.

But then suddenly here you are. You take a deep breath and steel yourself as you walk back into the garage, hoping to catch Joel before he leaves for the day. The receptionist gives you a disapproving look as you enter, but you ignore her and make your way towards Joel, who has just finished up with a customer. As you approach, Joel looks up and sees you, a small smile spreading across his face. "Hey there, sweetheart," he says, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "I, uh, I had some questions about my car," you say, trying to sound casual. "I figured I'd come down and ask you in person."

Joel raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. Instead, he nods towards the back of the garage, inviting you to follow him. As you walk, you can't help but notice the way his muscles ripple under his shirt or the way his jeans hug his hips. You feel a heat creeping up your neck, and you hope he doesn't notice.

Once you're in the back, Joel crosses his arms over his chest and looks at you with a serious expression. "Listen, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and intense. "I know what you're doing, and I want you to know that it's not going to work."

You furrow your brow, confused. "What do you mean?" you ask, your voice shaking slightly.

Joel takes a step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "I mean that I know you're trying to avoid what's going on between us," he says, his voice softening. "And I get it. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around." You open your mouth to protest, but Joel holds up a hand to stop you. "But I also know that there's something between us, something real and intense," he continues. "And I don't want to ignore it anymore."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "What are you saying?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel takes another step closer to you, his body almost touching yours. "I'm saying that I want you, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and seductive. "I want to make you feel good, to show you things you've never experienced before."

Your mind is racing as you try to process what Joel is saying. On one hand, you're terrified of the intensity of your feelings for him so soon, of the way he makes your heart race and your skin tingle. On the other hand, you can't deny the attraction you feel towards him, the way your body responds to his voice alone.

As you stand there, frozen, Joel reaches out and gently takes your hand in his. "It's okay, darlin," he says, his voice soft and reassuring.

You know that you have a choice to make, a decision to make about what you want and what you're ready for. And as you stand there, looking into Joel's beautiful brown eyes, you know that you're ready. Without saying a word, you lean in and press your lips to Joel's, feeling the heat and passion of his kiss. Joel responds eagerly, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you closer. You can feel the strength and power of his body. As Joel deepens the kiss, he reaches down and gently lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you over to a nearby workbench. He sets you down gently, cupping your face in his hands, "Be right back, sweetheart, don't go anywhere.”

Just as Joel turns to lock up, the receptionist calls out, "Joel, she can't stay here. She's not an employee."

Joel turns to her, his expression stern. "I'll take care of it, Linda," he says. "Just go home."

Linda looks taken aback, but she doesn't argue. She grabs her things and leaves the garage, shooting you a disapproving look as she goes.

Once she's gone and the doors are locked,Joel walks back over to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. He pulls a small joint out of his pocket and holds it up for you to see. "Ever tried this before, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low and seductive.

You shake your head, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. "No, I haven't," you admit.

Joel grins, lighting the joint and taking a deep drag. He holds it out to you, his eyes locked on yours. "Here, let me show you," he says.

You lean in, taking a tentative puff on the joint. The smoke is harsh and unfamiliar, but the sensation of Joel's hand on your back, guiding you, is intoxicating. You feel a warm, tingly sensation spreading through your body. He pulls back, his eyes shining with desire as he takes another drag. "You like that, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low and husky.

You nod, unable to speak. You've never smoked weed before, but with Joel, it feels right. It feels intimate and exciting, like you're sharing a secret that only the two of you know. For a while, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside fading away, like you're the only two people in the entire world, and it's a feeling you never want to let go of.

But eventually, the joint burns down to nothing, and the two of you are forced to come back to reality. Joel grins, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, his lips are soft and gentle, his tongue exploring your mouth as he deepens the kiss. You can feel the warmth of the weed spreading through your body, making you feel relaxed and happy.

As you kiss, Joel's hands roam over your body, his fingers tracing the curves of your waist and the swell of your breasts. You moan softly, your body responding to his touch. You can feel the heat building between your legs, your clit throbbing with desire.

Joel breaks the kiss, his eyes dark with desire. "I want you, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and intense. "I want to make you feel good.” You nod, your body trembling with anticipation. You want him too, more than anything. You want to feel his hands on your body, his lips on your skin. You want to feel him inside you, filling you up and making you his.

Joel's fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it up over your head. He tosses it aside, his eyes raking over your body. You're wearing a lacy bra, the color of pale pink. Joel's fingers trace the lines of your bra, his touch gentle and teasing. You can feel your nipples hardening under the lace, your body begging for more.

"You're so beautiful, sweetheart," Joel says, his voice low and husky. "I can't wait to taste you." With a quick motion, he removes your bra, throwing it to the floor.

He leans in, his mouth closing over one of your nipples. His tongue flicks at the hard peak, making you gasp with pleasure. Joel's hands roam over your body. He reaches down, his fingers finding the waistband of your shorts. He tugs them down, his fingers tracing the lines of your lacy panties. You can feel his breath against your skin, hot and heavy. Joel's fingers find the edge of your panties, tugging them aside. His fingers trace the outer lips of your pussy, his touch gentle and teasing.

Joel's fingers find your entrance, sliding inside you with ease. You gasp with pleasure, your body responding to his touch. He starts to move his fingers inside you, faster, his touch more urgent. You can feel the orgasm building inside you.

"Fuck, sweetheart, so fuckin' tight," Joel growls.

You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Joel's fingers continue to work their magic.

And then, suddenly, you're there.

You cry out as you come, your orgasm ripping through you like wildfire. Joel's fingers continue, drawing out your pleasure until you're left weak and trembling in his arms. “S'okay baby, s'okay, you did so so good for me sweetheart.”

As your orgasm subsides, Joel pulls his fingers out of you, his eyes dark with desire. He licks his fingers clean, his tongue tracing the lines of your juices. You watch him, your mouth parted like you just watched him lick the tastiest ice cream cone.

Joel reaches down, his fingers finding the button of his jeans. He undoes it, tugging his jeans down over his hips. He's not wearing any underwear, and his cock springs free, hard and ready.

You can't help but stare, your eyes wide with desire. Joel's cock is long and thick, the head dark and swollen. You can see a drop of pre-cum glistening on the tip, and you can't wait to taste it. Joel steps closer to you, his cock brushing against your thigh. You can feel the heat of it, the hardness. You reach out, your fingers wrapping around the shaft. Joel groans, his head falling back as you start to stroke him. You can feel his body trembling, his cock twitching in your hand. You stroke him faster, your hand moving up and down the shaft. Joel's hands roam over your body. He reaches down, tugging your panties off in one swift motion.

You're completely exposed now, your pussy on full display. Joel's eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his cock throbbing in your hand.

"Fuck, you look so hot," Joel growls.

You've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But with Joel, it feels right. It feels exciting and thrilling, he reaches down, his fingers finding your clit. He starts to rub, his touch gentle and teasing.

"Do you like that, sweetheart?" Joel asks, his voice low and husky. You nod, unable to speak. "You're so fucking hot,," Joel growls. "I can't wait to taste you."

He drops to his knees in front of you, his eyes locked on yours. He reaches up, his fingers tracing your inner thighs. You can feel his breath against your skin, hot and heavy. Joel's tongue finds your clit, gentle and teasing. You gasp with pleasure, your body responding to his touch. Joel's tongue moves lower, tracing the outer lips of your pussy. His tongue finds your entrance, pushing inside you. You can feel him exploring his tongue, tracing your walls. Joel's fingers find your clit again, rubbing in time with his tongue.

"Fuck, Joel, m’gonna come," you cry out grabbing onto his hair.

Joel doesn't stop, his tongue and fingers continuing, his eyes don't leave yours, it makes him almost painfully hard watching you come. You cry out as you come. Joel's tongue continues to lick at your pussy, drawing out your pleasure.

"You taste so fucking good, sweetheart," Joel growls, standing up.

He steps closer to you, his cock brushing against your entrance. Joel's hands find your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. "You ready for me sweetheart?

"Yes, please, Joel." He pushes inside you, his cock filling you up completely. You gasp with pleasure, your body responding to his touch. Joel starts to move, his hips thrusting against you. His cock hits that sweet spot inside of you with every stroke. Joel reaches down, his fingers finding your. You can feel your body trembling, your pleasure building higher and higher.

"Fuck, Joel, I'm gonna come again," you cry out, your voice hoarse with pleasure.

Joel's thrusts become more urgent, his fingers moving faster. You can feel your orgasm building, your body tensing with pleasure until you come again. Joel's thrusts become erratic, his body tensing as he reaches his own release. He groans, his cock twitching inside of you as he fills you with his seed.

The two of you lie there, panting and sated, your bodies still tangled together. Joel's forehead is pressed against yours, his eyes shining with desire and affection. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the beating of his heart against your chest.

"You're so fucking perfect, sweetheart," Joel murmurs, his voice low and husky.

You smile, feeling a sense of contentment. But even as those thoughts run through your mind, you also know that you can't let yourself get carried away. You barely know Joel, and there are things about him that you don't know. Important things.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you know you have to do. "Joel, I... I need to go," you say, your voice soft but firm.

Joel's expression changes, a hint of sadness and disappointment flashing in his eyes. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, his voice soft.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Suddenly, the walls feel like they're closing in on you, and you can't catch your breath. "I-I can't breathe," you manage to say, your voice shaking.

Joel's face falls, and he pulls you into a tight embrace. "It's okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice soothing. "Just breathe with me, in and out. You're safe, I've got you."

You focus on Joel's voice, trying to match your breathing to his. Slowly, the panic begins to recede, and you can feel your heart rate returning to normal. "I'm so sorry," you say, your voice still shaking. "I don't know what came over me."

Joel shushes you, his hand tracing circles on your back. "It's okay," he says. "You don't have to apologize. You've been through a lot today. It's okay to feel overwhelmed."

You nod, feeling a sense of shame wash over you. You wanted to be strong, to be brave, but instead, you fell apart.

Joel must sense your embarrassment because he pulls back and looks at you with a serious expression. "Hey, listen to me," he says, his voice firm. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You're allowed to feel however you feel, and I'm here, no matter what. Okay?"

You nod, feeling a sense of gratitude towards Joel. He's been so kind and understanding, even for someone who knows nothing about you and you can't help but feel drawn to him.

"Come on, sweetheart," Joel says, standing up and pulling you to your feet. "Let's get you out of here and into some fresh air. How about we go to my place and spend the night? I promise, no funny business."

You know it sounds crazy but a sense of relief washes over you as you agree. You don't want to be alone right now, and the thought of spending the night with Joel is weirdly comforting. As much as you know, you should probably just go home. Joel helps you get dressed, his hands gentle and reassuring. Once you're both dressed, he leads you outside and into his truck. He drives you to his house, his hand resting on yours the entire time. When you arrive, Joel leads you inside and shows you to his bedroom. He pulls back the covers and helps you climb into bed, tucking you in like a child. "Just rest, sweetheart," he says, his voice soft. "I'll be right back."

You nod, feeling a sense of exhaustion wash over you. Joel returns a few minutes later with a glass of water. He helps you sit up and take a sip of water, then lays down next to you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It's soothing, and you can feel yourself drifting off to sleep.

"Thank you, Joel," you murmur, your voice sleepy.

Joel kisses the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. "Anytime, sweetheart," he says. "I'm always here for you."

As you drift off to sleep, you can't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards Joel. He's been so kind and understanding. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe, and you know that everything is going to be okay.

As you sleep, Joel watches over you, his eyes full of affection and concern. He's fallen for you, hard.

As the night wears on, Joel holds you close, his arms wrapped around you. He knows that you're not ready for anything serious, and he's okay with that. For now, he's just happy to be with you, to be there for you, to comfort you, and to make you happy.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #dom!joel miller #mechanic!joe miller #joel miller fluff

1K notes · View notes

boxofbonesfic · 3 months

Text

Title: Blood and Sand (1 of 2)

Pairing: Werewolf!Moon Knight x Reader

Summary: You are selected to accompany your mentor on a dig, but what you find in the desert instead makes you wish you had never come at all.

Warnings: Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Murder, Kidnapping, Cults, Implied Torture, AU, Eventual Smut, Monsterfucking, Lycanthropy

A/N: I hope part one is enough to get you all salivating! I’ve had this idea kicking around for a bit, and I’m happy to finally be doing something about it. Please don’t hesitate to let me know what you think with a comment or a reblog! divider by @firefly-graphics

You come to as the truck’s lurching, uneven gait smooths out, the tires quieting as they pass from sand to something more hard packed, like a road. You had grown so used to bumping along over the dunes, bouncing around in the bed of the truck like a sack of grain that now the road feels strange, instead of comforting. Your mouth tastes like dry cotton and sand—and blood, from where your lip had split when the butt of the gun had impacted it, hard. You’re not sure who’d done it—you were already dizzy from the blow to the back of your head.

Pretty sure I’m concussed.

You’re not a doctor, but you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to sleep after a concussion, though the reason why escapes you currently. The truck jolts over something you can’t see—a pothole? A body? The thick, hot bag they’d thrown over your head prevents you from seeing anything, it barely lets your breath out, let alone letting light in. Something heavier than the empty canisters of gasoline that had been pushed aside to make room for the two of you lands against you, and you yelp, flinching before you realize—it’s the professor. Your hands are aching and sore where they’ve been bound behind you, so you can’t help him right himself.

He groans with pain.

“P-professor Hartwell?” You don’t think they can hear you in the cab, not over the sound of the tires on the road. Still, you try to keep your voice low. “Professor are you alright?” For once, you actually hope to hear his grim, irritated voice—but you hear nothing, only the rattling breaths in his chest as he pants. You wait a moment, and try again.

“Professor?”

For another few heartbeats, the only sound is that of the truck beating the road beneath it into submission, before your mentor takes another wet, rasping breath.

“Y-you must not let them.” The words are nearly lost in his pained wheezing. You know you’re probably imagining it, but you can smell copper through the bag, taste it thickly in the air. “They’ll want you to read from the book,” this time, you know you aren’t imagining it—something hot and wet seeping against your side where the professor is pressed against you.

“You must not.”

“What—what book? P-professor sit up, you, you have to sit up a—and stay awake—” The cough that wracks his frame sounds loud and painful. You feel his body spasm as the truck hits another something, and the back of your head bounces hard off of the side of the bed, making you see stars against the inside of the bag.

“Gods forgive me,” he rasps. “Forgive me. I never knew it would—-” His pained rambling is nonsensical, devolving into strings of words you can barely understand. “Bury it, burn it, make it dust and scatter it to the wind, you hear? Destroy it!” Hands grasp your shoulders, his, you realize, bony and thin, the tips digging into your flesh insistently. He’d been bound, just like you were, hands secured behind your backs with zip ties—so how did he hold you now? Shaking you like a rag doll as he shouts into your covered face, the scent and taste of his blood choking you.

“Burn it all!” It’s hot, so hot, hotter than you’ve ever been, even here in the desert, and your dry lips crack and bleed as your head snaps back and forth on your shoulders. All you taste is fire and blood. “To ashes!” His voice booms in your ears and in your skull and for a moment you fear he will fling you out of the bed of the truck, but he releases you, collapsing against the hard plastic beneath you with a bang.

You swallow, running your dry tongue along your aching lips, almost afraid to speak.

“Professor?”

There is no answer.

—

When the truck finally stops, you ready yourself.

The door to the cab creaks as it swings open, and the impact of boots in the sand makes you snap to attention. You wince, shrinking back as the tailgate opens, rough hands grabbing at your ankles. You kick, struggling and cursing as you’re dragged from the truck bed, the breath knocked from your body as you land on your back, hard.

“Fucking bitch.” Someone curses, and you hear boots scuffle against the cracked asphalt beneath you just in time for you to ready yourself for the blow. It comes, a steel toed boot digging hard into the softness of your belly. You wheeze. A rough hand knots in the collar of your shirt, pulling you up. The bag is ripped off, and hot—but fresh—air immediately surges around your cheeks. It’s still night, the moon big and full and nearly sun-bright above you. You blink, your eyes watering in the sudden light.

The man above you grins, his blue eyes creasing at the corners. “Think we’ve got a live one.” His thickly accented words are mocking. Russian, maybe.

“F-fuck you!” Your voice trembles, but you don’t care, lashing out again with your own legs until he kicks you again. This time, you puke, bile stinging your cut lips as it erupts out of your mouth. You heave onto the road while he stands over you, laughing. With his boot, he rolls you over onto your belly, planting a knee in the center of your back, pressing hard until you cry out. The sound of a knife being flicked open makes your eyes widen, and you struggle beneath his weight. The blond leans down over you, his hot, liquor stained breath coating the side of your face.

“Keep it up, curly,” he presses the knife to the side of your face. “They don’t say nothing about you being in one piece. Only breathing.” You release the breath held in your trembling throat as he pulls the knife away, leaning back to grab at your bound hands. The edge of the blade slides through the plastic like soft butter, and immediately you crawl out from underneath him.

“Mikhail, enough.” There are two other men watching, a dark haired one and another blond.

“Fuck off, Rumlow.”

“You killed the other one. You want to explain to him why you’re coming back down two hostages?” Rumlow crosses the road to squat in front of you, one hand resting comfortably on his knee, the other loosely gripping a pistol. He snaps, like he’s trying to get your attention, even though he already has it. “You see that old fuck?” He points to the body of your professor in the bed of the truck to your left. You don’t need to look to know he’s dead. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken since his tirade earlier, how could he be living?

And more than that, you don’t want to look. Because you will see him zip-tied, hands bound—the same hands that had gripped you with unearthly fury, blazing hot like an avenging angel. No, you do not want to think of that at all.

“Unless you’d like that to be you, you’re going to behave.” He cocks the gun. “Understand?”

You nod.

“Good.”

Mikhail glares at Rumlow hatefully, and then at you, and you can tell he doesn’t enjoy being called to heel.

“Give the bitch her water and put the bag back on, Jensen.” He sneers, before spitting into the dirt at your feet. “Cyka.” You don’t know what the word he says under his breath means, but you get the feeling it doesn’t mean anything good. The other blond, a lanky, tall man with glasses, jogs around to the other side of the truck, tugging open the door. He roots around inside before producing a water bottle. You nearly drop it as he tosses it to you, fumbling to get the cap off before pouring the contents down your aching throat, sparing a few drops to rinse your face.

It’s done before you realize it, and you find yourself shaking the bottle to get the last drops out. Mikhail laughs.

“Back in the bed, cyka.” He snaps, kicking at your feet. “Let’s go.” You hesitate, your hand trembling as you pause above the tailgate. The professor’s body is still there, lying in the bed of the truck like a broken doll. Mikhail shoves your shoulder. “Move.”

“I—the body,” you choke out, licking at your lips to ease the burn of speaking. “Can’t you… do something?” He heaves a put upon sigh. You don’t know what you’re expecting, not really, but you clap your hands over your mouth to stifle your shocked scream as Mikhail grabs Professor Hartwell’s ankle and hauls him out of the bed of the truck. He goes easily of course—he’s dead, you remind yourself, fucking dead—landing on the edge of the old road. His body rolls off the side into the sand filled ditch along the side of it, and you know in just a few hours he will be completely covered.

This road is old, seldom used, by the looks of it, deep cracks filled with sand, and no signs for miles in any direction. Large portions of it have been taken back by the desert, Sand and tufts of wispy grass eclipsing the road’s broken remains.

You don’t want to leave the professor here.

You have little choice, though, as Mikhail, whose patience you have finally worn thin, shoves you into the bed of the truck. The tailgate nearly catches your fingers as he slams it closed, and you let out a dismayed cry as your face presses against the hard plastic of the bed and you find it wet. You scramble up and away from it on your hands and knees, wiping your face with your hand and whimpering as it comes away red.

The truck starts up again, bumping along the abandoned road as you watch the professor’s hooded body grow smaller and smaller in the distance, and then finally disappear altogether.

—

It’s nearly dawn when you arrive, the edges of the sky turning pink as finally, you see lights. Artificial ones of course, mounted atop a double-thick chainlink fence. The floodlights atop the guard station illuminate the entire truck for close to ten minutes before finally it slows to a stop beside the checkpoint. You cower against the side of the bed as an armed guard shines a flashlight into your face, ever aware of the intimidating looking machine gun strapped to his back. When he’s satisfied, he mumbles something you don’t catch into a walkie-talkie, and the entrance slides open.

He makes some sort of sign as the truck rolls away, like the cross almost, but only on the right side, and the gate slides closed again behind you. Jensen helps you out of the bed, but directs you with a firm hand on your shoulder towards a long, narrow building. It sprawls out for uncountable meters, but only two, three stories high. You aren’t really afforded a proper look as you’re shuffled inside, Mikhail grumbling bad naturredly behind you.

The lights inside buzz artificially, and you wince and stumble as you attempt to adjust to them after outside. There is a large staircase leading up to the other floors to the left of the door, but beyond it the building stretches on in a maze of narrow hallways.

The line of men before you can be no better described than as priests, long black vestments with red satin trims, white collars at their throats. One of them steps forward, his face twisting in distaste at the mercenaries.

“He wants to see her.” He looks at you with equal disdain, before glaring at the men behind you. “Where is Professor Hartwell? He was to accompany—”

“The old man didn’t want to come.” Mikhail snaps. “It seem he had little… change of heart since last time.”

Last time?

The priest heaves an irritated sigh. “Fine. He—he’s not going to be happy about this, you know. He would have at least liked to speak with him—”

“Then let him tell us that.” Mikhail is big—which feels like an understatement, looking at him. He’s a tank of a man, broad shouldered, and built like a brick fucking shit-house. He knows it too, squaring his muscular shoulders and fixing the priest with a glare. “Yeah?”

He caves. “Fine.” His irritated gaze finds you once more, and you have a sinking feeling that you will be the recipient of his ire. “Come, then.” He grabs you by the wrist as if touching something unpleasant. “Let’s get this over with.”

You consider running, just for a moment, before the idea laughs itself out of your head. It would be stupid even to try. Defeated, you follow the priest up the stairs and down the corridor, glad at least to be away from Mikhail. The hallway is nondescript, which feels very much on purpose; so you wouldn’t be able to recall a single descriptive thing about this place—

It could be anywhere.

The third or fourth door on the right is open, and he ushers you inside before stepping in himself and closing the door. Inside is like an office, neat bookcases lining the walls on either side of the wide desk. On the other side of it, is a man.

He peers at you, long fingers steepled together beneath his chin. His black hair is slicked back, sharp green eyes taking in the still stinging cut above your left eye, your bloody nose and heat chapped lips.

“A pity about the Professor.” He says after a moment. “I’d looked forward to seeing him again.” You don’t say anything. The impression rises in you that this is a man who likes to hear himself talk, and you want to hear what he has to say, if only to gain an inkling of understanding about your own predicament. The man leans forward, cocking his head. ”Do you know who I am?”

“No.” You reply dryly. “Should I?” He doesn’t like that. His expression only changes minutely, a slight narrowing of the eyes, a tightness in the smile—but enough for you to see it.

“Should? I don’t know about should,” he drawls. “But I’d think you’d at least like to know who’s been signing your paychecks for the last six months, hmm?” Your stomach drops to your feet, and though you try to school your expression into one of forced nonchalance, the man behind the desk’s sly smile turns victorious. “Oh, he didn’t tell you.”

“I get paid by the university,” you reply through tightly clenched teeth. “I—”

“And who do you think pays them?” He stands from behind the desk, rising to his full height like a snake uncoiling. “There’s a reason your department is so well funded, Love.” You try to take a step back as he approaches, but the solid form of the priest behind you boxes you in. He towers over you, forcing you to look up just to maintain eye contact as he steps closer.

“I expect Horace thought he would have more time.” There is a brassy colored cart next to the desk, and he plucks a glass from the topmost shelf, before rummaging around on the one beneath it. “Ah, here we are.” He produces a crystalline decanter, and your throat constricts thirstily at the sight of the clear liquid inside. You don’t know how many days it’s been since you’ve last had a proper drink of water—the bottle in the car a proverbial drop in a dry ocean—but you suspect it’s been more than three. You watch, ashamed of your own need as he pours it into the glass.

“More time to explain, to scheme, to scheme with you. But that’s the thing about hubris,” he sighs, filling a second glass and drinking deeply—gratefully from it. You watch him, unable to stop your dry throat from swallowing reflexively as he does, imagining cool water filling your own mouth.

“Oh, would you like some?” He asks, offering it to you as though he’d thought he already done so. You gulp it down, chasing the stray drops from your lips with the back of your hand. “You’re welcome.”

“What do you want from me?” You ask, dropping the glass back onto the table gracelessly. He grimaces. “And you still haven’t told me your name.”

“Loki.” He refills your glass. “I just need you to read something for me.” He says, the words nonchalant. “Just a few passages. I know you can.“ Loki’s hawkish eyes narrow at the corners as he smiles at you. “Horace was an excellent teacher.”

It’s useless to deny what you both know is true, grueling nights spent poring over texts and tablets older than your entire family line, helping Professor Hartwell translate and document.

And the man in front of you had paid for all of it.

You must not. Even the memory of his words feels hot, sweeping through your skull like hot desert wind. Burn it all to ashes.

“What do you want me to read, exactly?” Loki’s smile widens uncomfortably.

“Just a book.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re not really in a position to negotiate, Love.” Loki says, inspecting his nails. You can’t stop yourself from scowling at him, baring your teeth between your cracked lips as you sneer.

“Stop pretending I’m forcing your hand, you—”

“Awful, what happened at your dig site.” His brows knit together as his expression turns smugly apologetic. “It’s always nasty business, when someone involves innocent people in what should be private affairs.”

“Fuck you.”

“My hand was forced.” His grip turns vicious, his thumb digging into your skin hard enough to make you whimper, his eyes hard and cold.

“Do not force it again.”

—

The observational cell you’re forced into seems outdated, repurposed for its current use as a jail. The guards stationed at the end of the hallway barely spare you a look as you’re marched by, the muzzle of Mikhail’s gun pressed against your spine. Only one of the lights swinging from the damp ceiling actually works, buzzing to life dimly as Mikhail shoves you inside unceremoniously.

As the rusty bolts slide shut, the bare bulb above you goes dim, leaving you in near darkness, aside from what little light filters in through the observational window in the wall above your head. The air is stagnant and moist, the sound of dripping water coming from somewhere in the darkness.

I’m not alone in here.

You don’t know how you know that, because there’s no tell—merely the presence of another living thing pushing against you like holding magnets with like polarities together as hard as you could. Your skin prickles with the knowledge, cold sweat dripping down beneath your dirty collar. You swallow.

“Hello?”

For a moment—a minute or two at least—there is no response.

“You’re not the professor.” The voice sounds…tired.

“I keep disappointing people that way.”

There is a sound like metal rubbing against metal, and just at the border of the darkness, you see movement. The man that emerges from the darkness is tall, broad shouldered with dark, curly hair. High cheekbones and wide dark eyes. Bare chested, with iron manacles at his wrists, and ankles. There’s a collar at his throat, as well, and as he steps closer you note the chains that travel backward, disappearing into the shadows. His linen pants are dirty at the bottom, his bare chest peppered with old, yellowing bruises.

“Who are you, then?” His gaze saddens as he looks at you. “No one they like, if you’re in here with me.” You eye his chains, gesturing at them with your hands. You laugh dryly.

“No,” you agree, thinking back on your conversation with Loki. “No one they like.”

“I’m Marc.” He offers you his hand. “I’m sorry you’re here.” You tell him your own name.

“Me too.”

—

They come for him every night, you realize. Dragging Marc out of the cell for hours until dawn, when he returns bruised and bleeding, exhausted.

It happens on the third night you’re there, Mikhail and Rumlow barging in as the two of you sleep, back to back on the cot. You still ache where he kicked you, and Mikhail knows it, lunging toward you only to watch you flinch back as he laughs.

“Where are you taking him?”

“Be careful, cyka.” He says, spitting at the ground near Marc’s feet. “You’ll get rabies from this one.” Marc doesn’t react, his dark eyes trained hard on the wall. He’s just as big as them, but he doesn’t fight back as Rumlow shuffles him out. You watch through the window until you can’t see him anymore, your face pressed against the glass.

The sun is peeking through the narrow window on the opposite wall, high enough to let you know it’s late morning at least when they bring him back. Marc looks changed, somehow more fragile, his face drawn and skin pale. His skin bears fresh wounds, new bruises, and the skin around his mouth is stained dark, dry red.

Marc stumbles towards the cot, throwing himself down onto it, his shoulders heaving.

“M-Marc?” Your voice sounds timid and terrified, even to your own ears. “What—what happened?”

He lays there, facing the wall for a long time.

“I’m Jake.” He says finally, turning to peer at you over his shoulder. You take a step back—this isn’t Marc. “He—what they did… it was too much. I’m driving right now.” His eyes are darker, more serious, face drawn tight with emotion he won’t name—no. This isn’t the same man. Same body—different person. Fleetingly, your brief and unenjoyable psychology class flits back to you—Dissociative Identity Disorder—

“Okay.”

You hesitate before placing a comforting hand on his bare shoulder. His skin is clammy. Jake glares over his shoulder at you. “I’m not Marc.”

“I get that. You’re bleeding.” There aren’t any bandages, but you’re more than willing to sacrifice your outermost layer of clothing for the cause, helping you tear them to shreds. The pail of water you’re given every morning is meant to suffice , so you try to make it last, cleaning the wounds as thoroughly as you can afford to. After a few passes, Jake relaxes beneath your touch.

“Thank you.” He seems unused to softness of any kind.

“Don’t mention it.”

The conversation that day is minimal—Jake’s not a talker. But he makes his presence known in other ways, watching you with quiet eyes from across the room as you investigate every corner. Occasionally, he offers commentary when you prompt him.

No, the windows never open.

Mierda! Keep climbing up there and you’ll break your damn neck.

Keep that up and the guards will be down here to check on us in no time.

When sleep is unavoidable, Jake doesn’t stop you from laying down next to him on the thin cot.

“Goodnight, Jake.” There’s an answering grunt from beside you, though he says nothing.

When you wake in the middle of the night, he is gone again.

—

When you do finally dream, you wish for the abyss again, the dreamless dark that you’d feared as you dozed in the truck. That would have been better than seeing it again. The sand is burning hot on your hands as you scramble over the dunes, gunfire pockmarking the sand only inches behind you as you trip over the shifting earth toward the jeeps. People are screaming, there’s wetness on your face, you realize it as you move to wipe the sweat from your eyes only to discover it isn’t sweat at all—but blood.

So many bodies. And you know all their names—Ursula, Ahmed, Ricky, Britney, David—You know all their names, and they bleed out into the thirsty sand and are lost as you watch.

The sting above your left eye worsens, and as you lick your lips you taste the wound, clinging to your tongue as the professor grabs your arm—

Run, run—

You wake up screaming, flailing in the dark on the threadbare cot. The chains rattle as he scrambles towards you, hands up placatingly as you raise your own, ready to defend yourself from threats both real, and imagined. One of the guards pounds on the window with the butt of his rifle.

“Keep her fucking quiet!”

“Hey,” Steven approaches you like he’s talking to a wounded animal. His voice is soft, kind.“You’re okay. You’re here, right? You’re not there, the place in your dreams isn’t real, right? It’s a dream. It’s the past, it’s not here, okay?” You sob into his chest, clutching at him as he rocks you back and forth as gently as if he were holding a baby bird.

—

You’re afraid to ask what they make him do, afraid to have him confirm what you already know. The place where it happens can’t be far away from your prison. If you strain hard enough, force yourself to stay up as late as you possibly can until terror and exhaustion put you to sleep again, you can hear the screams.

And something… else.

Howling.

Sometimes he comes back naked, clutching his pants in trembling hands, retching up red bile into the far corner where the half-broken toilet is. The word for what he is dances on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t want to say it, give it air and space and reality.

—

They chain you like Marc when they come for you, marching the two of you through the impersonal concrete maze before forcing both of you into a large room. There’s a stone altar at the center, and you nearly trip over your own feet at the sight of the man bound and gagged upon it. Your questions do the same in their haste to escape your mouth.

“W-what? Who is that? What—”

Rumlow presses the gun against the back of your head, pulling down the hammer.

“Walk.”

You do, swallowing the words back down in a cold, terrified lump.

Loki waits for you on the other side of the dais, a pleased expression on his face. He steps aside as you approach, positioning you in front of the man. You watch as they loop Marc’s chains through iron pegs only a few feet from the man, whose eyes are wide with terror. Only minimal sound escapes around the gag, though, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth.

“Here we are. Now.” He taps a long finger against the podium. “Let’s begin.” You stand next to him, squinting down at the book. It’s old—not paper, not really, comprised of pressed thin sheets of fibrous plants, painted over with flaking black ink. But the letters are familiar, and after a moment, you begin to read. The words are halting, clumsy as you sound them out. The more you read, the more you understand.

This is not just a passage you’re reading, holy text from some archaic book—no, these are commands. Ones that make your tongue burn as the words leap from it.

The dais fills with silvery light, and when you look up, you see the moon, framed perfectly through the skylight. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? The moon had been full the night the professor—

“Are you deaf? I said read.” Loki snarls, grabbing the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. You can’t though, not when Marc’s cry of pain splits the air. He writhes down there on the floor, his body contorting. You watch, horrified as his limbs lengthen and thicken with sickening cracks, the bones and muscle shifting under his skin. He moans, his body shuddering, back bowing unnaturally as his legs shift, bones splitting skin before it crawls closed again like it has a mind of its own.

Marc mouths something at you that you don’t understand, not right away—you can’t, his jaw is breaking now, and lengthening into something new, something that doesn’t support speech, not the way his human mouth did.

Forgive me.

“Read!” You hadn’t heard Loki cock the gun, but it presses into your skull intimidatingly.

Your head buzzes with the power of the words as you begin to speak them, again, your vision blurring. Understanding comes, even as the syllables fall clumsily from your unfamiliar lips.

“King of roads.

King of thieves.

King of vengeance.

King of nights and moons and just blades

I weild your fist

I wield it justly—”

Where once there had been a man, now stands a hulking beast, the head of a jackal, and something like the body of a man, but wrong, the limbs long—like they were made for running on two legs and on four. Its yellow eyes roll.

“Eat now, fill yourself with flesh and spirit on those who have wronged you,

O King of Moons

King of Roads

King of Vengeance—”

You can feel the tears gathering in your eyes as the beast sets itself upon the man, claws and teeth shredding flesh in a flurry of hot, wet, red. You want to close your eyes, to stop reading, but you can’t—the book will not let you go, not until it’s finished. You see the room before you, see the thing that was Marc as it devours piece after piece of the man on the altar—but you can see beyond, too, through the moon’s eyes like mirrors—

You’re trembling now, seizing, blood leaking from your nose and the corners of your eyes as you strain to let go of the pulpit, to look away from the book, to close your eyes—but it has you, now, a holy conduit for unholy ends. You can practically feel your blood boiling in your veins—

And then nothing.

part two

Hello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library for updates and new work, thank you!

Likes and comments are amazing, but reblogs are golden! Please consider sharing my work so that others can see it too!

#marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant #moon knight #moon knight fic #moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight au #werewolf au #dark fantasy #dark au #boxofbonesfic #Blood and Sand fic #oscar isaac #oscar issac characters #oscar issac x reader #oscar issac smut

249 notes · View notes

puppetmaster13u · 9 months

Text

So I am rotating the batfamily, but not like, civilian or vigilante. I am slowly rotating them all having a Malone-sona of sorts that is their in to organized crime.

Like you can't tell me people wouldn't start noticing this family that the bats, the literal cryptids and monsters of Gotham, don't even touch and lets continue to operate despite taking the older crime families apart.

And to Gotham that screams power.

Alfred = Albert “Old Al” Malone I wanna say that he doesn't go out as 'Old Al' often, but gives off Godfather sort of vibes. Usually sitting there with an old cane (that definitely has a sword, they're all dramatic like that lol) half in the dark with a cup of tea or other drink. He gets to stretch his acting skills and honestly the kids definitely had a say in the persona. Old Al is something they all made together and they have fun implying so much fun shit.

Kate = Mary “Madam” Malone She definitely gives off 'snap your spine over her knee if not for the fact it would get your blood all over her clothes' vibes. Stylized nails, hair up in fishtail braids or ponytails or whatever, looks like she could tear out ones throat and they'd thank her. It's a running gag that she's in finances, even if no one in the underbelly believes it.

Bruce = “Matches” Malone I mean, it's classic Matches (though most probably assume that Matches isn't his real name) who seems rather chill until someone breaks the rules. Gives off vibes that he doesn't usually get his own hands dirty but will do so to make a point, and enjoy doing it. He sometimes uses Matches to check in on places he can't as a shadowy cryptid, and it's not like the lower income areas would fully trust Brucie Wayne.

Barbara = Madison “Maddie” Malone Now let's be honest, Barbara enjoys messing with people, she enjoys knowing every little thing as Oracle, and she definitely does that as Maddie. The thing is, no one knows how she learns about things, other criminals search for a traitor, for a leak, for anything, and get nothing. Which is utterly terrifying. Because there has to be some sort of information network, there has to be. And somehow they're so good that they're indistinguishable to any others.

Dick = Micheal “Mikey” Malone Honestly Dick uses this chance to get into a bunch of fights just for fun. Flirts a bit more freely but doesn't really have an interest in actually getting with someone. Just has funs and is known for throwing his own parties that usually end in free-for-all brawls. He absolutely loves being able to have parties that are the opposite of galas he's usually dragged into.

Cass = Molly Malone She's quiet and graceful, but she takes it to unnerving levels as Molly. Looks slim but carries guns on her at all time to better differentiate between Cassandra Wayne, Black Bat, and Molly Malone. Everyone knows if you need a weapon, guns, meelee, whatever, she's the one you go to. Gotham help you if you cross her though.

Jason = Peter “Petey” Malone Where Molly Malone goes, everyone knows Petey will be there as well. Jason absolutely adores the time he gets to do so, it's his turn to be silent and dramatic. Everyone can recognize the jagged scar over his neck, they can recognize it from corpses the Bats have gotten their talons on. Honestly he's delighted in being able to be Cass' enforcer of sorts and just have a good fight. Even if he complains about how making his Malone mute makes it where he can't quote Shakespeare like he wants to.

Steph = “Mia” Malone Ah yes, the explosive Malone. The one who has more arson charges than Firefly. Or at least she would if she was caught, but the entire Underbelly knows it was her. Steph is living her best life being able to pull all sorts of pranks and crazy shit and takes several ideas from Harley. Honestly she probably smells like gasoline or smoke all the time, and definitely put glitter in her hair. Maybe even has red hair as a Malone as well.

Tim = Alvin “Al” Malone He still goes by Alvin Draper too, which results in half the underbelly thinking that Draper is his middle name. Honestly he's having the best time, everyone knows to come to him for forgeries and less than legal identities, which he loves to create. I mean just look at how many new identities he creates for himself alone. He enjoys this type of thing, and hey, it's so easy to keep track of whose identity is fake when you're the one who made them. Plus it also lets him do good for those on the run for good reasons, a way to make sure people are safe.

Duke = Dennis “Denny” Malone Everyone knows Denny was adopted, but y'know what, I bet they don't care. And you know Duke is utterly insane, like jump off a bridge to escape the cops and create the We are Robin gang insane. And he gets to play that up as Denny. He will put forth the most batshit ideas and actually pull them off. I bet he uses his future-sight to cheat at different games and pool tables and all sorts of things, but no one can ever prove it. Because there is no proof, and the other people playing just has to deal with it.

Damian = “Mini M” Malone The little baby of the family, who everyone knows the older Malones absolutely dote over. This is his chance to act like an actual child, just with a hint of art theft. Hey, it wasn't like they got it legally either, so it's free game, especially if they weren't taking proper care of the art or a pet. He's just pleased to get to have even more pets, and that Goliath his demon dragon-bat gets to go on walkies.

Jarro = Jadan “Lil J” Malone Now Jarro is delighted to have a third mech, and is even more delighted for people to believe Damian (or technically M jr) and him are twins. Gives off someone is going to die- of fun with Mini M, and honestly enjoys being able to use his natural telepathy to be a small horror movie child that knows too much. Like will stare up at someone with wide eyes covered in blood and the others in Gotham's underbelly still aren't sure if the blood was his or someone elses. (it was neither)

================================================

Honestly I might write a oneshot or something for the Cryptid Batfam focusing on just them as the Malones family.

443 notes · View notes

numberonenat · 11 months

Text

i asked chat gpt to make a playlist based on my candy love characters...

here's part 2 and 3: others / dateables ul + chani

here's what it gave me:

castiel:

"make me wanna die" by the pretty reckless

"ignorance" by paramore

"welcome to the black parade" by my chemical romance

"bring me to life" by evanescence

"sugar, we're goin down" by fall out boy

"i write sins not tragedies" by panic! at the disco

"sk8er boi" by avril lavigne

"boulevard of broken dreams" by green day

"dirty little secret" by the all-american rejects

"i hate everything about you" by three days grace

"numb" by linkin park

"so cold" by breaking benjamin

"gasoline" by halsey

"the kill (bury me)" by 30 seconds to mars

"i miss you" by blink-182

nathaniel:

"fix you" by coldplay

"fireflies" by owl city

"hey, soul sister" by train

"how to save a life" by the fray

"i'm yours" by jason mraz

"all of me" by john legend

"love song" by sara bareilles

"banana pancakes" by jack johnson

"you're beautiful" by james blunt

"the way i am" by ingrid michaelson

"thinking out loud" by ed sheeran

"bubbly" by colbie caillat

"say something" by a great big world

"make you feel my love" by adele

"count on me" by bruno mars

lysandre:

"supermassive black hole" by muse

"personal jesus" by depeche mode

"sweater weather" by the neighbourhood

"mr. brightside" by the killers

"do i wanna know?" by arctic monkeys

"intro" by the xx

"shake it out" by florence + the machine

"summertime sadness" by lana del rey

"creep" by radiohead

"running up that hill" by placebo

"closer" by nine inch nails

"only happy when it rains" by garbage

"1979" by the smashing pumpkins

"sour times" by portishead

"teardrop" by massive attack

kentin:

"good vibrations" by the beach boys

"walking on sunshine" by katrina and the waves

"don't stop believin'" by journey

"good time" by owl city

"here comes the sun" by the beatles

"happy" by pharrell williams

"sun street" by katrina and the waves

"shut up and dance" by walk the moon

"i'm a believer" by the monkees

"africa" by toto

"i'm gonna be (500 miles)" by the proclaimers

"dancing queen" by abba

"mr. blue sky" by elo

"all star" by smash mouth

"on top of the world" by imagine dragons

armin:

"video killed the radio star" by the buggles

"don't stop me now" by queen

"bohemian rhapsody" by queen

"take on me" by a-ha

"livin' on a prayer" by bon jovi

"sweet child o' mine" by guns n' roses

"every breath you take" by the police

"another one bites the dust" by queen

"don't you (forget about me)" by simple minds

"eye of the tiger" by survivor

"we will rock you" by queen

"don't stop believin'" by journey

"sweet caroline" by neil diamond

"boys of summer" by don henley

"hotel california" by eagles

i actually like this a lot lol

this is always so fun to make even if they don't make sense so yeah qskjvfhdjw

i'll make a part 2!!!

345 notes · View notes

kilikina34512 · 2 years

Text

Hands Off of Me, Please

So this is a bit outside of the usual for this series as I don’t really make it smutty, but I still wanted to write Bucky being more of a typical alpha. Not sure how well I did that, but I still like the story, so I decided to share it. Divider courtesy of @firefly-graphics. Make sure to check them out!

Pairing: alpha!Bucky x omega!reader

Summary: After getting a few "fun" toys to enjoy with your alpha, another alpha decides to make himself a temporary nuisance.

Warnings: A/B/O, alpha/omega, implied smut, sexy time toy shopping

Word Count: 962

A quick, sweet kiss was all you shared with Bucky before, much to his reluctance, you went your separate ways through the mall. Christmas was only a few days away and you had some last minute gifts to get, a few of them for your alpha. This was why you needed him anywhere else.

The holidays were always exciting for you. The omega in you sang in joy at getting to give others presents that brought them joy and happiness.

And thankfully, due to Bucky being an as needed Avenger, you got to do your shopping on Tony’s dime.

You were leaving from buying high quality pencils and charcoals for Steve’s not-so-secret secret love of drawing and on your way to get one of your alpha’s last gifts. The whole trek, you were internally preening at how festive you’d finally finished making your apartment.

The whole compound was decorated, but you’d made sure to do the same in your living space. Warm white strands of Christmas lights were swirled around garland that lined each doorway. Your personal tree that was just taller than Bucky was wrapped in the same lights with a collage of traditional red bauble ornaments and cute ornaments that marked moments in life. Your favorite one was the picture frame of your first Christmas together.

A mixture of Christmas music from both modern day and his era played when you both wanted background music. Your alpha had turned his nose up at Mariah Carey at first, but you saw the reluctant amusement as you bounced, swayed, and acted out how all you wanted for Christmas was him.

You blinked back into reality as you entered the adult store. The omega in you protested going in, knowing your alpha wouldn’t want you possibly around other alphas that had sex on the mind, but you really wanted to get Bucky his last gift.

And that meant pushing your omega’s hesitancy and following through with your shopping.

You grabbed a basket and browse through the items on your way through. The bit of brat in you couldn’t resist grabbing a candle on your way past it. The label that said, “When this candle is lit, gimme that dick!” was too tempting and you knew would provide a good laugh.

After selecting a few more things for fun times, you picked up what you’d aimed for: a plug.

Bucky has whines often that he couldn’t knot you on work mornings, since it would make him late for training, but he hated that you only carried an underlying smell of him. You were mated and bonded so your scents did combine, but you both still had your own primary scent above it your partner’s. Expect post coitus. Then, anyone near you could smell your alpha on you.

This was what led you to research solutions to this problem. A plug that would hold his cream inside you like his knot would.

After picking a black and gold one, naturally to match his vibranium arm, you proceeded to check out. Your experience had been good until then.

Just as you were exiting the store, an arm grabbed yours, halting you in your tracks. “What interesting choices you bought, and as an omega no less. You must be fun in the sack.”

The slimy voice was as grating to your senses as the strong alpha scent of burned rubber and gasoline fumes. Your lips pulled back in a snarl as you tried unsuccessfully to snatch your arm out of his grip.

“Hands off of me, please,” you growled through clenched teeth. Your anger doing nothing but making the smile on his face grow wider.

“I think I’d rather explore those toys with you, omega.”

Before you could fully give into the panic that was starting to sweep through you at the realization of what this strange alpha wanted to do with you, a gloved hand that made a whirling noise gripped the alpha’s wrist.

“I believe my omega told you to remove your hand.” Bucky’s snarl reverberated around you all as rage radiated in the dominance your alpha immediately began projecting. You weren’t sure if it was the pressure Bucky was using or the alpha had some sense of self-preservation, but the hand quickly released your bicep.

Moving you behind him with his flesh palm against your hip, you smiled contentedly as your alpha exuded every bit of the dark danger he could be. None of the sweet, docile, gentle alpha he was with you could be seen outside of his soft hold on you. The pair stood staring at each other, aggression in each line of their bodies. You never really saw Bucky like this: standing at his full height, tension lining each inch of him, every muscle ready to strike and defend his mate. After a few moments of the alpha's sizing each other up, testing who was radiating more dominance, the stranger bowed his head in submission. “Get lost,” Bucky growled.

Thankfully, the other alpha did. Turning on his heels, concern battled with anger in his gaze as your soldier asked, “You okay, ‘Mega?”

“I’m more than fine, Alpha. Thank you for saving me.”

“Always.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before looking down at you, a fire in his eyes. “I need you,” he growled as he pressed his nose against your neck, inhaling sharply. “You don’t smell strongly enough of me.”

Grinning excitedly, you whispered, “I saw a bathroom four stores down that had an out of order sign on it.”

And that’s where you spent the next several minutes with Bucky deep inside you against the wall as you both kept your faces into each other’s necks and shoulders. You to muffle your cries of ecstasy and him to quiet his words of loving possessiveness.

#bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes fanfic #alpha!bucky x omega!reader #alpha!bucky #omega!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #alpha/omega #kili stories #252 notes #Nov 15 #2022

781 notes · View notes

vague-homosexual-crimes · 11 months

Text

*I think it’s called Gasoline

**the second Pig for Gansey, the armor for Gansey, the attempts to dream something to wake a sleeping dream for Matthew

#ronan lynch #opal #orphan girl #murder crabs #Adam Parrish #richard gansey iii #trc #the raven cycle #tumblr polls #pynch #ronsey #the barns #the lynch family #Ronan Lynch’s dreams

87 notes · View notes

candiedspit · 9 months

Note

hi ! we haven’t talked in forever, but i’ve always seen you as an amazing genius/role model/very intelligent woman who has so much figured out and i think about you lots. im turning 20 soon and don’t know how to deal with it. it feels like it’s so much older and so different than 19 :( i loved being 19, innocent and still a kid. i don’t wanna be 20. how did you deal with it?

hello!! i wonder who you are...thank you so much. so, i don't have much advice because as i'm about to turn 25, i feel the same. but i wrote a letter to my brother's girlfriend when she was about to turn 20 and maybe some of that will resonate with you. i wrote:

I recall twenty as the burn victim summons the scent of gasoline as she lays in the white, stale hospital bed; caught in her cot. There she was, naked in the driveway—half drunk on monk chants, lit by the green blinking fireflies of desire which seemed to feed on her running blood, all those hands—as the brutish sun began to descend like a bomb on the horizon. All of a sudden, an ambush of light. How the heat numbed her down to only her elements; rendered her translucent.

I turned twenty in the bathroom of a poetry club downtown—slashes of graffiti on the walls, and a dirty toilet. I was still a virgin, then. I knew as much about the world as an infant is capable of registering noise. But twenty was a glittering mirage in my eye. I had plans. I was going to rule the world, inch by disgusting inch.

But as February—that pink month in which I still found Valentine’s Cards on the street discarded like banana peels even days after the holiday—came to a shut, I began to expand.

I walked on rooftops; drank when I could. I sat in class engrossed by what I perceived to be a shifting painting of snakes.

I panted in the streets. I had many visions. I went to my aunt’s house—afraid of what I might do, afraid of the animal I was sharing a cage with—and stole my uncle’s pills from the plastic container on the counter, not caring what they were or what they could do to me. I was hospitalized the next morning, convinced the nurse had x-ray vision. I lost my mind. I was not afraid.

I did my time on the psycho wing—meddled with the characters—a girl sporting a large bruise beneath her eyes—sent out enchanted emails—watched Molly at the piano—ate spaghetti with spoons made out of paper—a nurse at the end of my bed as I slept— the quiet room—I took the pills.

A lifetime can be spent chasing. And even then, you are never promised the catch.

After funeral, I spent the summer wading in and out of insanity—carrying my black trenchcoat of grief—daring the world to fuck with me—swimming in the muddied waters of Galveston, drunk on gin and breath and salt—thrashing in front of the mirror—having epiphanies as one has meals—cutting my hair again and again—I could never lose myself—I always followed—being wheeled around in the theme park—a thousand red lights—watching the ceiling breathe—words chasing their tails in my head—a halo of bleach.

And then, the crazy fluorescence stuck. For eight weeks, I moved through the world like a knife on fire. A cowboy coated in oil slick and magic.

Daniel Johnston died; I kept moving. Almost yanking the blunt out of a kid’s mouth simply because I could. Magical walks at night; the moon like a blooming anus above my exploding head. Going up and down the stairs between classes; blonde pig on amphetamine; Jesus in the Dunkin’ Donuts; whispers of legacy.

All this to say — there is a way to live.

Some people live through imagination; in fantasies, protected by spirits and smoke and powders. Others get through the days naked. How you decide to cross the ocean is up to you. But, some advice.

Life is a Holocaust as much as it is a fairground. Have fun while you can. Let the light melt into your skin and your hair. Ride the carousel. Ride it twice. Hold the music, stench, magic, and knowledge, between your teeth like a bullet. Take note of everything you see. All of it matters. The man holding a cake in the line at the grocery store. The newspapers on the cart. Neon lights! How the skies dissolve each night and bleed out each morning. Cry if you have to. Do what makes you uncomfortable. Hold nothing against anyone. Brace. Being a teenager is nice but it is not real. This is the hard part. Life will come like a black stallion free from the gate and how you decide to wrangle it will become apparent very fast. Be scared. Be grateful. Be immune. You are going to make it. Brace.

#ask #hope this helps btw

24 notes · View notes

motorhearted · 5 months

Text

CHAPTER ONE.

CW: depictions + descriptions of car crashes, character death, and object destruction.

{ LAST. — NEXT. }

September 12th, 199X.

All was quiet in the prairies. Rough yellow grass shifted in a gentle breeze and crickets chittered to each other from the depths. Fireflies rolled with the waves of the hills, mimicking the glimmering stars above in the deep dark skies.

Besides the occasional farm within the miles and miles of grass sat an abandoned racing arena. Its rotted wood perimeter and barbed wire fence stood like castle walls against a spacious dirt track.

The recently-wetted ground glimmered against the sickly moonlight. Shadowy figures shifted in the grandstands. The prairies held their breath. Then the track’s fluorescent lamp posts flickered on, one by one.

A low rumbling filled the air as many machines asynchronously switched on. They were followed by the shouting of many more barking voices. In the middle of it all, the lights shone down on thirteen cars of various sizes parked in a circle, back-to-back.

People waved their arms and cheered on, louder and louder. A man in a stetson strolled out onto the edge of the dirt. He took something heavy out of his pocket and aimed it towards the barely-visible skies.

A gunshot.

A cloud of dust, a shower of mud, the scream of modified engines. Sparks flew, accompanied by the thunderous crunch of metal-against-metal. Exhaust pipes coughed out billowing black smoke, choking the arena with the smells of gasoline and diesel.

The cars were now darting around the track as the vultures in the grandstands looked on; dodging, swerving, diving into each other with crashes that could surely sever a limb. They would sit for a moment, coolant dribbling onto the ground, before yanking themselves away and hobbling off to a new target. Ends crumpled in and tires were worn down to the rim with no flesh behind the wheel.

Among these warring vehicles was a tattered muscle car. His paint was a rough, matted black that once shone and glittered emerald in the light, now making him a mere shadow against the ground. Long, capped exhaust pipes jutted directly from his engine, spewing out fumes whenever he moved. His doors were painted over with a repulsive white, finished off with a crooked 20 on each side.

Despite his size, he maneuvered through the chaos with ease. Thick mud caked his wheels as he veered about, dodging crashes by mere seconds. He reared himself at others, pushing through tangles of metal and smoking corpses. Any car that gave chase was destined to be crushed before they reached him.

Still, many tried with nonsensical determination.

The muscle car was numb to the crunching, popping, squealing of mechanical parts. When others rammed against his sides, he barely winced. He couldn’t recall how many crashes he’d been in if he tried. His rear end was pushed inwards and up; a pickup truck had done the deed last season.

He swerved onto the outskirts of the track and paused, ever so briefly; an attempt to make something of his surroundings. The mixture of dust and smoke under blinding lights obscured most things, though he eyed the flitting shadows behind the haze carefully. It wasn’t long before a yellow sedan shot out of the chaos and spotted him, revving its engine and charging full speed. He waited until the last moment to dodge. The sedan yelled and collided with a concrete barrier.

Number 20 didn’t wait to see it slowly pull away, grill and headlights shattered, as he was already being chased by another— someone who was about his size. Without further hesitation he jumped back into the fray. He nearly hit someone else, small and blue, missing two tires and trapped in the mud. He dodged and continued on.

Then there was a loud crunch behind him, and the engine of same-size ceased to roar.

Dodge. Dodge. Shift. Reverse. Dodge.

That’s when he saw her.

Full speed ahead. Brake. Reverse. Dodge.

A rosy-red van with colorful stripes.

Shift. Dodge.

Number 13.

A rather new contestant, but an otherwise worthy rival. She was busy plowing a small vehicle into a tangle of several, stuck together by bumpers torn from their frames. Most were still moving, pushing and pulling away with little luck.

A screech tore through the air.

A ragged truck rammed into his side.

It began to push him along, closer to a frenzied fight breaking out in the middle of the track. The muscle car pressed on his brakes. The truck snarled on.

He was dragged a considerable few feet before someone clipped the truck’s bed. Furious, it dislodged and gave chase. Both of them were trampled.

Number 20 began to move away again when the rosy van sped past him, splattering him with a fresh coat of mud and oil. She braked and whirled around to face him. Their headlights met.

In that moment, he finally felt something. And that something was dread.

Her front bumper turned up in a murderous grin.

He fled.

Everyone around him danced in violent tangos. The muscle car rocketed across the track once more. He turned left.

Then right. Then left again.

Right.

Left.

A green mass of metal flew by, inches from his grille, and then there was an opening. He zipped through the heat. He left the clusters of battles behind, slowing only when he noticed that Number 13 was nowhere in sight.

But there was no such thing as a moment of peace. In an instant he was rocked by a vehicle going past and scraping his side. He honked in surprise. The other began to circle, slowly.

There was Number 13.

She prowled around Number 20 like a hungry tiger, revving her engine. Her small headlights were full of fury. He revved his engine in return, coughing out exhaust. He steadily met her gaze.

The two large vehicles facing off in the very corner of the track commanded the attention of onlookers. The vultures began to chant. The sorrowful engines elsewhere seemingly faded away.

Number 13 smiled again, confidently.

Number 20 sat emotionless.

She was going to charge.

Slam.

Working on something akin to instinct, Number 20 barely realized he had moved. He had collided with her side with such force that it sent the van flying backwards. She spun. She desperately reached for the ground with her wheels. She tipped and finally hit the cement barrier.

Number 20’s engine buzzed. His vision was full of static.

When it finally cleared, he shook himself and glanced up at Number 13. She wasn’t moving. No one was moving.

She was violently dented in, her frame sagging against her undercarriage. A light trail of smoke was forming in the air.

And then she erupted into flame.

Seconds dragged on like hours before a few men lumbered over with buckets of water and fire extinguishers. The inferno lapped desperately at the skies. The grandstands fell silent. So did the cars.

A few more seconds, and the fire was gone. Smoke billowed from the scene, and when it cleared, all that was left of the van was a shriveled, blackened mass.

The grandstands exploded with cheers.

Number 20 felt nothing.

“You… killed her.”

The muscle car had been sitting in the same place, staring into the nothingness. He hadn’t heard the arguing at the gate or the sound of another car approaching. When he turned to look, he was met with the devastated gaze of a little orange car.

She was probably one of the smallest demolition cars he’d ever seen. The dark accents on her sides shone bright among minimal scratches and dents; she had only been in a few derbies, and was a contestant that was quickly mended afterwards every night.

It was odd to see her alone. The coupe never seemed like one that wanted to stand out to Number 20. Whenever he saw her, she was hiding behind someone.

He tensed.

That someone was Number 13.

“You killed her!” Her voice rose as she stared deep into Number 20’s headlights. She was full of a sorrow he didn’t know a car could be capable of; it shook her body as she approached.

Number 20 said nothing.

“I saw it… I-I saw it all! You killed her! You killed Lilly!”

Anger blazed in her rectangular headlights. She was quickening her pace towards the much larger vehicle until he found himself backed against the fence. His engine raced.

Still, he said nothing.

The orange coupe in front of him looked ready to shatter into pieces, as if her emotions were just too big. She looked around wildly, desperately, before backing away and raising herself above her wheels.

“A monster like you deserves the same fate.”

And with that, she sped towards him.

She was fast, though Number 20 moved in tandem. She stopped in her tracks, seemingly surprised by the action, and the muscle car fled. She cursed under her breath and gave chase.

Number 20 went as fast as he could, swerving through the maze of frozen cars left on the track. He was precise as ever, though his engine continued to buzz. His thoughts felt choked by cotton. He zig-zagged in the metal and mud, refusing to slow.

He hadn’t noticed that the sound of the vehicle behind him was becoming increasingly distant. The grandstands jeered on. It was too late when the orange coupe came barrelling towards him, cutting through the middle of the track. She hurled herself with a force that was rather remarkable, albeit useless.

Number 20 merely stumbled and slammed his brakes, but a loud crunch told him something else had happened to his competitor.

He gathered himself and turned back around. The sight he was met with made the buzzing fill his whole body. The couple’s grille was dented inwards, her hood crinkled up like tin. Her wheels shook dangerously. She was panting.

Number 20 slowly approached, forcing words out of his machinery.

“Stop this, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

The coupe paused, as if to consider his words, then her expression shot back to anger.

“I refuse.”

Number 20 blinked his headlight covers. With a grimace he pulled away, a dark trail of exhaust hanging in the air in front of him. The coupe revved her engine, murder reflected in her gaze.

She stood her ground. Number 20’s engine roared, warning her, and she barely flinched.

“I’m sorry,” is all he said.

He flew forward again, aiming head-on.

She was a statue.

Headlights shut, he swerved last minute.

Crunch.

He tore through her fender. Parts soared through the air and clattered lifelessly to the ground. She barely screamed. The grandstands erupted into howling cheers. He could barely hear it.

Number 20 reversed, carefully dislodging himself from the coupe’s broken body. When observing his work, he was overcome with a jolt of surprise… and regret. The lights bordering the track had gone off except for those directly above; they shone down like sinister spotlights.

The orange coupe could barely stand on her tires. She was shaking, even more than before, and gasping, sobbing. Small parts from her engine were scattered in the mud. Translucent liquid trickled out from the gaping space where her fender had been. Her left headlight, resting between them, glinted against the darkness.

Number 20 looked numbly into her remaining headlight. An invisible weight suffocated his engine. The crowd was still cheering.

“If you… if you think you can fix this, you’re more of an idiot than I originally thought,” the coupe’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“I…” he tried.

“You know what you did.”

He looked away.

“I do.”

“You do. And you’ll pay for it.”

The match was over.

Horns wailed from the sidelines. Men came in to clear the track.

“It looks like we have a winner!” a voice boomed over the grandstand speakers. “Number 20, our undefeated champion!”

The orange coupe hobbled off. The large muscle car stayed completely still, blankly watching the torn up hunks of metal get dragged off the track by human and vehicle alike.

It wasn’t until the track was completely deserted that he climbed out of his thoughtless haze. Looking around, he noticed that the coupe’s wreckage was still there, including her headlight. He inched closer to observe his reflection in the glassy moonlight. The surface was cracked and crumbling.

The undefeated champion had made it through another night. He looked up and into the darkness surrounding him, past the grandstands and the fences. The night was still. Little yellow lights flickered along the hills.

“I’m so sorry.”

#motorheart chapters #chapter one #c: brad #c: joan #c: lilly

13 notes · View notes

assiraphales · 2 years

Note

Yes Marlene annoyed the shit out of me!! Ellie barley knew who she was in episode 1 (and she had been there for 3 weeks at that point) yet Marlene wants to pretend she understands Joel’s pain 🙄

I understand marlene's stance of "oh i'm the leader of the fireflies i'm the one responsible for making the tough decisions" but she's also responsible for making the RATIONAL decisions. aka, having the doctor run tests on their one (1) patient with immunity and not wasting their only opportunity at a cure on an experimental procedure. not telling the man who obviously bonded w ellie over months of travel that she wasn't going to survive surgery. not throwing gasoline on the fire by pretending she understood how joel felt. if she understood, ellie wouldn't have been on the operating table. if she understood, she would have immediately brought joel to see ellie instead of risking the entire heading south.

#WHY did she say any of that.#the last of us #tlou #the last of us spoilers #tlou spoilers #joel miller

76 notes · View notes

writingcold · 1 year

Text

Hi! Here we are at Chapter Two! If you’ve not read the previous chapter, you can find the Master List for B & W here. We might still be in setup mode, but you’ll want to start at our first part to get into our lovely characters.

Chapter two finds our new shop girl, Cora, in a bit of a bind. There is more character background and story building in this piece. Please be patient! There’s a lot to build here!

**This is a piece of fiction. I have put in a lot of work researching, writing, rewriting, editing, tossing it all and starting over. I do not know the guys of GVF. They became my muses for this long ass story.**

Thanks to @whitesuitjake for the Jake edit in the cover.

Thanks to @gardensgatedaisy and @lvnterninthenight - Britt and Bobbie, ilysm. Thank you for all your support. (You’re probably getting tired of me thanking you, but too damn bad. Y’all are fucking amazing.)

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Content Warnings: None. Just some pain and injury. Of course, language, mentions of drinking, smoking. It is the 1920’s.

Word count: approx. 5700

Chapter Two: Wounds and New Friends, Cora’s POV

The end of day three of her trial week found Cora standing in the alley peeling away the shoe of her left foot. She had landed wrong coming off one of the ladders, pressing the back of her tight shoe into the thick skin of her heel. The cut was made worse from ten hours of standing, with the back of the shoe digging further into the wound. Walking had become excruciating due to the bruising. Her legs trembled as she fished her handkerchief from her handbag and wrapped it around her heel. She bared her teeth as she tried to push her foot back into the shoe, but sucked in a loud groan when her foot just would not accept the prison of leather.

“Hey there,” a masculine voice called out from the street. “Need help?”

She wiped at her face, hoping that Daniel did not see the pain. “I’m fine, thank you. Just a cut.”

Mr. Daniel Wagner, from what she was able to discern from her past few days, was close with all the Kiszka brothers, but he was particularly close with the youngest, Samuel. His lean frame entered the alley slowly, his near black eyes taking in her condition. He pushed back his hat as he bent, hands held behind his back so as not to intimidate her with his closeness. He was dressed in pressed slacks, dress shirt and vest, his jacket folded in his hands. Cora was unsure of what his duties at the store were, but he always seemed to be working in several areas of the store and office.

“That is not good, Miss Janas,” he said with a sympathetic nod. “Come on. Let’s get you situated. Sam’s good with these things.”

He bent and picked up the shoe then assisted her towards the back of the building. Cora had not been to the area, keeping to the store only, and certainly not the dancehall, though the music that flowed out into the street was always interesting. The garage had three wide carriage doors, all of which were open to allow the cooler evening air in. The deep red brick was neatly kept, but the cavernous inside looked chaotic with tools and shelves full of metal and parts she had no idea what could be in existence for, and the smell of oil and gasoline hung heavy.

“Sammy!” Daniel called out as they approached a garage. “Sammy, I need you.”

Samuel Kiszka was an anomaly - he wore his hair longer, but yanked back under his hat so that it bunched up against his shirt collar. His face was always rich with thought, like he was working out complex problems that she would never hope to understand. His lanky frame was not as tall as Daniel’s, but he seemed to be too big for his actual size. He was dressed in tweed trousers and an undershirt with his suspenders hanging down on his waist. The moment he saw her, he ripped the suspenders up and over his shoulders, disappearing for a moment, only to return as he was drawing a jacket across his torso.

“Sorry, Miss Janas. Was working on the Earl - I mean the automobile,” Sam replied, his warm eyes drifting down to her foot that she gingerly was standing on the ball of her foot. “Oh, that’s awful. Daniel, bring her in. Let’s get that cleaned up.”

“Really, it’ll be fine,” she insisted even as Daniel tugged at her to move towards a chair in the corner. “I need to be getting home.”

“On that foot - I don’t think so. Besides, do you really want to walk home? You’ll get blood all over your lovely shoes,” Sam said with a grin.

Before she could stop him, he had a knife out and cut the thick brown stockings at the calf to slowly pull away from the wound. She let out a yip and couldn’t take her foot away if she tried, Sam had her leg in the vice of his large hand.

“What?” he asked without even looking up at her.

“These are… were my only pair,” she whispered, eyes on the discarded piece of stocking.

“You can buy another pair from the shop,” Sam remarked without a glance at her.

“I don’t have the money,” she whispered as her stomach stabbed with embarrassment.

Daniel’s hand came down on her shoulder. “We’ll get you over to my Molly’s house. I’m sure she has a spare pair that you can have.”

“But I really need to get home,” she started, but her jaw dropped as Sam brought up a rag pressing it to the wound.

He shook his head. “Damn sister, it’s like you sliced the whole of your heel in these things. Danny, go grab me some water, please.”

Daniel disappeared for a few minutes while Sam leaned back on his haunches and pulled a silver cigarette holder from his pocket. He held one to her in offering, but she shook her head. Her mother did not like the habit, so she had never tried. He struck a match and lit his own as his eyes squinted at her foot. With the water retrieved, he set into cleaning away the dried and fresh blood with a look of seriousness.

“Well, you’re lucky there’s no sign of infection,” he said quietly, dabbing at the heel.

“Sammy, how’s my baby…” A fourth voice, full of smoothness, stopped as his heels hit the cement of the garage. “What the hell boys? What’s going on here?”

Cora looked up to see Jacob, hand on one hip, face surprised, not in a good way. The dark button up and vest strained under the crisp linen of his suit. She recoiled, bringing her hands tighter against her abdomen like she could disappear. In the few days of working in the store, she noticed that any time that man was around, the air grew tense, like fabric pulled too tight. He was typically quiet. When he did talk it was low, almost hidden, and usually only to the eldest of the clan. The other shop girl, Renee, no matter what she was doing, would drop away and find something in the opposite direction of the store to do. She said that Jacob had an awful temper and to just steer clear.

“She’s hurt, Jake,” Sam remarked without looking up from his work.

“I caught her in the alley trying to fix it herself,” Daniel said, moving closer to her.

The man’s dark eyes swung from Samuel to Daniel to Cora and she could not stop the visible flinch. The silence that followed made even Sam stop in his actions.

“She’s Josh’s new shop girl,” he said quietly, each word punctuated with a tightness that felt like a hard drum.

“Not news to us, brother,” Samuel remarked, finally looking up at his older brother. “She’s hurt, Jacob. We’re not keeping her here against her will or anything.”

Cora blinked hard, trying not to crumble under the man’s attention like she did something wrong. She tried to tug her leg back. Sam held it firm, shooting her an annoyed expression. The curse that fell from Jacob’s mouth made her blush. His mouth fixed into a fine line as his eyes narrowed at her.

“Get her home,” he said firmly. “Don’t need any worried mamas coming round here.”

“Gotta take her to Molly’s first, Jake,” Daniel said with a nod.

The flare of incredulousness that washed over him made him seem all the scarier. “Why’s that?”

“Had to cut her stocking away. It was her only pair,” Samuel said quietly, as he bent to inspect the wound closer.

“Then take her back into the shop,” Jacob scolded.

“Jake,” Danny said softly, shaking his head.

Jacob’s dark eyes landed directly on her as if seeing through her. Cora tried to make herself as small as possible. Once he had her gaze however, she could not look away. The hard set of his mouth and jaw made her visibly shudder. She watched as he dropped his gaze, tugging his hat off to smooth his hair back. The brown wave that he immediately hid once more caught her attention. Unlike his twin who kept his hair short, with soft curls, Jacob’s was longer in the front to slick back in the more current style. Faded sunshine struck him, making the dark brown brighten and soften his edges for a moment. A moment she took note that there was something beyond the anger that prickled beneath his skin. Cora felt the fear of his thunder drain away for seconds, taking in how he held himself in a tight form, but his eyes on her - surely his visage of her did not hold concern? He took the corner of his mouth between his teeth before retreating and pushing back an air of annoyance.

“Fine. Take the Kissel. Get her to Molly’s, but do not linger. I mean it, you two,” he said in a hard voice. “Get her home and get your asses back here. Josh is not going to like this. At all.”

“Does he have to know?” Sam remarked as the elder brother began walking away.

“Don’t be a wise ass, Samuel,” Jacob called out in a path of smoke.

Cora finally took a full breath. “Really, I can make it home on my own, fellas. I’ll be fine.”

“Committed now, babe,” Samuel said, rising up to cross the garage to a cabinet. He returned with thin material and a small jar of salve. “We’ll get you over to Molly’s and get you home. Josh won’t bluster at us too bad.”

“I just don’t want to cause trouble,” she said quietly.

“No trouble, doll. Let us handle it,” Daniel said, calm oozing from him to surround her.

She winced as he first smeared a large fingerful of the strong scented balm across the wound, then watched quietly as Sam wrapped her foot tightly before trying to get the shoe back on. It stung a little, but admittedly it felt much better. She followed them to an auto that was out back of the garage. The polished silver sedan was the fanciest car she had ever seen. Samuel held the door open for her and helped her inside before sliding into the front seat next to Daniel. Before she knew it, they were in the nest of bungalows that she had tried to tell her mother about. Even in the long shadows of the early evening, her eyes dragged across each of the neat little box-like buildings. They rolled to a jerky stop, catching Cora off guard and causing her to rock back against the seat with a thud.

Samuel held his hand out for her as he opened her door, assisting her out of the car like she was special. She followed the two towards the small home, painted a bright blue with white trim. The door flew open to let out a soft looking woman who wrapped herself about Daniel like no one was watching. The musical laughter made her blush as they kissed in front of her.

“Molly, this is Miss Janas. She’s the new shop girl,” Danny said, finally giving her a reprieve from her blush.

The look the woman gave to Daniel was one of surprise. Cora hobbled a bit up the walk, catching the eye of Molly immediately. “Please, I’m Cora,” she said, attempting a smile.

“I destroyed her stockings,” Samuel replied leaning in to kiss Molly on the cheek. “I’m hoping you can help.”

“What do you mean ‘destroyed’, Samuel. Do I need to straighten you out for something you did to this little lady?” she said with a lot of sass, but a hardness in her eyes that let Cora know she was serious.

“No, ma’am. Miss Cora hurt her foot,” Samuel said with a shake of his head. “Your knight rescued her from the alley and brought her to me. We thought maybe you could share a pair?”

Molly’s quick smile and bright eyes were immediately disarming. She nodded and waved the three inside. “I’m sure I have something that will work for you. And perhaps we can get you gussied up, baby. I can’t believe Joshua allows you to wear that in his store.”

“He asked if I could get another dress, but I needed to make money first,” she said, embarrassed as the words fell from her mouth.

Molly stopped cold with a hard look. “Please tell me he didn’t just give you a week’s trial?”

“Yes - a week’s trial and if I do well -”

Molly groaned with a finger point at Sam. “I’m telling you, that little brat may have charm on his side, but I swear, one of these girls someday is going to put him in his place. Let’s see if it’s you, Miss Cora.”

She looked back at Samuel and Daniel as the woman pulled her by the hand towards the front door. Molly grumbled about her being like the perfect kind of skinny and how she would kill to have the ability to wear any form of drop waist without the boobs getting in the way.

She was met instantly with the scent of lilac as she stepped gingerly up the stairs, onto the narrow porch and into the home. It had four rooms and a bath. The luxury of the idea of four rooms with a bath - running water, no outhouse - for one person made her look upon Molly like she was the richest person in town, though she knew it was not true. The plain white and wood clad walls were warm as the curvy dancer dragged her to the back bedroom with a snap of electric light.

Cora’s eyes popped at the amount of clothing the woman had strewn about the small bedroom. These were not just day dresses, they were dancing girl glad rags that made her blush at how much leg would show if she donned such an item. Each was covered with adornment such as splashes of sequins and crystals, and beadwork that she had never seen in person, just on the picture show screen. She was relieved when Molly opened a wardrobe to reveal modern, yet much more modest attire.

“If you plan on getting past this week's trial, you’re going to need this one,” she said with a confident nod. She pulled out a dusty colored tan skirt with an emerald under top and a smart little jacket that was the same color as the skirt. “Now, it’s not too flashy, but just enough so that Joshua will notice that you are attempting to fit into his shop.”

Cora gazed at the garment with a kind eye. Molly was right, the green would be the snap, but the tan would dull down that overall look to be more suitable. Just as she was to thank her, Molly was back to the wardrobe, pulling out a soft rose colored blouse and matching cream colored jacket that also matched the skirt. The grin that tugged at her mouth before throwing it at her was full of playfulness.

“One more,” she said with a nod. “This one will be for Jacob.”

“Pardon?” Cora stumbled as Molly was combing through the pieces.

“Oh, honey. I know a Jake girl when I see one,” she laughed.

Cora straightened. Her mouth opened but nothing came out, until she finally swallowed hard. “I - I don’t know if I understand what you’re implying.”

Molly stopped in her search to look at her, bottom lip in between her teeth. The coy gleam in her eye sparkled. “Look, doll. I’m just saying that Jacob, for the hardass that he can be, has a type, and you certainly are it. Wispy, pretty, smart. His trifecta.”

She squinted her eyes at Cora for a long moment waiting to see if there was an argument to be made. Cora decided to remain quiet, feigning interest in a baby blue skirt that was laid out on the bed, full of crystals and sequins. Molly turned her back once more, resuming her search.

“Ha! This,” she cooed as she pulled out a drop waist dress that was clearly too small for her lush curves. “This is what you need to wear on Saturday. You hear me? Save it for the last day of the trial.”

Molly held up a dark blue chiffon overdress with a waist that would reach just below mid thigh. There was black trim that boxed out the neckline and at the wrists and hem. The underdress was a rich jeweled blue silk, with embossed flowers of colors blended in the blue, that would only peek out when she moved. Down the sleeves and up both sides were embroidered floral designs with tiny glass beading. It looked luxurious compared to anything that she had ever worn before. Cora took the garment with care as she could not help but close her eyes at the feel of the expensive fabric. Molly had a pair of thin stockings in one hand and thicker brown in the other, waiting for Cora to catch up.

“I can’t pay you for this, Molly,” she said quietly, a flame of shame crossing her cheeks.

“It’s fine, doll. You’ll owe me nothing more than getting through that trial and getting Joshua to hire you permanently,” the woman said with a grin. “Shoes. Those damn things cut you up because they’re too small. These will do you better.”

Soft leather mary janes greeted her when she looked down at the woman’s next offerings. Tears struck her cheeks, hot and fat as her breath caught.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest,” Molly drawled, wiping at Cora’s cheeks with a rough thumb.

“Jake was serious about hurrying up,” Sam called. “I don’t need him to switch me.”

“When are you going to realize that you’re bigger than he is, Samuel?” Molly called, helping her to fold all the items neatly. “Give him a little chin music one time and I’m telling you - he’ll back down.”

Cora rolled her lips into her mouth to keep from smiling.

“Crack him once and he’ll put lead in my belly,” Sam jabbed back. “Come on. It can’t be that hard. We gotta go.”

Molly rolled her eyes, but relented. The two women strolled out, the new shoes on her feet felt more like pillows than shoes. Daniel and Sam were already waiting at the door for her, shooing her along outside. In a repeat at the garage, Samuel held his hand up for her as he held the door open. He grinned as Daniel started the car and they rumbled out of town in a hurry.

Between the jumps, bumps, and sways, Cora felt like her backside would be bruised. She held onto her newly acquired treasures tightly so as not to lose them in the darkness of the seat. Her heart fluttered as they made turns and curves in the near black of the evening with only two very dim lights to lead the way. She wondered how Daniel could see anything, but thought it was best to be left unasked. They had her home in a quarter of the time that it would have taken if she had walked. As they rolled to a loud stop, she saw her mother and younger siblings stream out of the tiny cottage they called home.

With flair, Samuel slid out from his seat and made a big deal of helping Cora out and ensuring that she had all of her items before closing the door. He assisted her to the front of the car before she looked up at him.

“Thank you for this,” she said quietly. “Please tell Daniel I appreciate him, too. That was the bee's knees. Truly. I’ve never been in an automobile before.”

He smiled at her, his dark eyes catching a bit of the light from the lights of the house. “We’ll see you tomorrow then, Miss Cora.”

She smiled at the formal tone as he turned back to the automobile. The look on her mother’s face was distrustful and angry. She tried not to limp as she walked towards her family, but by the time she reached the door, the littles were swarming her and nearly took her down as the pain flared in her foot.

“That better not become a habit, Cora,” her mother scolded before turning and heading inside.

“Yes, Mama,” she said, looking over her shoulder as Sam and Danny disappeared into the distance.

“I suppose there is a reason for that nonsense,” Rosemary continued. “Honestly. Riding in an automobile with two strange men.”

“Mr. Kiszka and Mr. Wagner are respectable gentlemen, Mama,” Cora said as she sat her outfits down on the table to remove her jacket. “They were only helping me out.”

“And why is that?” she asked as she pulled the pot of beans off the woodstove.

Cora’s eyes went to the hand-me-down shoes that were on her feet as if she could guide her mother to notice. “I cut my foot on my oxfords. They helped me and did not think I needed to walk home because of the injury.”

Her mother paused as she started dishing out bowls of the thick mush. “What did they expect in return?”

“What?” Cora sat up straight, her face blushing at the connotation.

“You come home in an expensive auto, with two men. One of your stockings is cut away. You have new clothes and shoes. What am I supposed to think?” her mother said with a hard edge.

She placed her hand on the clothes protectively. “Mr. Samuel patched up my foot, Mama. That was all. It was an act of kindness. Friendship.”

Her mother shook her head and called out for the children to get to the table. Cora stood and moved her items into the shared bedroom of the family before joining them once again at the table. There was no sound as they prayed, ate, and left the meal finished. Junie was sullen as she dried the dishes next to Cora who was washing. Their mother was in the other room, settling down the youngest of the brood.

“I’ve met him,” Junie whispered, looking to make sure their mother did not hear.

“I cannot believe that she is making you do this, Junie,” Cora remarked, not really caring if her voice could be heard or not. “It’s not right. I should be the one she’s trying to get rid of, not you.”

Junie shrugged at her. “But I can’t work like you. We all know that, big sister. She’s going to keep you for as long as she can. She’s even got you convinced that you have to support this family when, really, you can be anywhere and we’d be just fine.”

Cora knew that she had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, but she could not fathom a reality that allowed for her to not be ensuring her family be taken care of.

“Will you show me your new rags? I love the shoes,” she cooed as she set the bowls in a stack on the table for the next day’s meal.

“You said you met Mr. Archer?” Cora asked after she checked over her shoulder.

“He seems like he is quiet,” Junie whispered. “His children are mean.”

“You don’t have to do this, Junebug,” she said as her heart dropped into her belly.

“I don’t have the same prospects as you do, Cora. This is my one chance to alleviate hardship on this family. I can do my part,” she said quietly.

“You had better wash that whore perfume out of those clothes tonight,” their mother remarked as she sat back down at the table.

“Yes, Mama,” Cora said as she grabbed the wash basin to move outside. “Junie, can you get the clothes please?”

It would give her a reason to show the girl the outfits that otherwise would have to wait until she actually wore them. Junie retrieved the clothes and the washboard on her way outside.

“They smell like lilacs,” Junie said dreamily.

“Her whole house smelled like that,” Cora said as she tried to explain what had happened and the woman who was so very generous with her clothes.

“What does Molly do that she can have the ability to just give away clothing like this?” Junie chirped, her fingers lingering on the dark blue fabric of the outfit she was to wear on Saturday.

Cora looked at the propped open door and found that her mother stood just inside, watching the girls chatter. Swallowing, she started to drag the tan skirt across the bumps of the board.

“Go ahead and tell her what your new friend does for her money, Cora,” her mother said firmly. “I’d like to know as well.”

Thinking back on the brief time she had with Molly, she realized that what Molly actually did to earn her way never was broached. The clothing was that of a night life - flapper attire with pretty crystals and glitz that she was sure the woman was probably the most glamorous woman in town. “I’m going to assume that she works in the dancehall, Mama.”

“You know what kind of women work in the dancehall, Cora,” Rosemary said sharply.

“Doesn’t mean that they cannot be friends,” Cora said just as sharp, her eyes hard. “She was a lovely woman who was willing to help me. That means in turn, she has helped this family. That counts for something.”

“Junie, to bed now,” her mother demanded.

“She’s going to be a married woman, Mama, perhaps she needs to hear this conversation,” Cora remarked, swishing the skirt in the water.

“Cora,” her mother fumed.

“You can’t call someone a whore just because they work in the dancehall,” she said firmly. “And I, for one, will not fault a woman for doing what she needs to in order to survive. Especially in this world of men.”

“Remember that when it has to be your mother, sister or yourself,” Rosemary said in a hard voice.

“If marriage is your only reason for women to be allowed to be close to men or have sex, then there really is no real difference between a married woman and a whore and no reason to look upon either differently. Both must survive within the confines of men and the structure they provide,” Cora continued, voice matching her mother’s as she started wringing the skirt out into the basin.

Junie’s mouth dropped open at her sister’s brashness. Cora held her ground, not liking that her mother did not have trouble looking down her nose at a woman who was doing what she could to live, no different than themselves with their family. Rosemary stood with her painfully thin arms folded across her chest.

“Junie, to bed now, girl,” her mother ordered before turning her back on her daughters. “Cora, I would think that perhaps you should whet your tongue a bit and feed your brain in reality before you run your mouth off again on matters you have no idea what you speak of.”

Hanging the skirt on the line, she set into washing the rest of the items. When her hands wrapped around the dark blue number, her eyes rolled closed. Molly had called her a Jake girl. She had said that she was his ‘type’. She had no idea what any of that meant other than perhaps that she could catch his eye. Perhaps that would mean that she could make him smile? Samuel and Daniel were quick to laugh with happiness. Mr. Joshua was brimming with smiles, though she was sure that those were part of his professional manner. Mr. Jacob was always serious. His dark eyes holding onto something that she could never quite understand or ever see all of what was going on with him. His thunderstorm of a temper was always chaotic and unpredictable, save for one thing, there was always calm afterwards.

The strong vision of him standing in the corner of Mr. Joshua’s office, hands splayed on the desk and looking over whatever his twin was showing him blazed in her thoughts. The way his eyes always met hers, too hard at first, then softening as if he could sense that she needed a more delicate touch. It made her stomach flutter and unexplored knowledge dance through her mind.

Chapter Two: Pt. 2 Molly POV

“Please do not tell me that you hurt that poor girl to get her to me,” she said as Danny sat down next to her, a sarcastic grin tugging at the corner of her plump lips.

He scrunched up his face. “No, it was just a coincidence. I’m actually afraid that if I would not have seen her, she would have kept trying to walk on it.”

“She’s really a doll, though, Danny,” Molly said, clinking her glass of sherry against his mug of beer. “She seems like she can hold herself rather well.”

“Sam thinks that she runs numbers when she is collecting goods,” he remarked. “And I overheard Joshua commenting that she’s a natural with customers. Folks know her from church and foster right into that connection.”

She paused for a moment before leaning over his shoulder. “I hope we didn’t turn things for her by meddling.”

“Why whatever do you mean, meddling?” Josh said as he appeared behind Danny. “Which ‘her’ are you talking about?”

Molly looked up at him over the rim of her glass. He was with Catherine, and Jacob was following right behind. Her stomach soured at the sight of the eldest’s interest. Danny sat up straight as Josh held Catherine’s chair for her to sit. Jacob looked on edge. Samuel and Susannah were wise to remain at the bar. She wished she could crawl under the table and join them. Clearing her throat, she nodded at Danny.

“That new girl of your’s, Joshua,” Molly said, surprised that her voice was as strong as it was. “Danny found her in the alley with a cut heel.”

Josh sat down, eyes narrowed like he was studying the situation. “Well, if she’s injured, then perhaps that’s proof that she can’t do that job after all.”

“She got hurt in your shop,” Molly scoffed.

“No different if you got hurt down here, Miss Molly,” he said, leaning towards Catherine. “If you can’t perform, you wouldn’t be working here.”

“Kind of an idiot-”

“Molly,” Danny broke in, voice firm.

“Kind of a poor business move, Mr. Kiszka,” she continued, ignoring him and shifting into professional mode. “From what I hear she’s been good for your little front of a store. I just gave her some window dressing to level the playing field, boss.”

Josh shook his head. “Alright. Enough of the banter. What the fuck happened today and why is Molly calling me an idiot?”

“Josh,” Jacob said, his voice low. “Miss Cora cut her foot. Sam and Danny helped her out. That’s all. I sent them over to Molly’s to get her cleaned up and on her way home.”

“How droll,” Catherine sighed, rolling her eyes. “Why is this even important?”

Molly noticed that Jake glared at the woman before regrouping. “It was not anything that should affect the shop, is what I’m saying.”

Danny tapped her shoulder. “Come on, Mols. Let’s go dance.”

She let him take her hand. She heard Catherine scoff behind her. Molly tried to turn back around but Danny wouldn’t allow her to return to the table.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, tugging her tight against him. “Let Jake take care of it.”

“But-”

He swept her out and dipped her down before spinning her, effectively ending the conversation. Molly could not keep her eyes from Catherine, Joshua and Jacob. She said something that made Jake shoot venom. In a chain reaction, Joshua leaned forward, mouth hard like he ended the conversation, leaving smoke and cinders behind. Danny swept her around once more to recapture her attention.

“Leave it,” he whispered, eyes squarely on her own.

Molly screwed her mouth to the side. She reluctantly turned her attention away from the fire that was obviously brewing between the twins. The fuel had been there, growing since Bea had scrammed five months before; since Catherine had strolled onto the scene three months ago; since the family booted them out of Detroit to take the reins on the UP twenty months ago. Molly had been a constant, witnessing the slaughter that Josh had brought to the family from the moment they set foot in Kingsford. She had fallen in love with the tall, dark stranger the moment she had strolled into the dancehall to meet the new proprietors and Daniel stood on the fringes looking like he had choked on a lightning bolt.

Wetting her lips, she pushed her smile to the fore as her fingertips grazed Danny’s chin. The blackness of his eyes and the warmth of his aura filled her with the moment. Instead of arguing, she pulled closer to him and dropped the attention to the group behind them where it belonged.

Hope you enjoyed this bit. Next chapter is one of my favorites and contains our first Jacob POV.

If you'd like to join the tag list, let me know or join here

@lvnterninthenight @doodle417 @luverleaver @jakesgrapejuice @fictional-duchess @whitesuitjake @milkgemini @positivegvfthings @songbirds-sweet @streamingcolors-gvf @gretavanbitches @samsurfgreenbass @joshkiszkas-admin @gardensgatedaisy @babyhoneygvfarchive @myownparadise96 @josh-iamyour-mama @starcatchercarol@loveisonaroll @jakesstarlight @myownparadise96 @reesetrippingthelight @kyrose11 @builtby-gvf @ignite-my-fire @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @wetkleenex-gvf@gold-mines-melting @starsasone @puzzle-gvf @mysticalstarcatcher @montenegroisr @takenbythemadness @brookes-so-done @way-to-go-lad @cal-a-bungaa @lightmylove-gvf @thewritingbeforesunrise @leftjudgeempathsuitcase @brokenbells11 @imborrowedshesblue @vanfleeter @sammysvanfeet

#greta van fleet #gvf #jake gvf #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #josh gvf #sam gvf #sam kiszka #danny gvf #danny wagner #jake kiszka x oc #jake kiszka fanfic #greta van fleet fan fic #greta van fleet fanfic #greta van fleet au fanfiction

33 notes · View notes