#i can’t wait to watch everyone else’s povs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

proxima-writes · 6 months

Text

pairing: cult leader!joel miller x virgin!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 8.6k

summary:

You think you’re as good as dead when a band of raiders find you. In what you think are your final moments, an angel appears.

His name is Joel Miller, and he is here to deliver you from evil.

author's note: a huge thank you to my fellow cultist @atinylittlepain for listening to me scream about this. without them, we'd probably be on version 5 of this story. and to everyone who has been excited about this, i hope you enjoy!

warnings: DARK CONTENT - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dub-con: power dynamics, dub-con: cult mentality, age difference - 60M and 27F, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, dual POV, post-outbreak, canon divergence, canon typical violence (knife wounds, gun shot wounds, numerous mentions of blood), minor character death(s), blood cult ceremonies, religious themes, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, loss of virginity, oral sex - f receiving, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, cum play, dirty talk, pet names, praise, joel really has a loose screw ok? if there are any tags missing, please let me know!

“I don’t think you should go out there by yourself,” you say, watching as your dad inspects his gun. He looks up at you with a pained expression.

“I gotta see where we should head next. I don’t want to lead you out in the wrong direction, accidentally get you in a bad spot,” he says. “I’ll be fine, buttercup.”

There’s a heaviness that settles in your stomach at his words. He sounds confident enough, but his eyes tell a different story, expose his fear. He stands with a sigh, a wince of pain washing over his face.

“Maybe I should—“

“No,” he interrupts. “I’m going. I won’t be gone long, okay? We can’t stay here forever. Who knows what’s out there in the forest.”

That’s exactly what you’re afraid of. At least inside the rotted cabin you stumbled across you could pretend you were safe. The forest is alive in a way you’ve never experienced growing up in a QZ surrounded with barbed wire and steel. You hear the snap of twigs and the howl of wolves, or the flutter of wings and the call of birds, and sometimes you think you feel the weight of eyes watching you if you venture out too far in your exploration.

“We’ve made it this far. We got out of Denver and that was half the battle,” your dad says. “You got your knife, right? And enough rations.”

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. He kisses your forehead, dry lips lingering on your skin. You have an aching feeling this is a goodbye, some sinking intuition that he’s making a mistake that you can’t correct.

“Be back soon. I love you.”

Joel’s been keeping an eye on the people in the woods for the last three days. There was chatter on one of the radio stations that the Denver QZ was facing an uprising and he knows that once those walls come down, the survivors that venture out are bound to stumble across his town.

The cabin door opens and the man steps out, venturing into the forest. Joel waits to see if his female companion follows, but the door remains shut. He longs to see you, the girl who’s image has been burned into his brain since his first glimpse, but he has a duty to fulfill first.

He walks quickly and quietly through the forest, sure feet catching up with the man less than a mile from where he’d started. Joel clears his throat.

The man turns, fumbling with a gun that he clearly has no experience using, pointing it at Joel with shaking hands and shouting, “Move and I’ll shoot!”

“You lost?” Joel asks, holding his hands up and keeping his face trained in a mask of concern. “Lookin’ for somethin’?”

After a pause, the man seeming to have concluded that Joel isn't a threat, he says, “My daughter and I…we escaped the Denver QZ."

"That must've been difficult."

"We....we're running out of food," he continues, dropping his arms, limbs hanging heavy at his sides. "I-I don't know what else to do, man."

Gun no longer pointed at his face, Joel approaches the man, stopping when he's within arms reach. Up close, he can see the dismal state the guy is in -- sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, tattered clothing hanging on a thin frame. Joel places a hand on his bony shoulder.

"I can help you," he says. The man looks up, a brief glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes. Joel watches the slow realization, the way his brain catches up to what's just happened, a choked noise spilling from his dry lips.

Joel tugs his knife from the man's gut and steps back, watching as he collapses to the ground. Desperate hands smear the blooming red stain across his abdomen. Joel circles the man, positioning himself at his back, and pulls him close with a hand slapped over his mouth.

"I'll take good care of her," he whispers before dragging his knife across his neck in one clean slice. The man twitches once before growing limp and Joel releases him, body hitting the forest floor with a dull thud. Not one to waste, Joel gathers anything of use from his person.

Something catches the light against his neck. Curious, Joel tugs the bloodstained neck of his t-shirt to the side, finding a silver chain. He pulls, revealing the length of it.

A cross.

The clasp snaps with a sharp tug and Joel stuffs it in his pocket. Standing and shouldering his bag once more, he begins his walk back towards the cabin.

You're running as fast as your legs will carry you, lungs and limbs burning with the effort. You made the mistake of not listening to your dad when he'd told you stay where you were, to stay hidden, that he'd come back. Your nerves had gotten the best of you and you decided that you would catch up with him, but you didn't know which direction he'd gone. You figured you would travel a little ways and see if you could find him and if you didn't do so quickly, you'd rush back to the cabin and wait, just as he told you.

That's when the men saw you, two large figures with rifles that reminded you of FEDRA soldiers slung across their backs.

You duck behind a thick tree to catch your breath. You can hear voices calling out through the forest above the rush of blood in your ears, taunting tones carrying through the air.

"C'mon out, pretty girl!"

You chance a peek out from your hiding spot, only catching a brief glimpse of one man through the trees.

"Where ya hidin', sweet thing?"

His voice sounds far away and that gives you the courage to move forward, a tentative dash for another tree.

“I might be nicer to ya if you just come on out, but if I have to hunt ya down…well…you know what a hunter does to its prey, don’tcha?”

You press your hand over your mouth, muffling the cry that claws its way up your throat. You start to run again, faster, not caring if he can hear you so long as you're able to maintain that distance, hoping that if you can outrun them for long enough, he'll just give up and then maybe you can find your--

You crash into something, the world sliding out from under you and the breath rushing from your lungs as you land on your back with a pained shout. A hand wraps around your ankle, pulling you across the rough ground before you have the chance to recover.

"Gotcha," a man says, the voice different from the one that had been taunting you before. A figure stands over you, a foot on either side of your hips, looking down at you with a sinister smile. "Pretty little prize, huh?"

You twist your body, scrambling away from him. He laughs, following after you with unhurried strides.

“Now, don’t play hard to get,” he admonishes. A hand wraps around your ankle and he drags you toward him, kicking and screaming. Your foot connects with some fleshy part of him and he curses.

“You little fuckin’ cunt,” he hisses, dropping your foot. He kicks you, heavy boot colliding with soft flesh and bone, a sharp pain blossoming in your side, shooting down to your very marrow. You curl in on yourself, wounded prey trying to protect its most vulnerable parts.

A shot rings out, the sound startling in the relative quiet of the forest. You sit up, sudden movement making you light headed, and it takes you a long moment to register the scene before you.

The man that had been chasing you, the one that had caught you, the one that had hurt you on the surface but planned to do far worse, lies on the ground, eyes wide open but unseeing. Above him stands your savior, an older man with gray streaked dark curls and tan skin, broad shoulders and hard brown eyes. He reminds you of a painting you saw once in a book your dad owned, long before the outbreak.

“Death On A Pale Horse,” he explained when you showed him the painting that caught your eye. “Based on the Book of Revelations. You remember that one, right?”

“Yeah.”

“This one,” — he pointed to the central figure, a dark creature on a white horse — “is Death. And this one” — he pointed to a figure on the right that rides a dark brown horse, the dark colors making him blend among the horrors breaking from the sky behind him — “would be famine. You can see the emaciated man below him.”

“What about the other two?” You asked.

“The one of the red horse would be war.”

You pointed to the remaining figure, a man with dark curls and a determined expression. “And the white horse?”

Your dad paused. “Conquest. Pestilence. The Antichrist. The first horseman of the apocalypse.”

The man before you today looks like that figure on the white horse and despite his choice to rescue you from one horror, you fear he may be something far worse.

The man kneels and you flinch away from him. He sighs and says, “I ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” You ask, voice weak, throat on fire.

“My name is Joel,” he says. “I want to help you.”

“How do I know you weren’t with those other guys?” Your eyes grow wide and you rush to stand on shaky legs. “Wait, there’s another—“

“He won’t be an issue,” Joel assures you, wrapping a steadying arm around your waist. “C’mon.”

“I can’t—“

“Men like those two ain’t the only things in the forest to worry about, and I’m afraid we can’t sit around and find out. That gun shot could send a horde runnin’.”

“Wait!” You snap, pulling out of his grasp. He holds his hands up, as if in surrender, or maybe like he’s approaching a wounded animal. You’re not sure which. “My dad is out there. H-he went to figure out where to go from here. We were in a cabin…” Your voice trails off. “I told him I would wait for him.”

Joel’s eyes are soft as he says, “We need to get ourselves to safety. I can send someone out to look for your dad first thing in the mornin’.”

“Send someone?”

“There’s a group of us, down in the valley. Survivors, like you.”

“Really?” Relief washes over you, eclipsing even the ache in your belly and the burn in your throat and the pain in your muscles. “How far?”

“With the state you’re in, probably about a two hour hike.”

You don’t have much choice but to go with him, do you?

“Okay.”

“Where’re you comin’ from?” Joel asks, glancing over his shoulder at you. You’ve been following quietly behind him, head down and eyes fixed on the ground.

“Denver,” is all you offer in response. He knew that much already. He wants to know more.

Maybe he has to give more first.

“‘M from Texas, originally. Was in a QZ in Boston for a while before makin’ my way out here.”

“Why’d you come out here?” You ask.

“Had a friend once tell me, ‘Save who you can save’,” he says.

“What does that mean?” You ask.

“You’ll see.”

Joel had mentioned survivors, but you're shocked to discover that just past a wooden sign proclaiming WELCOME TO CRESTONE in chipped yellow paint, a whole town is tucked away, surrounded by a wooden gate that opens for you as you approach. You feel the weight of curious eyes as you walk through a town square, Joel's palm between your shoulder blades steering you towards a more residential area until you reach a two story adobe home.

Once inside, you’re led upstairs to a sparsely decorated bedroom, a large bed in the center with a faded quilt tucked around the mattress with precision and a dresser against one wall covered in yellowed wallpaper. Joel gestures for you to sit, kneeling on the wood floor in front of you to work on the laces of your sneakers.

“What—“

“You need rest,” he says, removing your shoes. He looks up at you, brown eyes full of concern. Your stomach flips.

“But—“

“No,” he says sternly. He stands and walks to the side of the bed, tugging the quilt free and folding it down. “I have duties to return to, but you’ll be safe here.”

You don’t have it in you to continue arguing. You haven’t seen a comfortable bed in more than two days and the exhaustion catches up to you in one fell swoop, eyes halfway to shut as you crawl into the space Joel’s made for you between the sheets. He pulls the covers over you, the warmth of a hand smoothing across your cheek the last thing you feel before falling asleep.

You wake to the sun high in the sky, streaming through the open window of a room that you don't recognize. You push yourself to sitting, your ribs protesting the movement and your head pulsing just behind your eyes. Your mouth is unbearably dry, so much so that you start coughing, further aggravating your bruised ribs.

"There's water on the nightstand," a voice says, startling you.

You look to your left, finding a young girl sitting in a wooden chair by your bed. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, wayward pieces falling across pale skin. Her sharp brown eyes watch you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl.

“I’m Ellie,” she says. You mumble your own name.

“Did Joel save you?” Ellie asks.

“Uh—“

“He must have. That’s what he does,” she continues, cutting you off.

“Ellie!” A familiar deep voice calls out. Her eyes go wide and she scrambles from her seat, rushing for the door. Heavy footsteps climb the stairs, Joel appearing in the open doorway. He looks at her with a stern expression, mouth pressed in a thin line. “Thought I told you not to come up here.”

The look on her face isn’t fear, like her reaction would have led you to believe. No, she looks up at Joel with reverence as she says, “Sorry. Wanted to see her.”

Joel nods. “Head to the mess hall. I’ll bring her down shortly.”

Ellie casts a lingering look in your direction before disappearing through the doorway.

“Sorry about her,” Joel says. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Could be better,” you say honestly. “How long was I asleep for?”

“A little more than a day.”

Your eyes go wide. “My dad—“

“We’ve sent out a search party. No luck yet, I’m afraid,” he says. You curl into yourself a bit at the news, shoulders tight with worry. He reaches forward and places a hand on top of your own where it rests on the sheets. “You should get some food. I brought you some new clothes, too. I’ll let you get dressed and we can go down to the mess hall.“

He leaves the room before you respond and you drag the pile of clothes closer to you, finding a neatly folded t-shirt, jeans, underwear, and socks. It takes you a long moment to work your way out of your dirty clothes, your movements slow to not aggravate your injuries. You keep your bra on, pulling the clean shirt over your head, followed by the jeans. You're thrilled to be wearing something that's not caked with dirt and sweat.

You're working on putting your socks on when there's a knock at the door, Joel entering when you call out for him to come in. He smiles at you.

"There, that's better," he says. "C'mon. Let's get down to dinner."

You follow him out of the room and down the stairs. The first floor of the home has a kitchen that opens up to a living and dining area, the space filled with worn mismatched furniture. The walls are wood paneled and there's a massive stone fireplace with elk antlers mounted above it.

The sun is setting as you step outside and get your first real look at the town as its bathed in gold. Narrow residential streets give way to wider roads once you reach the town center, where commercial buildings are pressed together advertising long forgotten businesses, their windows dark.

"That's the butcher up there," Joel says, pointing to one of the wooden buildings. "He gets the meat from the traps prepped for us." He points to another building with a sign that says RESTAURANT. "That's the bakery."

"A butcher and a bakery?" You ask. "Do you have electricity here?"

"Sure do. Solar panels, just outside the gate."

You continue walking through the town until you come up on a large white building, people entering and exiting through a set of thick double doors. The shadow of a cross remains above the door, perhaps scorched by the sun where a crucifix once sat. People welcome Joel as he enters, heads turning in their curiosity. You press a little closer to Joel's side.

The large room is bursting with noise and activity -- a flurry of conversations, the clink of cutlery, and laughter. You've not seen anything like it before, the mentality in the QZ not conducive to camaraderie. You can count on one hand the number of people you would have considered friends within those walls, and even that was a stretch. You and Joel join a line of people retrieving plates of food from a single window.

"How long has all of this been here?" You ask, gesturing to the room. He looks around proudly.

"Ellie and I came across this town on accident after we went through hell leavin' Boston. The folks here set up their own quarantine zone and with bigger fish to fry, FEDRA sort of left ‘em alone. They were kind enough to take us in," he says. "After that, more people started showin' up lookin' for safety. Lots of people who escaped the QZs or had been on their own for a while and were tired of runnin'."

"Ellie says you save people," you comment, taking a step forward as the line moves. "What's that mean?"

"Every flock needs a shepherd."

You’re at the front of the line now, standing in front of the window. A woman appears, her face lighting up when she sees Joel.

“Joel! How are you?” She asks, leaning onto the ledge. Behind her you can see people moving quickly and efficiently around a stainless steel kitchen, large pots of food simmering on the stovetop.

“Well enough,” he says. He places a hand on your shoulder. “We have a new guest. Make her plate nice and full for me?”

“Of course.”

She gathers a plate from a precarious stack, loading it with a heaping pile of food ranging from mashed potatoes and stew to colorful vegetables that you haven’t seen in ages, not since before the outbreak when you were seven and your dad would make dinner rather than pass you a ration package. You’re speechless as she hands you the plate with a kind smile, a mumbled thank you the best you can manage to show your gratitude.

Joel is handed a plate as well and you follow him to a table where Ellie sits next to a man with white hair, her plate already empty in front of her. The man looks up at Joel as you approach, his expression closed off and wary.

“Michael,” Joel says in greeting, jaw ticking. You take a seat beside Ellie, who to your surprise moves closer to you, arm brushing yours. “You botherin’ Ellie?”

The man, Michael, shakes his head. “No, sir. We were just having a little talk.”

“What about?” Joel sits on the opposite side of the table. He rips his bread roll in half.

“Just some concerns I was having.”

“You bring your concerns to me. Not to her.”

The two men stare at each other, the tension thick and impossible to ignore. Finally, Michael gets up, leaving the table without another word. Ellie’s shoulder’s lose their tension and Joel catches her eye, the two of them seeming to have an entire conversation in just a look.

The moment passes and Joel’s features relax, a smile tilting the corners of his lips as he returns his attention to you and gestures to your plate.

“Dig in,” he says.

Joel walks you back to his home after dinner, the sky now dark. Ellie’s already closed herself in her room by the time the two of you return, having left the mess hall before you had finished eating.

“Tired again?” Joel asks when you yawn, mouth open wide as you stretch your arms above your head.

Your expression is sheepish as you say, “A little bit.”

“That’s to be expected,” he assures you. “You fought a hard fight. It’s okay to relax now. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” Your fingers tangle in the hem of the t-shirt he’d given you earlier. “I don’t know if I’ve said that already.”

“You’re welcome. Come on, let’s get you back upstairs. You can use the shower and get to bed.”

“Oh my god, a shower sounds amazing.”

He shows you the bathroom and helps you get the water running. Once he shows you where to find a towel, you smile gratefully before shutting the door on him.

Dismissed, Joel makes his way to Ellie’s room, knocking on the door. She answers quickly, opening up only enough for him to see her face.

“Yeah?” She asks.

“Can I come in?”

She rolls her eyes but opens the door further, allowing him inside. Her room is smaller than his but far more decorated, pages ripped out of old magazines and comic books tacked to the wall. She takes a seat on her single bed, folding her legs beneath her.

“What did Michael talk to you about?” He asks. She shrugs her shoulders. Joel bites back a sigh. Sometimes he forgets what it was like to reason with a teenage girl. “Ellie.”

“He said” — she pauses, scratching at her wrist in the way that she will when she’s anxious — “he said that you were full of shit. That your fucked up ceremony isn’t helping any of them.”

Joel’s teeth grind together. “That all?”

“Called me a stupid kid for following what you say,” she mumbles. “Said everyone in town was stupid for believing you.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says. Rage burns in his veins as he turns to leave.

“What are you gonna do?” Ellie asks as he reaches the door.

“I’m goin’ to teach him a lesson.”

He pulls the door shut behind him, tilting his head against the wood with a sigh. The click of a latch down the hall precedes your quiet, “Joel?”

Joel turns to face you, surprised to find you standing just outside the bathroom door with a towel tucked around your body. Water glistens on your skin in the low light, drawing his eyes down your neck and across your chest. He clears his throat.

“Everythin’ alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, everything is fine,” you murmur. “I…could I get some new clothes?”

“Of course, should’a given you some before you showered. Sorry about that.”

Joel walks past you, entering his bedroom and approaching the dresser. He tugs the top drawer open, full of clothing he’d gathered while you’d been asleep for more than a day. He piles together another t-shirt, sleep pants, and underwear, setting them on the bed for you.

You’re standing in the doorway when he finishes and he fights the urge to go to you, to pull you close, to run his wretched hands over your body like he’s wanted to since he first saw you in the forest.

He doesn’t, though. Not yet. You still have much to learn.

“Here you go,” he says. “Some more stuff in the drawers for you if you need it.”

Joel leaves you to get ready for bed, shutting the door behind him. He heads downstairs to grab what he’ll need, essentials shoved in a bag thrown over his shoulder before venturing off into the night.

Only a few lights continue to illuminate windows as Joel walks through the residential area. The house he approaches at the end of a street is already dark, quiet beyond the wood door that he knocks on three times. The door opens slowly, Michael appearing in the small space.

“What?” He grunts.

“Come take a walk,” Joel says. Michael rolls his eyes, moving to shut the door but Joel’s boot blocks his effort. “I ain’t askin’, Michael.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?” He challenges. Joel throws his weight against the door, catching Michael by surprise enough for him to step into the house.

Joel throws an elbow into the man’s gut, making him double over with a groan. He circles behind him, kicking the back of his knee to send him to the ground. He pulls a length of chain from his pocket, looping it around Michael’s neck and pulling the ends.

Michael struggles, clawing at the garotte and thrashing wildly, but Joel holds strong. He tightens his grip further until Michael’s fight becomes sluggish, lack of oxygen finally causing him to go limp.

Joel releases the chain and Michael’s body slumps to the ground. He removes his backpack, digging through the contents until he finds a rusted pair of handcuffs that he uses to bind Michael’s arms behind his back. Next, he places a strip of duct tape over his mouth.

When he wakes, Joel will lead him out past the gate. He will find an unassuming home that rests outside the boundary of Crestone. He will open the hidden doors of the cellar, the ones covered in a layer of leaves and grass. From the darkness he will hear the echo of desperate groans and the rattle of chains and the angry attempts to break free from bindings. He will lead Michael down the dirt steps, the smell of rot and fear and death clawing at his olfactory nerves.

He will place a burlap bag over a struggling Michael’s head and the man will beg and plead in words muffled by tape. Then, Joel will offer him for judgment.

A hand on you shoulder shakes you awake, the room still mostly dark when you manage to open your eyes. You groan, pulling the quilt up over your head.

“C’mon, we gotta get to breakfast,” Ellie says. The cover gets yanked down and she gives you a mischievous grin.

“Where’s Joel?” You ask, sitting up slowly. She shrugs.

“Probably there already.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching your arms up. You grab the same jeans and socks from the day before, changing into them quickly and sitting down on the floor to pull your sneakers on. Ellie watches you, her foot tapping impatiently.

“You can go without me if you’re in a rush,” you offer. She shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

You follow her out of the house, her clipped pace difficult to keep up with due to your lingering pain. As the sun starts to rise and you pass by more of the houses, you notice something peculiar about some of them.

“What’s that?” You ask, pausing in front of one the houses. There’s a streak of what looks like dark red paint across the top of the door. Ellie doubles back and stands beside you.

“Protection,” she says.

“From what?”

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable with your line of questioning. Rather than answer, she walks away, leaving you to catch up to her or be left behind.

As the two of you start to walk through the square, there’s a rush of people around you. Shouting can be heard up ahead as a crowd comes into view, gathered around the front of the mess hall building. People press in close together, craning their necks to see over each other and catch a glimpse of whatever spectacle has their attention.

Ellie pushes through the crowd and you follow close on her heels until she manages to break through the other side of the wall of people. You catch glimpses of something writhing on the ground, something animal but not quite, something failed and fetid and foul. Another peek affords you a view of an arm littered with bite marks shaped by blunt teeth, deep gouges into their skin that shine red with blood and fester with disease.

Joel appears, stepping around the side of the building. The whispers cease, the crunch of Joel’s boots and pained groans the only noise to be heard in the stale air.

His dark eyes scan the crowd. People shrink back from his gaze, pressing closer to each other for relief. He reaches down, curling his fingers into the burlap material and yanking it off to reveal a man, familiar and yet not recognizable. Unseeing eyes, ashen skin, and dark red veins now the hallmark characteristics of the man you now remember as the one who had been talking to Ellie in the dining hall.

Joel draws a gun from his back, aiming it at Michael’s head. “Let this be a lesson,” he says, pulling the trigger.

The shot rings out, making you jump. The agonized sounds come to abrupt halt and his body goes limp, eyes still open as blood blooms on the ground around him.

“No blood spilled. No blood saved,” Joel says. You look up from the horrible scene and meet his hard gaze. You step back, turning and shoving your way through the crowd.

Then, you run.

You’re frantically shoving clothing into your bag when a door slams downstairs and heavy footsteps climb the stairs at a quick pace. You can feel the burn of Joel's eyes on your back, his presence in the room thick and cloying as you refuse to turn around, even when he murmurs your name.

He moves closer, a hand on your shoulder prompting you to turn to break the connection. He holds his hands up in surrender, taking a step back as he says, "Let me explain."

"Explain? Explain?! How the fuck do you explain that?!" You snap.

"If you'll just listen--"

"There's nothing you could possibly say that will--"

"Ellie is immune!" He shouts. Your words die on the tip of your tongue, lost to ether as you stare at Joel.

"W-what do you mean? Immune?" You ask.

He takes a deep breath. "I told you what my friend said. 'Save who you can save'. The first person I saved was Ellie."

"I helped her out of Boston, kept her safe, nearly lost my life if it meant keepin' her alive," He continues. "That's what I offer here."

"So you think you're....what? Some kind of god? That you can grant immunity?"

He huffs a laugh, the noise devoid of any humor. "God abandoned his worst experiment in their time of need. There is no god anymore, just the poor creatures he left behind. Someone had to take up the mantle."

"But how?"

"The ceremony," he says.

"That’s not a fucking answer, Joel!” You shout. “What fucking ceremony?!”

“Blood spilled for blood saved. You can’t make it in this world without givin’ your everythin’ first.” He lifts the bottom of his shirt, just enough to reveal a jagged scar to the right of his belly button, shiny scar tissue disrupting smooth tan skin. “I did this for Ellie. Now everyone else has to do it for themselves.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” You take a small step closer to inspect the wound, raising your hand and reaching out with a tentative touch. Joel inhales sharply as you run your fingers across the puckered flesh.

His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand up and holding it against his chest. “It’ll be easier to show you, okay? There’s a ceremony in a couple days.”

“I don’t—“

“You’re just afraid because this is somethin’ new, but I promise you that you got nothin’ to be scared of. I’ll take care of you.” He lifts a hand to your face, tilting your chin with his thumb. “I just need you to trust me.”

His eyes are honest, earnest, pleading with you to believe him and the longer you search them, the more truth you seem to find. He will take care of you. You just know it.

“Okay.”

Dinner is served early on the day of the ceremony, the room buzzing with excited conversation. You haven’t seen Joel much the last few days, just passing glimpses, and Ellie says it’s because he has a lot to prepare for. Tonight there’s a woman at his side wearing a white dress that flows to the floor, black hair braided down her back. She smiles at Joel, hanging on every word you can’t hear. It makes your stomach clench in a weird way when her hand curls around his bicep and her head leans against his shoulder.

“That’s Marcy. She’s volunteered for the ceremony,” Ellie says. She’s sitting across from you, a smirk on her lips. “S’why she’s been hanging around Joel the last few days. Joel’s gotta prepare her.”

“Oh,” is all you manage to reply, picking at the vegetables on your plate. “What does…what does he do? To prepare her.”

She shrugs. “Dunno.”

You glance at the pair. Joel leans in close to the woman, whispering into her ear. Your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, your hands curled into tight fists beneath the table. He stands, a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he calls the people to attention, voices fading until silence envelops the room.

“Tonight,” Joel says, “another is to be saved. And we will all bear witness to the gift of deliverance that only self-sacrifice can grant.”

It’s only a few words, but the power in them is palpable as you glance around the room at the entire town watching him with rapt attention. His eyes meet yours.

“Save who you can save,” he intones. A chill runs down your spine.

“Save who you can save,” the town echoes back.

The sun is already low on the horizon, twilight casting a soft glow on the scene. You stand at the back of the crowd, watching as Joel leads Marcy onto a raised wooden platform. Another man joins them, passing something wrapped in cloth into Joel’s outstretched hands.

“The thing about the world today,” Joel says, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a large knife, “is that there ain’t a single guarantee.” He looks out over the crowd. “Except here, within these walls. Why? Because here you’ll make the greatest sacrifice and earn the greatest reward.”

He begins to pace the length of the platform, knife in hand. “Givin’ your blood in exchange for your safety? That doesn’t sound so bad, right?” The people around you nod their heads in agreement. “You’ve seen what that sacrifice can do. I did it for Ellie. I did it for myself. And tonight—“ he places a hand on Marcy’s shoulder “—another has made the choice to earn that gift of protection.”

A cheer erupts, spreading through the crowd through shouts and applause. You find yourself joining them, clapping your hands together as you continue to watch Joel.

“Marcy,” Joel says. “What brings you here today?”

“No blood spilled, no blood saved,” she recites dutifully.

“Are you afraid?” He asks.

“No,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I trust in your protection.”

Joel smiles at her, beaming with pride, and that knot in your stomach from earlier returns with a vengeance. You want him to look at you like that.

He stands in front of her, blocking her from view with his body. A hush falls over the crowd and from the silence erupts an anguished scream. You flinch, the sound piercing and painful and petrifying, though it seems to have taken nobody else by surprise.

Another scream as he jerks his arm back, the knife in his hand now stained with red that slides down the blade, dripping to the wood beneath his feet. He steps to the side and you can see the woman now, her hands pressed to her belly. Crimson blooms beneath her hands, marring her pretty white dress and leaching the color and vitality from her face. She drops to her knees and so does Joel, who wraps an arm around her shoulders and gently guides her until she’s lying on her back. He holds her hand and smooths her hair from her face as she just repeats, “Thank you.”

Slowly, the strength in her voice fades. Her arm goes limp in his grasp, dropping to the floor with a dull thud as her eyes flutter shut. Joel whistles sharply, three men rushing up the platform and lifting the girl into their arms, careful not to jostle her too much. Joel remains kneeling, his head turning to scan the crowd.

“We are born covered in blood,” he says. “It gives you protection from the outside world when you’re wrenched from the womb. And it will protect you now as it is wrenched from you.”

He steps off the platform and walks past the crowd, heading for the residential street. Everyone shuffles forward, moving en masse like sheep following their shepherd or cattle to the slaughter. You’re led to one of the smaller homes and you watch as Joel smooths the flat of the blade across his hand, gathering blood in his palm.

He places his palm on the door, smearing the blood across the faded blue paint. When he’s done, he turns to face the crowd.

“Marcy has earned her protection. Those of you among us that have not yet made your sacrifice, may you return home this evenin’ and realize that each passin’ day is a wasted opportunity for your salvation.” His serious expression softens as he smiles. “No blood spilled.”

“No blood saved,” the crowd says.

To your surprise, the words fall easily from your lips.

Joel shuts the door quietly behind him. He’s just finished checking on Marcy and was pleased to find that her wound has been dressed and she’s recovering well. At the kitchen sink he runs the water as hot as he can tolerate and scrubs his hands clean.

He can hear faint footsteps upstairs, the sound of your pacing back and forth in his bedroom. He’s pleased that you stayed through the entire ceremony, didn’t run away filled with fear or disgust like you had watching him make an example out of Michael.

There’s hope for you yet.

Joel dries his hands on a towel and heads upstairs. He glances at Ellie’s room out of habit, though he knows it’s empty. She likes to help out after the ceremony, usually sticking beside the town nurse, Shelly, as she monitors the person who participated in the ceremony over night.

The door to his bedroom is shut but he can see that the light is on, the glow of it seeping out from the gap beneath the door. He knocks, three sharp raps of his knuckles, and waits.

You pull the door open, and Joel is once again struck by how much he wants you, how much he’s craved you since the first time he saw you. You look up at him with wide eyes but he doesn’t sense any fear as you pull the door open further and step back to let him enter.

“You doin’ okay?” He asks, shutting the door quietly behind him. You’re standing with your arms wrapped around yourself, nodding quietly. Joel moves closer, tentatively reaching out to tilt your chin up so that he’s looking into your eyes. “Talk to me.”

“I….,” your voice trails off. You take a breath. “I want that protection.”

He was hoping you would say that. Relief floods through him.

“I can’t do that,” he says. Your brows pinch together, hurt flashing across your features. “I won’t have your blood on my hands.”

“But—“

“Listen to me—“ his hands frame your face, thumbs smoothing over the high points of your cheeks “—you’re meant for somethin’ different here.”

“Something different?” You repeat. You shake your head slightly. “I don’t understand.”

“From the moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t let you lose a drop,” he whispers. “You don’t need to bleed, sweetheart. Not like them. I’ll protect you myself.”

Your mouth drops open the slightest bit, drawing Joel’s gaze. He slides his thumb across your bottom lip, mesmerized by the softness of it. There’s not much about his life the last twenty or so years that he would call soft.

There was his brother, Tommy, even though they couldn’t see eye to eye and had to part ways. His daughter, Sarah, before the outbreak. She took care of him, made sure he took his vitamins and packed his lunch and didn’t miss a parent-teacher conference. She was light and joy, his heart outside of his body, and she was ripped from his grasp.

There was Tess, who was not a soft person but was a soft place to land among the carnage. Bill, ornery though he was, and Frank, arguably his better half. They were a breath of normalcy, even when Bill had a gun trained on him. Ellie, once she quit being a pain in the ass and wormed her way into his heart with her promise to follow him wherever he went.

And now there was you.

“Will you let me do that?” Joel asks. “Protect you?”

You lift your hands, delicate fingers wrapping around his wrists. He wonders if you can feel the rapid beat of his heart, his pulse pounding beneath your grip. Finally, after a long moment, you whisper, “Yes.”

Joel captures your lips with his, swallowing your gasp of surprise. You’re tentative, a bit clumsy with your movements as you kiss back and he pulls away, leaning his forehead to yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’ve never—“

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

While his words don’t stop your pulse from racing, they do calm your nerves the slightest bit. It’s not that you’ve never been interested in sex, there was just never a good opportunity. Going through puberty in an apocalypse where a militant government faction monitors your every move in exchange for basic necessities wasn’t exactly conducive to forming intimate relationships.

While you’re lost in your thoughts, Joel moves you backwards until your legs hit the mattress and he urges you to sit down. He kneels in front of you, working on the laces of your sneakers, removing them and setting them to the side. He looks up at you as he removes your socks and you’re not sure if you're supposed to find the sight of him kneeling at your feet as sexy as you do, but a rush of warmth rolls through you all the same.

He runs his palms up your legs, across your thighs, until his fingertips find the waist of your jeans, popping the button of the fly and pulling the zipper down.

“Lift your hips a bit, sweetheart,” he says, working the denim down and off your legs, tossing them aside. His hands return to your thighs, goosebumps erupting along their path to your hips.

“No one’s touched you here?” He asks, here being the soft skin of your inner thigh that his thumbs sweep across. You shake your head. He moves higher, a featherlight touch over the elastic of your underwear that makes you gasp. “What about here?”

“N-no,” you manage to whisper. He smiles at you, the same proud smile he’d given Marcy that you were so desperate to have for yourself.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. He kisses the inside of your knee quickly before sitting up higher, reaching up to lift your shirt up, tugging it over your head and dropping it onto the growing pile of your clothing.

“Lie back for me,” Joel commands. You shift up the mattress and follow his instruction, bringing your arms up to cover your exposed breasts. He makes a dissatisfied click with his tongue, pulling your arms away as he crawls up the mattress to settle between your legs.

“None of that,” he admonishes, planting your hands by your head. He kisses your lips again, butterflies erupting in your stomach when his tongue tangles with yours, hot and demanding. He palms one of your breasts, hands rough on the delicate skin. “This is mine, do you understand?”

Joel brings his mouth to your breast, tongue swirling over your stiff nipple. You cry out, the foreign sensation making more heat rush through you, leaving you throbbing between your thighs. He looks up at you through his lashes as he sucks your nipple between his lips, releasing it with a lewd pop.

“Mine to touch,” he says, leaning on one arm to trail his fingers down your stomach. “Mine to kiss.” His lips trace the same heated path. “Mine to protect.”

When he reaches your underwear, he pulls back. “Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing across the gusset, making you whimper and squirm. “You’ve soaked your panties, sweetheart.”

Your face feels hot with embarrassment. “‘M sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry? Ain’t nothin’ you need to be sorry about,” he says with a chuckle. He sits up, working your only remaining barrier between you down your legs. He spreads your legs with his hands on your thighs. “Goddamn, you look so pretty, baby.”

“Really?” You ask. His answering grin is wolfish.

“So pretty,” he repeats. He settles on his belly, face so close to your pussy you can feel the warmth of his breath against your heated flesh. “Gotta get you ready.”

Your response to the question is cut off with a high pitched moan as Joel runs his tongue through your folds, circling your clit with broad strokes. You try to close your legs against the sensation but his strong hands keep your thighs pinned down near the mattress.

He groans as he sets a slow and measured pace, alternating attention to your clit with dipping his tongue inside of you, dragging your essence from the source. Your hands clench in the sheets, chasing and retreating from the overwhelming sensation in equal measure.

There’s a blunt pressure that turns into a slight pinch as Joel slips a finger into your tight heat. Your head tilts back with a high keening noise and you’re panting, desperate for breath as he moves his hand in tandem with his tongue.

One finger becomes two that thrust and curl and part inside of you, stretching you in unfamiliar ways. It feels good, and all you want is more, more, more.

Joel’s hand moves quickly and he sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves until that flood of relief that you’ve only accomplished a handful of times on your own washes over you, your back arching sharply off the mattress as you shout his name like a prayer to the heavens.

His motions slow to a stop and he leaves the bed. You hear the clink of a belt and the rustle of clothing being removed before his weight returns between your legs, a new heat to be felt against your flushed skin with his clothes no longer in the way. With shaky hands you reach up to touch him, starting at his shoulders.

You trail your hands across his warm tan skin, down his hard chest and softer belly. That scar, the one that frightened you before, leaves you breathless as you run your fingers over it now. He’s so strong, so powerful, and he wants you. Wants to protect you so that you don’t know that same pain.

“Joel,” you whisper. He leans forward, hands on the mattress beside your head. He kisses you, slow and all encompassing. You can feel the hard length of his sliding through the mess he’s made of you and you gasp.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he says, face serious, “there ain’t any goin’ back from this. You’re mine. You got that?”

“I trust you,” you reply. Your response earns you a deep groan from the man, a kiss to your forehead that precedes the blunt head of his cock pressing to your soaked entrance.

His cock is thicker, much thicker, than his fingers were and you whine at the intrusion. His shushes you, peppering your face with soothing kisses.

“I don’t think—“

“You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart, I know you can handle it,” Joel says. “Take a deep breath, just a little more.”

Tension gives way, a sharp pinch that turns into an ache as Joel presses his hips firmly against yours. He kisses your neck and trails his nose across your sweat damp skin, holding still as you adjust to his girth.

You shift your hips the slightest bit and Joel’s moan echoes your gasp. “Tell me I can move,” he begs, another desperate kiss pressed to your lips. “Please, baby.”

There’s something heady about the power you have in this brief moment, a man like Joel begging you for something when he’s used to having everything. You nod and that’s all the encouragement he needs to draw back slowly, that fullness leaving you inch by inch, before thrusting sharply.

It’s unlike any experience you’ve had before — the way his body moves with yours, the flex of his muscles above you, the intense look in his eyes each time he presses inside of you.

“Made for me,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

“Yours,” you agree, moaning as each drag of his cock presses against a tender spot inside of you that has your stomach tightening rapidly.

His effort doubles, hips slamming hard enough to make the headboard bang against the wall. You dig your nails into his back, watch the clench of his jaw against the sting, and moan his name as you succumb to the feeling of free falling into bliss, clenching around his cock.

“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck,” he growls, hips stilling against yours as warmth pulses inside of you, his mouth dropped open on a groan of your name.

Joel takes a moment to catch his breath before withdrawing from you. He reaches his hand between your legs, pressing his fingers into your swollen pussy as you gasp.

He holds those fingers up, the light catching on the red staining them.

Perhaps you’d spilled blood for your safety after all.

You wake to the early morning light filtering through the window, a noticeable ache between your legs as you begin to stir. You’re naked, having fallen asleep in Joel’s arms last night, his lips caressing your neck until you’d drifted off and dreamt of blood and wolves. You stretch your limbs, encountering only cold sheets as you do.

As you sit up, you realize the sound of rushing water is the shower and surmise that Joel must be in there. With stiff movements you leave the warmth of the bed and approach the dresser, tugging open the top drawer to find clothing for the day.

You’re reaching for underwear when your fingers catch on something cold, metal in a sea of fabric. You pull on the object, unearthing it from its hiding spot and holding it up for inspection.

A cross, hanging from a silver chain. A chain you would tangle your fingers in as a child, a cross that a thumb would rub across as a deep, familiar voice muttered prayers.

The shower turns off and you take one last look at the crucifix before setting it back into the dark corner you’d unearthed it from.

Then, you shut the drawer.

Joel Miller masterlist

All masterlists

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #no use of y/n #joel x reader #dark content #cult leader!joel miller #cw age gap #cw dubcon #cw age difference #dark!joel miller #dark!joel x reader #dark joel miller

1K notes · View notes

chelseeebe · 11 days

Text

and they said, speak now

18+. mdni. smut. mentions of cheating. femreader!xeddie. no use of y/n!

a little second chance romance story wherein eddie is invited to your wedding, though he’s hopeful that it’ll never actually happen.

a/n: wanted to get this finished so i could start writing a follow up for too sweet (bc i love it and i love mean asshole eddie) so i hope it bridges some sort of gap while i write :p switches pov a lil bit but it’s all marked out 4 ya.

“-gettin’ married to who?” eddie spits, barreling into the living room with a mouthful of cereal.

steve looks up from the paper invite and shrugs, “mark?” mouthing a quiet i don’t know as robin looks between the two.

“and i’m invited?”

“i mean.. it says all of us so..” he looks up at eddie, “do you even want to go?” dubious at eddie’s overly keen questioning.

eddie’s bewildered that he’d even ask, “‘course we’re fucking going,” shaking his head, still gripping onto his bowl of cereal, “i didn’t even know she was datin’ anybody else.. what the fuck.”

robin shares a look with her best friend, thinking eddie hasn’t seen. he knows exactly what they’re not saying. it doesn’t exactly need to be spelled out for him.

perhaps eddie hadn’t ever really gotten over it. it being you leaving to new york for college, breaking up with him in the process.

maybe they were justified in their judgemental glances, it’d been years since you’d left. he should be over it by now. evidently, you’ve moved on. why hadn’t he?

but he wasn’t and now he’s not sure if he’ll ever be.

the five of them shovel into jonathan’s car, robin squished between eddie and steve in the back with their bags piled high in the trunk.

eddie stares out of the window, he had started to regret agreeing to go. his ex-girlfriend, whom he wasn’t exactly over, was getting married to some fuckhead he’d never met and now he had to go and wear a suit and pretend to be happy about it all.

“i still can’t believe she’s getting fucking married,” he grumbles into his fist.

robin grins, nudging her elbow into steve’s ribcage, “oh this going to be so much fun,” elated at his misery.

jonathan sighs quietly, throwing his head back against the seat and slyly turning the volume up so as to not hear any more of eddie’s whining.

there’d been months of it, so he’s not surprised.

eddie is fucking elated to reach the hotel, gawping at the grand exterior as they get out of the car, stretching their legs after the long trip.

“jeez,” robin utters, staring at the tall building with her mouth hung open, “at least she’s marrying rich, hey?” wiggling her brows at eddie’s less than excited face.

he doesn’t rise to it, ignoring her obvious attempts to get him riled up.

it’s even nicer inside, gold plated ornaments decorate the walls, outdated paintings of old people he didn’t care to know, joining them.

they’re in the process of checking in when a familiar voice comes from behind, a small, meek, “hey guys!”

it’s you.

they spin, sharing tired smiles as you stand looking horrifically awkward. like somehow you hadn’t shared years and years of history with every single person here.

everyone else gets a short, half hug, exchanging niceties while eddie waits patiently for his turn. he doesn’t think you’ll even acknowledge him.

but your eyes lock, that same sinking feeling that he felt all those years ago as he watched your car pull out of hawkins plagues his stomach.

“hey,” you nod, tense as you open your arms for a hug.

it’s more than he’d ever expected, now finding himself stuck, unable to embrace the situation. you’re exactly the same and yet he feels like he doesn’t recognise you. barely touched by the graces of age, still the same girl he was sure he still loved.

eventually he pulls himself together, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to pull you in.

fuck.

you even smell the same. the heavy vanilla scent of your shampoo wafts through the air, transporting him back in time to nights shared in his cramped room, talking about the future together and how you couldn’t wait to get out of hawkins.

it’s utterly ironic, and not to mention heartbreaking, to think about now.

“hi,” eddie musters, sounding as pathetic as he felt.

the others watch on in anticipation, expecting a screaming match only to be met with whatever the fuck this was. dancing around each other like two complete strangers.

“how.. uh, how was the drive?” you ask, fiddling with your fingers, the way you used to when you were nervous.

“long,” he smiles meekly.

there’s too much he wants to say, desperately wanting to just shake you and ask what the hell you’re doing getting married to someone who’s not him.

besides, four sets of eyes watch both of you eagerly, hoping for an argument or maybe the exact opposite.

“there you are!” a gruff voice bellows, coming out of the mouth of the most insufferable looking man eddie’s ever seen.

he walks over with his shit-eating grin, taking you away from eddie’s grasp, leaving an aching in his fingertips.

your brows shoot upward, sighing softly, “everyone, this is mark.. mark, these are my..” your eyes dip, unable to meet eddie’s gaze, “friends.”

mark’s hand extends towards eddie, grinning like a complete fool as he shakes it. “nice to meet you man! heard so much about you,” his grip tight, squeezing the tired bones in his hand.

eddie wonders if he’s asserting his dominance, if you’d told him who exactly he was. about all those years you spent as his girlfriend. about how he used to make you cum in two minutes. or perhaps all the times you swore that if you had to get married, it’d be to him.

eddie doesn’t count on it.

eddie waits. and he waits. and he waits.

pacing the floor of his room, contemplating if he truly had the nerve to stalk the halls to your room or if he’d have to sit here and regret it forever.

fuck it, he thinks. there’s no guarantee he’ll even knock on the door, he just needs to get out of here and at least try to.

eddie’s acutely aware that nothing he says to you will change your mind in fact, he thinks you’ll more than likely slam the door in his face.

but he’s gotta try.

- reader’s pov -

it’s a quiet knock, barely audible as you toss and turn.

you debate even answering, too caught up in your nerves to care about some bridesmaid complaining about her dress or your mother prattling on about the floral arrangements again.

but then they knock again, louder this time though it sounds more unsure, a hesitant wrap of the knuckles, pulling yourself from the comfort of your blanket to see what they wanted.

you hardly register who the person is before immediately wanting to slam the door in his face.

“what are you doing?” you hiss through the small gap in the door, noting that it was somewhere between 11 and midnight.

“i wanna talk,” eddie frowns, carefully wedging his foot between the door, as if you wouldn’t immediately notice.

“we don’t need to talk,” you refute, scowling at your batshit crazy ex.

he sighs, looking around the empty corridor, knowing he shouldn’t be here right now. “can we.. i just wanna talk.. that’s it,” his eyes wide and begging.

you take pity on him, you always did when he had that pathetic frown on his face. like a dejected puppy that needed you to cradle him.

something in your head screams out to just close the door, it’s a terrible idea and you know it.

alas, you pull it open a few more inches, giving him the chance to slide inside before it’s shut again, turning the lock immediately.

if anyone were to walk in, your relationship would be ruined, tomorrow would just be a waste of money and you’d be a social pariah in your circles.

“why didn’t you tell me that you were getting married?”

the nerve to ask that question like he deserved an explanation. you haven’t even seen the man in years and yet, he feels as if he’s owed something from you.

“i didn’t know i had to,” you shrug, standing a few feet away from him, hoping to keep the distance.

eddie scowls, brows knitted into a line across his forehead, “you don’t- i thought we were friends.. friends tell each other those things.”

“you haven’t seen me in years eddie!” raising your voice despite being surrounded by your friends and family. “what gives you the right to march in here and ask me that?” stepping closer with every word, taken aback by his sheer nerve.

his eyes harden, jaw tense, “you left me- you did that and then the next time i hear from you, it’s because you’re getting married? s’that not completely fucked up to you too?”

“i didn’t leave you! i went to college, like people our age are supposed to! it’s not my fault that you’d rather sit in jeff’s basement pretending to be a rockstar,” snarling your upper lip, hoping you’ll hit him right where it hurts.

if nothing else, it’s frustrating. eddie was always talking about his big dreams and how he was going to get out of hawkins once and for all, make something of himself and never look back.

but you got tired of waiting for that to happen. years and years of soon and i’m not ready’s had left you pretty hopeless for any kind of future with him.

he shakes his head, scoffing, “oh? so should i have followed you to new york? watched you change everything about yourself for some asshole?”

there’s a lump in your throat now and weirdly, not a speck of anger. at least not about his words for your fiancé. more so about his complete disregard of your feelings, the dreams you put on hold for him.

“i didn’t.. i didn’t change,” bottom lip trembling, “this is me eddie,” nostrils flaring as you skulk closer, “you just don’t know me anymore.”

“i know you better than he does,” he fires back, adams apple bobbing in his throat. a sincere, honest tone.

it only makes you more frustrated, the audacity to come here and act like this, the day before your wedding.

you laugh in his face, a maniacal cackle, “you’re deluded,” gathering all of your strength not to punch him in the face, “you should leave, before you embarrass yourself any more.”

he’s almost frantic now, grasping the air, “i’m not the one embarrassing myself here. the you i know would never want this.. what happened to that girl who promised to marry me? where’s she?”

“people change eddie! you clearly haven’t!” you hiss, prodding your finger into his chest, hoping you’ll somehow set him alight with your fingertip.

he grabs your hand, keeping it close to his heart as his frown sets in. “tell me- tell me that this is what you want, the big wedding and fucking mark and a coupl’a kids, tell me and i’ll leave,” downturned eyes, begging himself not to cry.

you want to scream, ferociously snatching your hand away from him before you turn away. sick to death of looking into his glossy chestnut eyes. loathing the feeling of your past flooding back into your brain.

a few years ago, you would’ve been certain that eddie was the one you were going to marry. marriage wasn’t something you were ever particularly interested in, your parents hadn’t been the best example. but if it had happened, it would’ve been nothing like this, maybe in the tiny chapel in hawkins, a couple years from now, a small, private ceremony with your friends and family. you’d be lying if you said you had never thought about it.

about what could’ve been.

somewhere, buried deep inside, you longed for it.

eddie doesn’t budge, hearing the sounds of his heavy breathing from behind. you can picture that stupid look on his face, pathetic and sullen as he waits for a fleck of hope.

you turn back, praying that you’ll have somehow found the strength to tell him to leave in the two seconds it takes to face him.

it doesn’t come, the lump in your throat dissipating only to be replaced with a fiery pit in your stomach.

and then a moment, where neither of you have the guts to speak any longer, in what feels like the most intense battle of eye contact you’d ever been a part of.

but it’s over as quickly as it started, both of you lurching forward at the same time, lips crashing together in a hungry kiss, finding the side of his head for leverage as his antsy hands grip your waist.

the rest is just a silent routine, one you two have been through a hundred times before.

your back crashes into the desk, pressed into the wood by his torso. a hand squeezing your thigh as you’re helped onto the surface.

the metal on your fourth finger aches, as if some higher power is attempting to intervene, to stop this mistake before it goes too far.

it’s dutifully ignored, spreading your legs to allow him between your soft thighs. the thin material of your shorts meant that you could feel everything. his cock jumping as it brushes against your heat, low grumbling into your mouth at the action.

his jacket slips from his shoulders and onto the floor, your soft hands running down the length of his arms, brushing against the tattoos you used to spend hours tracing.

eddie’s hands roam your body, between your thighs, tucking underneath the elastic of the shorts as your hips lift in unison, allowing him to pull them down.

his throat rumbles at your lack of underwear, rough denim pressed against your cunt, his erection demanding out of his jeans.

your fingers fumble with his jeans, hearing the low clink of his belt somewhere muddled between his grunting and your melodic pants.

the throbbing between your thighs becomes almost insatiable, finding your own release on the rough fabric of his jeans, sighing into his mouth, allowing his tongue to slip into yours instead.

cold fingers grip your thighs, lifting your legs so that they rest around his waist, clothed cock nudging against your heat, growling into your mouth.

your head jerks back, “my mom.. my mom’s next door..” you pant, fingers trailing over his lips, doing nothing to muffle his raspy groans.

“good,” eddie smirks, hurriedly tugging his boxers down beneath his balls, burying himself inside of your soaked cunt, “i never liked her.”

a strangled moan is all you manage in response, grabbing at the desk for a little leverage as his hips meet the back of your thighs. any anger you felt towards his insults towards your mother quickly float away, turning into static as he slides slowly in and out.

marvelling at the sight of your cunt once again envelopes around him. you’d missed that, his damn near infatuation with your pussy.

the wooden frame knocks against the wall, whatever shit you had compiled for the morning all comes tumbling down, clattering to the floor alongside your long mewls.

eddie near enough melts, fingers melding into one with your skin, filling your cunt to the hilt. a certain feeling that had never been replaced, only achieved by him and his undeniable love for your pussy.

your lips catch onto his, attempting to muffle his hoarse groans, hoping to to god that the walls were thick enough.

“missed you,” he murmurs, half into your mouth, the other vibrating against your chin as your lips connect in the most careless manner.

your eyes flutter shut, chest heaving, pressed to his as your fingers begin to loosen their grip on the desk. his pace unfaltering with utter desperation, an exhilaration he had chased for years, to no avail.

“fuck,” you whine, regretting the shaky word the second it slips out. one arm hooks around his neck, forehead resting against his as his hair begins to stick.

it’s so disgusting, so wracked with desire that you’re sure you’ll be thinking- feeling it for months.

eddie’s cock nudges against against the spot only he could ever find, his pubic bone catching against your clit. fuelling the inextinguishable fire in your stomach, only making it rise into your throat.

with every fervent thrust he’s grumbling something;

fuck, shit, love you, love you.

your legs tremble, exhausted as they sit around his zealous hips. naturally, they tighten, drawing him in closer, an incessant need to feel all of him all at once.

“you can’t.. not inside,” you pant, opening his eyes to meet his though they’re not on yours. staring starry eyed at the space between your bodies, watching as they collide in ways your heart had longed for.

he’s close, you can tell. choking on his breaths when you squeeze around him, signalling your own orgasm.

“fuck, i can’t-,” eddie howls, desperately pounding his cock into your quivering cunt, giving everything away for the last thirty seconds.

you cry out, toppling over the edge as your stomach all but bursts, the pleasure reaching every last nerve in your body. clinging to his neck with a white knuckle grip, clutching his clammy skin as your body turns to mush before him.

eddie just about manages to pull out, sliding between your slick folds before his stomach lurches, shooting thick ropes of cum onto your stomach, thighs and the desk.

your foreheads remain as one, gasping into the hot air that surrounds you.

finally, his eyes trail up toward yours, meeting with the most sorrowful look that a man who has just cum, could hold.

it’s as if reality sets in, untangling your legs to shove him away. harsh and untoward as he stumbles back, still reeling from his own orgasm.

“oh my god,” you mumble incoherently, “oh my god, i’m getting married tomorrow,” clenching your fist, shouting as if he were somehow unaware.

his silence is deafening, his release still clinging to your body as you jump from the wooden table, marching into the bathroom, swallowing the urge to cry.

eddie stands with his head hung low, belt still undone as you sanctimoniously barging back past him to redress yourself, muttering ferocious whispers to yourself.

“i’m getting married tomorrow,” you repeat, unwavering anger in your voice. undecided on whether you were telling him or yourself that fact.

“so you’re still gonna marry him?” eddie asks, a slight hint of optimism in his tone. he had reason to be, you suppose. anyone else would assume the same.

you swallow, “what else is there for me?”

getting married had been the next logical step. you had the job, the house, the sweet, timid guy that wouldn’t hurt a fly. why wouldn’t you marry him?

his face crumples, brows stitched together in confusion, “me?”

almost on instinct, your head shakes, smacking your palm into his shoulder, “no. not you. it’s not supposed to be you,” a certain sadness plaguing your tone, “it was never supposed to be you,” palm slapping into his chest.

eddie’s face falls, holding his jacket in his hands wishing you’d take it back, tell him you were lying and that you really did still love him.

buried somewhere under years of regret, you probably still did.

tears weep out of the corner of your eye, quickly wiped away with your trembling finger. “you need to leave,” eyes pointed to the floor, refusing to look at him any longer.

he sighs, hesitantly stepping around the mess you both had made and out of your peripheral view. slow steps, willing for your mouth to open and those three words to dance out of it.

the door clicks shut and you’re alone again. nauseous and wishing you had just let him stay, wanting nothing more than to be held in your insurmountable feelings of remorse.

you’ve barely slept, overwhelmed with a sense of guilt and indecision.

six years of work and making something of yourself had come horrifically crashing down in one night, one stupid, moronic mistake.

but was it really a mistake when your heart still aches and your lips still feel the traces of his.

a short knock breaks you from your trance, the noise you’d been dreading all night.

sarah. bright-eyed and stupidly excitable nature, ready for your wedding day.

“woah,” she remarks, eyes darting around the room you’re just now realising you forgot to clean, “crazy night?” she smirks, eyeing the bottles and pens that had fallen from the desk to the floor.

“oh,” you smile, bile rising in your throat, “i’m just..” clambering for an excuse, “clumsy.”

she scoffs, dumping her bag on the unmade bed, “you don’t have to lie to me,” smile growing, “if you and mark wanna.. break traditions then i’m all for it.”

her wilful innocence makes you feel all the more worse. you’re supposed best friend was none the wiser, bouncing around with a proud smile, ready for your wedding day.

- eddie’s pov -

steve notices something’s up immediately.

dark rings accompanying eddie’s eyes after he had gone missing for hours last night.

“you good?” steve’s hand thwacks against his back, assuming eddie’s manner was all to do with the fact that you were getting married and not that only a few hours ago, he was telling you that he still loved you while you were having sex.

the ride to the venue is quiet, which everyone appreciates, having prepared for a litany of complaints and whining.

the church is even more extravagant than the hotel, resembling one of those castles he’d seen in a fairytale book.

he wants that to make him feel better, that at least he wasn’t the one wasting all of this money on a stupid wedding, but it doesn’t.

because irregardless of how much money you were spending, you were still marrying someone else.

sure, it wouldn’t be a particularly honest nor holy marriage but it’d be a marriage nonetheless. something he would never have with you. no matter how hard he tried.

they file into the pew, sitting slumped against the varnished wood as everyone chatters around him.

concerned heads fly around, the groomsmen rushing up the aisle as they’re beckoned by your bridesmaids.

eddie sits up, looking around at the frantic bridesmaids who were desperately trying to get the pastor’s attention. something’s wrong. he can feel it in his bones.

he throws up a quick two with his fingers to steve before sliding out of the pew, ducking his head down the aisle as he searches for you.

slipping past the worried wedding party, opening a multitude of doors in search of you. hoping that you’d at least made it to the church, that you were okay.

he doesn’t expect to find you in here, holding onto your mouth, mascara stains dripping down your cheeks, curled into the corner with your shoulders shaking. eddie slips in, shoving the broom in between the door handle, ensuring that no one else could find the pair of you.

you spend a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes until you squeak, “what’re you doing?” the most soul crushing tone that makes his heart ache.

“i came to find you,” he says, simply.

because he would, he’d do it in every life.

your palm smears the black stains around your cheek, scoffing at his words. “you shouldn’t have.. i’m fine,” trying to convince yourself more than you were him.

“you don’t look fine.”

your bottom lip trembles, threatening to spill over again. evoking a harsh stab of guilt through his chest. eddie surges toward you, placing his palms over yours, “you don’t have to do this.. we can leave right now,” he assures, searching your eyes. he’d whisk you away in a heartbeat, you didn’t even have to ask. just give him that look.

your nostrils flare, a wail constricted to the back of your throat, trying hard not to alert the hundreds of wedding guests sat just a couple hundred meters away. the dark light of the closet does well to accentuate your tearful eyes, his heart aching with every sniffle, every quietened sob that falls from your lips.

then, you growl, rather forcefully slapping his chest, “this is your fault,” fingers grabbing onto his suit jacket, “why couldn’t you just leave me alone?” frustration seeping out of your words.

eddie doesn’t have an answer, at least not one that would make you feel better.

so he stands in silence, letting you treat him like your verbal punching bag.

“i can’t do it,” you cry, burying your face into his neck, “i can’t.. marry him.”

he nods, stood just before you in this cramped closet, “you don’t have to,” assuredly grabbing your sodden cheeks, streaks of black stain his palms, “we can go.. anywhere you want, right now.”

promising the world because really, it was all he had to offer.

he wasn’t rich, hadn’t figured out how to get the fuck out of hawkins yet but he did know that he loves you and he’d do anything to prove that.

you swallow, averting your eyes to the sparkling ring on your hand, curled into the fabric of his jacket. “okay,” flicking back to his eyes, it’s so simple and yet it knocks the breath from his lungs.

nothing really registers, eddie had planned for more bargaining, certain that regardless of his pleas, you’d still end up walking down that aisle, promising yourself to another man.

“really?” he asks, clarifying for both himself and for you. there was still time for you to pull yourself together and go get married, he wasn’t going to deny you that.

“really,” you nod frantically, “i’ll go anywhere,” tugging at the collar of his shirt, “anywhere with you.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson stranger things

353 notes · View notes

wifeyifey · 23 days

Note

I beg you, transformers x fem reader

I don’t care what you write or anything, i’m on my optimus and bumblebee obsession phase pookie please

For you pookie bear 😘💖💞

Bayverse!Optimus and Bayverse!Bumblebee x fem!reader

Description: How they react to your random silent treatment

A/N: Optimus' part is so freaking soft and sweet 🥺 and then Bee's is corny and cheesy fluff and this is just a short reaction to get back into the groove of writing again!!

Silence. The silence was killing them- they didn’t even know what they did wrong as they saw their precious human woman talking to Cade like it was no big deal that they hadn’t spoken to their lover in hours. They had thought maybe she just didn’t hear me or was too busy to notice. But that thought was quickly replaced when they noticed she was able to talk to everyone else just fine.

What they didn’t know was that (Y/N) was just testing their patience to see how long they could go before they got mad at her for playing such games.

Enough was enough.

Optimus:

Optimus POV

Optimus watched and waited until (Y/N) was alone to approach her so that she would be forced to talk to him. Optimus walked up to her before kneeling before her. He gently put his hand down for her to climb onto hoping that she would accept his silent invitation. When she climbed onto his hand he thanked the stars that she didn’t seem to be as mad as he thought she originally was. He then stood and walked away from the group enough to have some privacy as he spoke to her.

Once at the spot that was hidden and far away enough, he sat down on the ground and held her up so he could look at her but her head was stubbornly turned away from him. Optimus sighed softly as he gently placed his finger under her chin and carefully turned her head to look at him. Longing shined in his optics. “Sweetspark… have I done something so wrong that you no longer wish to speak to me?” Optimus asked (Y/N) with his deep voice as his head gently moved to look her in the eyes.

(Y/N)’s POV:

Your heart ached as you looked at him and heard the genuine worry in his tone. The silent treatment was over for you the moment you saw and heard the hurt he tried so hard to hide. “No no no, Optimus- I-... I was just being childish- you did nothing wrong. Believe me, you did nothing-,” you rambled before he cut you off.

“But you have stopped speaking to me. You are not one to do such things without reason,” Optimus interrupted.

You tried to think of a reason that wouldn’t make him angry at you, “Bee told me to do it.” Really? Well, at least it’s believable. You think in your head as you give a sheepish smile and gently reach forward to cup his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Optimus. I didn’t realize how upset you would get,” you say softly as you place gentle kisses on his face making him close his eyes softly in relief.

“Please don’t play such games again. My spark burns for you and you alone. It can’t accept you being so upset with me,” he says softly in an almost uncharacteristically soft way.

“I promise. Do you forgive me?” you ask.

“Of course.” He says as he gently touches his forehead to yours.

Bumblebee:

(Y/N)’s POV

You were just saying goodbye to Cade as you walked away and towards the rest of the group. Unbeknownst to you, Bee was watching with desperate eyes as he waited for you to come to him, but when he saw you walk the opposite way he became frustrated.

You were walking while looking at your phone when you heard a quiet whine and then loud footsteps that came rushing up behind you before you could even react, you were lifted up by Bee before he quickly transformed into the Camaro where you’re in the driver’s seat and buckled in before he speeds off at high speeds into the desert. You let out a yelp at the sudden and quick change as you watch the speedometer climb.

“Bee! What are you doing?! You’re going too fast!” You say slightly panicked as you hold onto the door handle and the armrest desperately.

“Shouldn’t have ignored me, babygirl,” Bee’s radio said as he changed through the stations to communicate his frustration, “now we ride!” he finished before purposefully swerving and doing donuts in the empty desert making you let out a shriek and a loud nervous laugh realizing how annoyed he was by your silent treatment.

“Ok! Ok! I’m sorry, Bee! I- I’m going to be sick!” you say between giggles as he finally stops and transforms into his humanoid form with you cupped in both of his hands as he rubs his mouthpiece against your face affectionately in a playful manner.

“My honeypie, my sugarpie, my princess, my babygirl, my hot mama!” his radio blasted as he switched through channels making you laugh out loud as you grabbed his head and kissed his mouth piece over and over in loving affection.

“You’re so annoying- you know that? You’re lucky you’re cute and I love you so much,” you say to him as you look into his eyes with a softened, fond smile.

“I’m lucky I have ya darlin’,” his radio switched to a cowboy accent that spoke so softly making the moment more loving and intimate.

Lmk what y'all think!!

#transformers x reader #transformers bayverse x reader #optimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #bumblebee x reader

204 notes · View notes

nolita-fairytale · 9 months

Text

burn your life down | chef luca x fem!reader | chapter ten

summary: you and luca spend the first weekend of september on holiday in skagen, and luca reflects on the impact your relationship has had on him.

warnings: smut (18+ only) fluff, eventual angst not use of y/n, conversations about divorce, slow burn, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, very little connection to the storyline of the bear.

word count: 3.3k

listen to: the official 'burn your life down' playlist

a/n: a shorter, smutty, yet pivotal little chapter to get us through the week, friends. let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist.

part nine | masterlist | part eleven

As the season begins to turn, Luca remains a constant in your life. It’s not like you expected anything to change about it. The relationship has been good – like, really good – and yet you somehow still find yourself surprised that he’s so easily woven himself into your life.

It takes you a few weeks to pull it all together: the time off, a trip, accommodations, like where you’ll stay. Change is in the air – a reminder of how far you’ve come – that a romance that started in the summer has flown so effortlessly into the beginning of Fall that it’s almost gone unnoticed.

You’ve been looking forward to the first week of September for almost all of August, eager to go on your first holiday with Luca. After suggesting the idea, you got right to work, pulling off some fancy footwork to get coverage between everyone else’s end of summer holidays, and now that it’s here?

What’s another five-ish hours in the car?

You can’t wait to get to Skagen, and at the same time, you want to savor every single moment of this, as you listen to Luca sing softly along to Elton John while he drives. It’s in the way the sunlight hits his golden locks so perfectly, the way the soft low hum of his voice reaches your ears with such a gentleness, the way his fingers fit so perfectly entwined with yours.

And five hours later, you arrive at your airbnb, a rented cabin designed for romantic getaways in mind, not too far from Grenen Beach. You and Luca take your time unloading the car, hauling your bags from the car port and into your home for the next few days. While you’re not in a hurry, Luca, for the first time all day, seems a little impatient, hasty to get the car unloaded as soon as possible.

You don’t blame him. He has done all the driving.

As part of the agreement you made, he proposed to do the drive on the way there (since he’s lived in Denmark for longer) if you did drive home.

“What do you want to do first?” you ask curiously, wrapping your arms around his neck as Luca sets down the last of what was in the car.

“Well, after five hours in the car with you, my love,” he begins with a sigh, as he melts into your touch. “I’ve only got one thing on mind.”

“Oh yeah?” you smirk, picking up on his more-than-suggestive tone.

“Yeah,” he grunts, hoisting you up off of the floor so that it’s all too easy to wrap your legs around his waist. You laugh, squealing as he does, ghosting your lips teasingly over his as Luca murmurs, “I can’t wait to get you naked, my love.”

And of course, you let him, giving him exactly what he wants as you strip your clothes off, letting him chase you upstairs and into the lofted bedroom. The hour spent in an unfamiliar bed making love to the man that makes your stomach flip, leaves you breathless, boneless, and bewildered that he’s yours.

It’s not until he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, that your eyes begin to flutter open, snapped shut in response to the way he made you come. You begin to come back down to earth, the reality that you have consecutive days of this to look forward to.

“You’re amazing,” Luca murmurs against your skin, watching your body react to the way his fingers drag across your skin in soothing patterns.

“I could say the same thing about you. I think I lost my mind for a second there,” you sigh, letting out a satisfied chuckle because you’re only half-joking.

He grins, letting out a small laugh as he shakes his head in pure disbelief that you’re here and that you’re his.

You swear you’ve got stars in your eyes as you look at him, as you open your mouth to ask:

“So… what do you want to do next?”

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

You had been antsy to get out to the beach, and who was Luca to deny you that?

Right before dinner, you’d discussed.

That’s when you’d go.

Luca watches as you play around with your film camera, the sleeves of your Northwestern University sweatshirt pushed up to your elbows as you mutter something about how perfectly the textures of the beach will work for what you’ve been playing around with: double exposure. With wet sand pushed between your toes, you direct your camera lens from the waves of the ocean over to Luca.

As soon as you catch him staring, a half smile spreads across his face as his eyes land on you, and with a click of the button, you’ve taken the photo.

“Watcha thinkin’ about, babe?” you ask curiously, looking up from behind your small film camera.

He shakes his head, the smile becoming bigger as he answers, “You.”

Luca’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches the wind whip through your hair, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore filling his ears as you smile back at him. Your eyes are filled with such love, such adoration, that he almost says it – almost blurts it out – the three words that have been weighing so heavily on his shoulders as of late.

Lost in a shared look of love, the feeling of the wild waves slapping against the cuffed hem of your jeans hits you, startling you as it soaks the denim material.

“Holy shit!” you shriek, taking a few steps back. As you run away from the wild and out of hand crash of the waves, Luca leads you into the other direction, realizing that you’re being chased by the ocean.

You giggle, because it feels playful, joyous, free, and as you jump a few feet, using the momentum of your running pace, Luca is there to catch you. Like earlier before, but under different circumstances, you wrap your arms and legs around him again, holding onto your film camera for dear life.

“You got me,” you grin, your voice soft as he holds you in his arms.

“Yeah,” he replies, certain as the word leaves his lips.

“It’s good to be gotten,” you say, knowing that the double meaning isn’t lost on either of you.

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

You spend your mornings waking up slowly, exchanging lazy kisses and soft touches, whispering promises to each other of ‘five more minutes’ that are more like thirty (but who’s counting, really?).

Your days are bright and sunny, spent exploring with Luca as you search for adventures: trips to the museum, walks along the beach, exploring the little downtown area.

And tonight, on your last night, you don’t want to leave.

Yes, you love the life you built for yourself in Copenhagen, and yes, of course, it’s not too far from what you and Luca do in your spare time when you’re home.

But there’s something different about the quiet beach town that’s left you devoid of any distraction. It’s just you and him and the love that grows between the two of you. It’s undeniable, unignorable, its sound like a siren in every silence, an alarm clock that wakes you in the middle of the night, shaking you to your very core.

It’s also a kind and a safe love – something you never knew could still feel this enormous, this all-consuming too.

Luca moves his lips over your jawline, nipping at the skin as his tattooed hands wander, sliding underneath your sweatshirt. You’re more than eager to help, slipping the knit material right over your head before you’re pulling him back down to you, your lips drawn to his like magnets.

He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt back on after your shower together, and it hadn’t taken long for you to push his sweatpants over his hips, knowing very well the effect his shirtless showboating had on you. It’s no surprise that you’ve found yourself here, underneath his body, gasping as heat pools between your legs.

Luca’s more than happy to discover that you’re not wearing a bra, groaning into the kiss, as he stacks his body on top of yours. Your legs wrap around his waist with practiced ease and you're left only in your panties.

You arch your back as his mouth continues its journey south, his blue eyes stealing a glance up at you as he takes one of your erect nipples into his mouth, earning a gasp that escapes your lips. You can feel him smile against your skin as you sigh his name, your body shifting underneath his.

“Luca,” you repeat, completely at his will as you let him consume you.

He gives equal attention to both breasts before leaving hot, open mouthed kisses down your belly. His hand with the ‘A’ tattoo slides into your panties, dragging two fingers through your slick.

“You’re so wet for me, love,” he coos, pressing his index and middle finger just enough into you before withdrawing them, teasingly. “Always so wet for me.”

“Yes,” you gasp, as you feel Luca’s steady hands dragging your panties down your legs, your wetness leaving a trail down your inner thighs.

You’re eager to kick off your panties, and as Luca tosses them behind you, his hands are back on you in an instant, smoothing up your legs and pushing them open so that he can fit between them. Your eyes flutter closed as he uses his skilled tongue to lick a broad stripe up your hot, wet heat. You cry out, bucking your hips up into his mouth as he eats you out. It’s like he’s memorized every single thing you’ve ever liked, every single thing that’s ever made you scream, that’s pushed you to pull at his hair while you came on his tongue, and created a cheat sheet of how to get you to your orgasm fastest.

“Baby,” you pant, your hands tangled in his hair as he drags his tongue over our clit, tracing tight circles over it as your body twists itself underneath his mouth. “Fuck, you’re so good at this. You’re-, OH!”

You shout in pleasure as he slides his fingers in and out of you, and Luca has to admit that he loves the way you feel squeezing around him. He’s rock hard, the sounds of your moans, of your cries, of his name on your lips, unbearably beautiful. He ruts his hips into the bed as he can feel you getting close.

He knows.

He knows exactly when you need two fingers instead of one. That when your voice raises in pitch, it means he’s found the exact right spot. That when a string of curses leaves your mouth because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time and that if he keeps going, you’re sure to explode, topple over whatever mountain you’re climbing, ready to fall off and fall with him.

“Luca, fuck, I’m coming, god, baby, don’t stop, fuck, it’s so good, you’re so fucking good,” you chant, lost in the pleasure he brings you.

You’re not sure that the string of words are even English anymore as they tumble out of your mouth. Luca takes you higher, then higher, the crest of pleasure peaking and crashing around you, as you cum on his tongue.

Luca takes his time, cleaning you up with his tongue before making his way up your naked body, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. He kisses you with a passion, a fervor, a desperateness that tells you he needs you just as much as you need him.

“You are so beautiful,” he says against your lips. “When you cum like that.” Another kiss. “So out of control.” You reach up to catch his mouth once again. “So lost in how you feel.” His tongue slides against yours this time as he manages to complete his sentence this go round.

“And all for me.”

And with that you’re rolling him onto his back, your mouth trailing over his neck, his shoulders, his chest, and then the hard planes of his abdomen as you make your way down to the top of his briefs. You drag the waistband of his briefs down, up and over his hard on, tossing them somewhere on the floor after you finally get them off.

Your eyes meet his, catching his gaze as you look up at him, your tongue snaking out just over the head of his cock. Luca hisses, his hands propped up behind his head so that he can watch you as you take him into your mouth.

“My god, babe,” he groans, as you suck on the tip, sliding your mouth down a little further this time.

“Fuck.”

You take your time using your mouth and saliva to get him ready for you, bringing your hand up and around his shaft for what can’t fit in your mouth. You use your hand and your mouth to take him, setting a pace that Luca really seems to like.

You can hear it in the way he moans, the way he seems to be holding back, trying his best not to thrust his hips into your mouth, in the way that he gathers your hair in his hands, moving it all to one side so that he can watch you take him.

It’s not until you feel him tug at your hair, his hands used as a makeshift ponytail holder, that you lift your head to look at him.

“Get up here,” he rasps, and you’re more than happy to oblige.

Your mouth is on his instantly, swallowing his moans as you continue to stroke him in the palm of your hand.

“How do you want me?” you ask him, your voice low and desperate with need.

Instead of answering, he flips you over so that he’s on top again. You part your legs so that he can fit between them, and you feel him jerk your body down towards him, causing a small laugh to escape your lips. The laugh turns into a moan as Luca presses his thick tip at your entrance, pushing in. You both gasp, sharing a look, a moan, a breath as he stretches you open.

It doesn’t matter how many times you take him, you swear. You’re:

“Always so tight, fuck,” Luca murmurs, sighing out your name as he buries himself in to the hilt.

He pauses for a moment, his mind short-circuiting as he feels the way your walls pulse around him.

With each slow drag of his cock, you keen, feeling every single inch of him as he takes his time teasing you. Without setting any kind of pace, Luca lays one of your legs over his shoulder as he sits tall, grinding against you in a way that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He watches as he grinds himself into you, his gaze fixed to where you’re connected, unable to tear his eyes away from how you take him.

“So deep,” you mumble, lost in the way he feels inside of you. “You’re so deep.”

Luca begins thrusting his hips this time a little faster, earning another keening sound that escapes your mouth. And soon enough he’s folding his body over yours, testing your limits of flexibility as he keeps your leg bent over his shoulder, your thigh pressed towards your chest as he pounds away inside of you.

You can tell that he likes it – what you’ve said so far – so you decide to continue as he fucks you.

“I love it when you’re this deep. Inside of me,” you pant through each thrust, sure you’re so close to cumming again. “Stretching me.” Another moan. “Filling me.”

Luca can’t help himself. He pauses, wrapping both of your legs around his waist this time as he chases that high pitched gasp he knows means you’re about to come.

“You fill me so well,” you gasp, your voice getting higher as you squeeze around him, your walls contracting, building a tension that means you’re on the cusp of release. “Feels so good.”

“Luca, I’m gonna cum. Please don’t stop,” you beg him, as you hold onto his biceps.

And he wouldn’t dare.

With a few more deep thrusts, you’re cumming, squeezing around him, grasping at his back like you’re holding on for dear life.

Luca slows down his pace, giving you short thrusts as he stays deep, letting you come down from the pure euphoria you just experienced. He leans down, pressing a searing kiss to your lips as you catch your breath, your hands exploring his shoulders, his upper back, his arms.

“You like me deep, hmmm?” Luca asks, his voice low. There’s a quiet dominance – there’s always a quiet dominance – with the way he talks to you, the way he praises you, the way he calls you his.

“Yes,” you nod, your eyes glassy as you look up at him.

With a knowing shake of his head he kisses you once more before giving the order:

“Get on your knees.”

Your body shaky, still reeling from your orgasm, you nod in agreement. Your arms may feel like spaghetti, but you somehow make your way onto your hands and knees, immediately feeling Luca’s warm hands smooth over your ass. You push your body backwards, offering more of yourself to him as he sighs in pleasure, remarking once more about how fucking sexy you are like this before pushing himself back inside of you.

From this position, Luca feels unbelievably deep, and unbearably good. With his first thrust, you fall to your forearms, resting your head against them like all you can do is moan and push your ass back against him.

“Luca!” you cry out, as he begins to speed up the pace of his thrusts.

“You are so fucking sexy, baby,” he grunts, noting that he’d die a happy man with the view from where he kneels behind you.

Slow deep thrusts turn into fast jerks of his hips and yours, chasing your highs simultaneously. You know he won’t last long in this position – everything feels too good. Stilling his hips inside of you, Luca gently guides you so that you're laying on your belly while he lays on top of you. It’s his scotch bonnet hand that goes to your clit this time, reaching around your body to rub feverish circles as his thrusts become sloppier, more unpredictable, always a sign that he’s on the edge.

“Where do you want me?” he asks, his voice strained as he maintains his furious pace.

“Inside of me,” you managed to get out in between high pitched whines, moans, and heavy breaths.

“Inside of me, Luca.”

He grunts, because your words alone might get him off right here.

“Make me yours.”

“Yes, love.”

It doesn’t take long, just a few more thrusts before Luca is spilling himself inside of you with uneven breaths and tense grunts as you both cum, riding out your highs together.

Whispers of ‘so good’ and ‘incredible’ and ‘yes, baby’ are met with ‘unreal’ and ‘fucking beautiful’ and ‘my love.’

Luca leaves, only for a moment, to grab a towel and get you both cleaned up. You lay in each other’s arms for what feels like forever before you begin drifting off to sleep. Luca runs his fingers through your hair as he feels your body relax into his. He’s fallen asleep with you enough times to know that you’re probably no longer listening, off to dreamland.

As Luca watches the rise and fall of your chest, he smiles to himself, the words on the tip of his tongue. He’s known great love in his life: once in his early twenties and once more, a few years before he met you.

But nothing was this – nothing’s compared to this.

Almost as if it were a practice round, because he’s not sure whether or not you’ll even hear him, he opens his mouth, trying his best to formulate the words. He turns them over in his head, delicately, gently, then mouths them silently, before finally saying them out loud:

“I think you may be the love of my life.”

#chef luca #will poulter #luca the bear #the bear season 2 #the bear headcanon #luca x reader #the bear hulu #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #chef luca x reader #pastry chef luca #burn your life down #luca smut #chef luca smut #the bear smut #luca x reader smut

563 notes · View notes

teddy-bear-d · 1 year

Text

Grians Limited Life episode with no context:

#grian #limited life #limited life SMP #last life #double life #3rd life #i can’t wait to watch everyone else’s povs #i’m so excited #I was really gunning for a gretho team up there #but bad boys works just as well

38 notes · View notes

toppersjeep · 3 months

Note

Could you do a part 2 to the Carlos one with his race engineer? Maybe she stays with Ferrari for 2025 while he goes to another team and they’re just lining for each other from afar, but then they’re properly reunited when he joins Audi in 2026 and she joins him there? 🫶🏼🫶🏼

I’d love too omg!! I really liked writing that one I normally didn’t do Carlos ones. But I will happily write a part 2 for you:)

-A/N

_____

(Part 1)

You Don’t Have To Go P2- Carlos Sainz X Reader

Your POV

(A year before)

I looked over at Carlos at Mercedes as I helped Charles get ready. It hurt to see him with another team. But there was nothing I could do.

“Are you okay” Charles asked. “I’m good cars looking good” I said. “I’m more worried about you than the car cheri” Charles said putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be alright” I said sitting at my desk. “If you say so” Charles said getting in his car. I watched as Carlos got into his car.

I smiled at him as he waved. We hadn’t talked much in a while. Sure we went out on a date. But we had different schedules we weren’t as close anymore. I hated it. I also hated that everyone at Ferrari besides Lewis and Charles didn’t want me there.

Maybe it was time for me to make a change too. After a while of being at Ferrari it was time to go somewhere else. Somewhere that I will be treated better.

“Ready for the race” Charles said. “Yeah I’m sure we will win” I said. “Of course we will I’ve got the best engineer” Charles said.

(Present time)

I walked into the Audi paddock. I had already met one of the drivers. Which was Alex Albon. I had known him for years. I was waiting for the next driver to show up to the garage.

As I heard footsteps come in I immediately saw his face. There he was Carlos Sainz still as breathtaking as ever. I missed being around him. I missed everything about him. After he left we weren’t as close anymore. But now here he is. Standing right in front of me and I’m speechless.

“Y/N” Carlos said. I ran over and hugged him. “I’ve missed you so much” I said he hugged me tightly. “You’re my engineer” Carlos said with a smile. “Yeah I saw they needed one” I said. “I had no idea you’d be my engineer but I’m so glad you are” Carlos said. “I’m glad you’re the second driver” I said he smiled.

“You look incredible” Carlos said. “You do too the hair looks” I said he laughed. “So they tell me you’ve helped design a beautiful car” Carlos said. “That I did” I said. “Well done” Carlos said looking at it.

“I just helped I didn’t do everything” I said. “It’s still a great design” Carlos said looking at the blueprints with me. “Yeah it’s gonna be fast” I said. “Good we will for sure win championships in this” he said putting an arm around me.

“Carlos… I

I began to say but he pulled me into a kiss. I immediately kissed him back. It was like nothing had changed from two years ago. It felt perfect. Pure fireworks. I missed it.

“I can’t lose you again” Carlos said. “So keep me” I said he laughed. “Forever” Carlos said. “If you get lucky enough yeah” I said. “That’s why I still love you know” Carlos said. “You love me” I asked. “Of course I do why wouldn’t I” Carlos said.

“I never stopped loving you” I said. “What is it you said hmmm say it again” Carlos said I smiled. “I love you Carlos” I said he kissed me. “I love you so so much” Carlos said. “So..” I said. “Wanna skip the whole dating and just date” Carlos said. “Of course I do boyfriend” I said.

“Well then girlfriend how about you tell me more about your lovely design” Carlos said. “Oh absolutely” I said as we both sat at my desk. “I love watching you work” Carlos said. “Pay attention please” I said. “Anything for you” Carlos said. “This is your year” I said. “Oh my love it’s our year” Carlos said.

#fanfic #love #f1 imagine #red bull f1 #x reader #charles lecrelc #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz #f1blr #f1 x you #mercedes amg f1 #f1 #scuderia ferrari #charles lechair #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1edit

172 notes · View notes

callsign-relic · 8 months

Note

May I please as for continuation of the Yan!Megatron with the human liason from the POV of Tarn who's watching in consternation as his boss is bringing his new "pet" abord and ordering their accoutrements loaded onto Peaceful Tyranny.

Tarn's an asshole and I enjoy seeing him disquieted. And Megatron with pet squishy.

Oooo this was an interesting request, from a new POV! I’m happy you enjoyed the last piece enough to ask for a sequel :D for those who haven’t read it, you can read part 1 here! All that aside, I hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: SFW, Yandere, GN!Human!Reader

Tarn was… conflicted.

The moment he caught you in his sights, wriggling within his lord’s grasp as he approached the ship, his first instinct was to end your pitiful existence right there.

“Sir,” he had told his commander, aiming his arm cannon in your direction, “allow me to rid you of the pest who has so rudely decided to cling to you.”

But then, Megatron’s own servo blocked your view— blocked Tarn’s target. “That will not be necessary,” he replied, voice low and calm. “They will be here to stay. They’re mine.”

And while Megatron stepped away without another word, the sounds of your futile objections echoed in Tarn’s audials. The commander couldn’t make sense of it— Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, keeping an organic as a pet? What use could that possibly have?

So, he decided to wait. Wait and watch as his lord doted on his new pet.

Most times, you were perched high atop Megatron’s shoulder. Despite your visible discomfort— the way you shuffled as far as you could from the warlord’s helm, only for him to gently push you back near it— Megatron seemed more worried when you weren’t there. If you weren’t on his shoulder, then you were cupped within a single, massive servo, digits curled in just so as you wouldn’t run the risk of falling. With his free hand always rubbing at your head or your back or, when Megatron was feeling particularly affectionate, squishing the sickenly soft flesh of your torso or cheeks between two digits over and over again.

Fine. This was fine. Tarn had to assure himself of that fact time and time again, no matter how much his distaste for organics told him this was so, so wrong. Even as your tiny human belongings were brought upon the ship, Tarn thought that if at least he didn’t go out of his way to speak or look at you, he could live with this. Surely.

Down in one of the many halls of the Peaceful Tyranny, Tarn feels an itch at his pedes. He didn’t think much of it, simply casting it aside as a glitch in his nervecircuits for Nickel to examine later, though that should have been the first sign that something was wrong. After a moment, the itch comes again, and with a hiss Tarn finally looks down—

And locks eyes with you.

“You—?!”

“Shh!” You quickly hush him before he can speak. “I know this is going to sound crazy but I already tried talking to everyone else here and no one wanted to help me and believe me you’re the last person who I’d ask for help from and— AAHH—“

Tarn didn’t want to strain his audials more with struggling to hear you down there than hearing your grating little voice already did. With the ends of two claws, he bends down and lifts you by the scruff of your clothes, dangling your tiny form before his faceplate.

While you couldn’t much tell his expression past his mask bearing the Decepticon brand, you could tell the commander was not happy.

“I’ll make this quick, I promise,” you raise your hands in placation, and when the mech doesn’t reply, you take it as your cue to continue. “I’ll cut to the chase— I don’t want to be here. And I’m well aware that, besides Megatron, no one else really wants me here either. So, that’s something we’re in agreement upon. If we could work together only for the amount of time it takes me to get me off this ship and back to the Lost Light, we would be doing both of ourselves a favor. I can’t get out of here on my own, so please—“

“Tarn?”

A commanding voice booms down the hallway, and both of your heads snap to attention as you look towards the source of the call. Megatron was entering through the sliding doors, heaving an audible sigh of relief as he locks eyes with you.

“There you are,” he says, and as he approaches he offers his hands out below where Tarn was dangling you. Without a moment’s hesitation, the purple mech drops you, and you land on your bottom into the warlord’s palms. “I thought I had lost you,” he coos, before gazing back at Tarn. “Where did you find them?”

Tarn opens his intake to answer, before he catches you staring at him. You almost look at him pleadingly— begging for mercy from a Decepticon. He stares back for only a moment before resetting his vocalizer and addressing his superior. “They were merely wandering the halls, sir. They must have gotten lost.”

Placing you upon his shoulder once more, Megatron nods. “I see. I suppose I must keep a better optic on you, then.” You offer a nervous laugh, hoping the warlord didn’t expect a bigger reply. To your relief, he carries on. “Let me know if this happens again, Tarn.” Then, without another word, he exits the way he came— and you turn to look at Tarn for as long as you can before the sliding doors shut behind you.

And as the mech is left alone in the hall, he stews in his thoughts. Conspiring with a fleshling was the last thing he wanted to do, and disobeying a command from Megatron was worse, but… if it meant ridding the ship of your presence, and perhaps returning his lord back to normal…

Perhaps he would consider it.

#relic writes #Transformers #Transformers x reader #reader insert #Transformers MTMTE #mtmte #more than meets the eye #MTMTE x reader #Transformers lost light #lost light #lost light x reader #yandere Megatron #yandere Megatron x reader #Megatron x reader #MTMTE Megatron x reader

310 notes · View notes

netherfeildren · 6 months

Text

With Mercy for the Disturbed

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: He's a father and then he isn't, and then he's in the perfect place with the perfect girl, and he's done so many bad things that terrify the both of them. And then, finally, he's saved and there are dancing bears and doors newly opened, and everyone's a little mad at the end of it all.

-OR-

the Hannibal/Alice in Wonderland AU wherein Joel loses his mind

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: AU; Extremely Dubious Consent; Or Non Con; You decide but vibes are definitely off; Dark Fic; Rough Sex; Face fucking; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Bondage; Unreliable Narrator; Memory loss; Blasphemy; Discussions of religious disdain; Discussions of morality; References to suicide; Beware of the old man who’s crazy and lets all his intrusive thoughts win; Older man/Younger woman; Creampie; Light breeding kink; Like very light for the likes of me promise; Possessive Behavior; Kidnapping; Joel POV

A/N: Hello and hallelujah, I’m so happy to be posting this!! For a minute after I finished Pink I felt like it would be impossible for me to write anything else ever again, and felt so weird and without anything left to say. I struggled so much just getting these words down, and it was supposed to be something very different initially compared to what it turned out to be, but I think I quite like the final product. I hope you do too.

And one million kisses and thank yous and all the praise in the world to @frannyzooey for giving this a little looksy over before posting. You’re the greatest and the bestest, Kelli, thank you so so much :)

Please heed the tags carefully and err on the side of caution!!! The goings on in this are very strange and this is probably the darkest thing I’ve written to date.

Word Count: 8.8K

Read on AO3

He can’t remember her name anymore, but he remembers the number. It’s been seven hundred and thirty eight days since his daughter died.

Sometimes, he’s not sure if he even remembers his own name. He thinks it’s Joel, and the sound of it brings him comfort in a way, when it’s especially dark and confusing in his mind, and so he tells himself over and over again that that’s what it is. Joel. Joel. Joel. I am Joel. That that’s what it’s always been. That that’s the name she knew him as.

Sometimes you call him that too.

He used to be a father, and then one day, so suddenly he can’t recall how it even happened, he lost everything. Like dominos falling over in his mind – the girl, and then his memories and then the man with the face like his. He plays dominos all the time now.

In his spot in the sun in the big blue room, wearing his whites and his soft socks and taking the pills they force down his throat. He plays dominos, and he does his exercises, and he thinks of that daughter whose name he can’t remember. He says his own name over and over and over again so many times until it’s not even a sound anymore, only a buzz or a hum or a scream.

His beard is thick and his hair is long, and he does not recognize his own face in the mirror. All he sees are ghost green eyes and dark hair and a fathomless sort of failure. A father, no longer a father. He goes for walks in the garden, he eats the food they give him even when he doesn’t really want to, even when it tastes like ash or greater madness than the one he’s already swallowed. And he waits for you. All the time he waits for you to come to him, he watches the big doors that go out into the world he’s too frightened and broken to step foot in now, draws his fingertip over the gristle of scar tissue at his temple mended over invisible fracture, and he waits and waits, and he says his name and he thinks of that nameless daughter and he waits and he thinks: the morning after I killed myself, I woke up in the perfect place with the perfect white walls and now all I do is wait.

He sits in his chair in the corner now and counts the seconds for you to come for him. Always at this time, always when the sun is at that spot in the sky. When it rains, and he can't tell where he is in the world, and the clouds are swollen purple gray verging on melancholy and anger, he feels something like despairing. Something like the sort of insane they whisper he is behind his back now.

He watches the puddles filled with dark mercury grow and grow like the ocean rising out of concrete, and the orange tree that drips and weeps and sags and he thinks he feels very much that way inside too. Sometimes, when the sun shines and there are no clouds and he doesn’t feel so terribly downtrodden, or maybe worse than usual, each orange blossom opens like a hand reaching out for him. Begging him not to do it, not to think of it, not to go back to that bad place. Focus only on me, she says. Focus only on the blue walls and the perfect room and the place where the sun sits in the sky, she’s on her way, she’s almost here.

The first time they’d told him he was ill – or dead – the first morning in the perfect room, he’d been angry, affronted or offended, and he’d howled and fought and said I’m not fucking crazy, it’s only that my daughter is dead. But as much as he’d fought or kicked or screamed, wept until he was brittle and dry as a whale bone, they’d not believed him. And so, he’d come to appreciate the peace of the perfection surrounding him, the perfection of a lie, or the perfection that comes to visit him in the shape of a woman, soft and round in all the right places and pretty. Fuckable. He tries not to think of it. He swears he does. But there’s little else to consider in the perfect place. So really, he thinks of little else.

You’re almost here, he knows it’s almost time.

A few more moments of the sun in the place where it is until it’s in the place where it should be, and then you’ll be here, and he looks down at the stone in his palm, held for so long it’s turned dark with his sweat now. I shouldn’t have, but I brought you something, placed it in his hand, done that thing with your eyes and your mouth that told him secrets he wasn’t sure you were even aware you were telling him.

He knows that it’s November now because you’d said it was, and he doesn’t know why, but when you’d told him, he’d wept and wept and wept. Become inconsolable which had sent you to worrying, put the different sort of look on your face, in your eyes, the one that vibrates, that screams instead of whispers. And he’s positive you don’t know you show him that one, but he sees it anyways, you’ve got a shit poker face. And he’d told you between sobs and chokes, it’s November and it’s terrible and I can’t explain why except to say that it’s as though the earth has suddenly realized that she’s grown old and cold and there’s nothin’ she can do to prevent it except weep, and I feel very much like this in my own heart too. And when he looks back up at the sun, it’s finally where it’s supposed to be, and when he looks back at the double doors that lead away to all his fears and all the bad, there you are. You walk towards him slow and measured, and you’re perfect, perfect, perfect. Precious, impeccable, absolutely exceptional in every way. He wants very much to ruin all that pure magnificence.

He knows that he did something very bad after his daughter, after they took her, lots of very bad things to lots of very bad people. He knows this, he remembers this vividly, enjoys the memory of it, savors it like something sitting sweet and light on his tongue.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love with the idea of a girl who was gone who’d come from me who is never going to be again. Who I never made enough time for when there was still time to be made.

You always wear beautiful clothes, and it makes him appreciate the blandness of his own. That you stand out, that he’s merely a blank canvas for you to inflict yourself on. Wool skirts and silk blouses and sheer pantyhose he wants to rip to ribbons with his fingers. Makes him appreciate the beauty of you, faultless, guileless. Sweet in a way he’d never witnessed before like a kitten that’s so adorable you want to squeeze and squeeze and smother until it bursts. Big eyes and a full, soft mouth and breathy voice, and then you’re right there.“Hi, Joel,” and yeah, that’s right, he does know his name, you remind him of it all the time.

“Mornin’.”

“Ready?”

“As ever.”

The room you usually sit in to talk has a big painting of a field in it, a bear in the far off center up on its hind legs, somehow, appearing as if it’s dancing away. Even the paintings are mad here, but he likes it, wants to dance away into the far off unknown like that too.

“The middle of the day’s not the best time for fishin’ usually.” Sometimes, you let him start where he wants. Silent until he chooses to break. He pulls the thought out of nowhere. “Bein’ out there’s just the excuse, I suspect, in the sun and the water.”

He listens to the scratch, scratch of your pen. You write with one of those fountain types with the sharp point, and he wonders if you’ve ever considered how easily he could turn it into a weapon. How smoothly it’d pierce the soft, satin skin of your throat he likes to fantasize about. He would never. But he does like to think about it, pretends it’s a show of your trust, wonders if the guards and higher ups know you bring something like that in here with him. Scratch, scratch, scratch, and it makes his brain itch.

“You used to fish?”

“Think so.”

“Are you remembering?”

“Nah.” The morning after I killed myself, I lost my memories – it’s only that they’d hurt everywhere I’d touched them, and so I’d had to let them go.

“No?”

You’ve got the loveliest voice, and sometimes he wishes he could tell you to stop asking so many stupid questions about him and talk about yourself. Endlessly. He chooses a new route. “What is it about empathy that people find so difficult to be generous with?”

That soft hum in your throat he loves, the one he feels soothe that itchy brain of his. “Humans can be inherently selfish. We’re born with only ourselves, we die with only ourselves, sometimes that gets in our way.”

“No… Don’t think that’s true.”

“No?” He knows you like to lead him sometimes, like a game he doesn’t want to enjoy. “You’re the one saying we’re greedy with our empathy.”

“Forgiveness too,” he adds.

The click of your tongue, “Do you think you’re forgiving?”

“Not at all.”

Scratch, scratch. Once he’d asked what it is you write about him during these talks of yours, and all you’d said was notes. It’s the only time he’s ever been angry with you, refused to talk to you for three days after that. Only because if you wouldn’t tell him things, then he wasn’t going to tell you anything either. “Then what’s the point you’re trying to make? What’s your question?” But then he’d missed the sound of your voice too much, had felt the burn of your gaze on his skin too intensely, had masturbated too many times without satisfaction to the memory of your eyes on him that he’d been forced to relent. He needed the sound of your voice in his head also to be able to come.

“Why is it so difficult?” He asks again because he has to understand. Because he needs an answer desperately.

“It’s hard to see someone as simply themselves, simply human – a sentient flaw, so to speak – when they make a mistake. And yet, as grievous or offensive as something can be, we all do it eventually. Some people have no patience for that.”

“Even though they themselves will eventually, inevitably, do it too?” He can feel himself getting upset, his heart beating too fast, a cold sweat sprouting at the back of his neck while his face flushes hot and red.

“Yes.”

“That’s bad.”

You shrug, “Perhaps.”

“Selfish.”

Again, “Perhaps.”

And then the true source of his anger, “I think I’m like that.”

You nod like you understand, and he wants to shake you and make you see that there’s no way you actually could. “Would you like not to be?” It pisses him off when your voice goes all even and patient like that.

“Yes. I hate people like that. I hate people that can’t find it in themselves to forgive – to give someone a second chance.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He can’t help himself when he vomits the words, not fully expecting them to come out so slicked in truth as they do. “Because I wish someone would give me one, even if I don’t deserve it. F– forgive me– But even then… what does it matter? What does it matter if I’m forgiven, given a second chance, absolved of all my sins? Look at where I am. Look at what I've become. I’m entirely lost to myself. You know, sometimes I can’t remember my own name if you don’t remind me of it.”

“You’re Joel. You had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.” He flinches at the sound of it, wants to bare his teeth at you like a rabid animal. “Your brother is Tommy. He calls every Friday at three o’clock to ask how you are. You’re Joel Miller.” That’s right. The morning after I killed myself, I met my brother for the first time. The real him. The him who’s afraid of me. The real Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Sometimes the name rings familiar in his mind, again, when you remind him of it.

He shakes his head, swallows a gruff sound, tries to shutter the manic look he knows floods his eyes, reverts back to his initial thought, “False senses of moral superiority disgust me.” The sun’s shining in at an angle so that there’s a single tendril of sunlight wrapped around the slim of your crossed ankle, gripping the nylon covered limb in its light. Joel’s eyes shift jealously from that held piece of you to the shadow of far off rain he can see in the distance through the window, trying to find some measure of peace in the sight. It’ll reach here eventually, and he tries to ground himself in the inevitability. “Yes, there’s right and wrong. There’s also humanity. There’s also the right to grow and learn, and to make mistakes that, in the end, make you better. Who are you to condemn me? Is your glass house so pristine not a stain mars it? Grace, forgiveness, empathy… I find those infinitely more valuable than whatever false sense of good and bad you’ve decided makes me worthy or not,” he says, eyes cast towards the coming rain. He can feel your gaze on his face, and he does not want to acknowledge it.

“But the things you did were bad, Joel. You hurt people. You killed people.”

That makes his eyes snap back to yours for the way you say it. As if you’re sharing a bit of inconsequential news with him. The weather is about to hit, the rain is almost here. Can’t you see it, just there, in the distance? Voice so even and soft. Sometimes he calls you angel, when he knows he’s charmed you enough just to get away with it, when he’s said all the things he knows you want to hear from him and smiled all the right smiles that cost him so much. Voice like a goddamn angel, face like a goddamn angel. Everything else… like something come straight from Hell to drag him down to where he really belongs and never let him go.

He eyes you suspiciously. “The Bible says an eye for an eye. They killed my daughter so I took their eyes.” And then other parts.

“And then their lives…” And then their lives. He nods once, succinct. “You ascribe to the scripture?” You snap that little leather bound book open again, red, scratch in it once again, all your secrets about him. That itch returns, stronger than before. He bites down on it, chews it away within himself.

“What? Like I believe in it? Fuck no. Fuck religion. It isn’t real. A weak construct made for weak men in need of comfort. And– and… like what – it’s going to save my soul? I ate that a long time ago, angel. Look at where I am…” He shrugs, letting his head fall back in a circular motion, coming to rest on his shoulder. He can’t help but smile at you, he knows you hate it when he gets like this, all ornery and heretical.

You purse your lips, shake your head at him gently, and he wants to eat the lipstick from your soft mouth. “You believe in angels though… you call me–”

His smile cranks up another notch for a single beat. “Gotta believe in somethin’ that’s right in front of my eyes, don’t I? What d’ya think, that’m crazy?” And his eyes slide to the window again, smile melting off his face. “‘Sides they told me so–”

“Who told you what?” Voice slow, measured, all serious-like. He rolls his eyes, feels the stone of anger in his belly heat, spin, jump to his throat.

“They killed my daughter,” he spits like a whispered scream instead. The shadow of rain is closer. If the dancing bear were out there, it’d be lost to the deluge by now. “I should’ve done worse. I would have, had I not been thrown away in here.” He remembers that a man with a face like his left him here, but he doesn’t know who. He shakes his head, jostles the non-memory out of his ears, searches harder for the dancing bear, killed a bunch’a people, he murmurs to himself, once more again, because he likes the sound of it.

“So you’re talking about yourself. You want to be forgiven.” He doesn’t like when you tell him, when you don’t ask. It makes him feel like you know something he doesn’t, and he wants to know everything you know.

“No. I don’t know.”

“Do you feel thrown away, Joel?”

“I feel forgotten – impossible to remember,” his voice cracks at the end, eyes suddenly wet and hot.

“By who?”

“The world.” He can’t remember his childhood. He can’t remember what he was like as a child, and it makes him sad.

You’re quiet for a long time, no more scratch, scratch, scratch, no more itch. No more angel voice, and then, very soft, like you know you shouldn’t. “I remember you. I haven’t forgotten you.”

Once, a time ago because he can’t discern lengths of it anymore, it doesn't exist here in the perfect place, amidst what, he thinks, is a lot that you know you shouldn’t have allowed, you’d changed the routine up on him. Had sent for him, instead of coming for him yourself. When he’d stepped into the room where you have your talks, you’d been facing the big window, looking out at the green, the line of your shoulders and the dip of your waist and the swell of your ass in your skirt that shifts like water around your knees and the saliva pooling heavy in his mouth, it’d been too much, too much for a broken thing, and you hadn’t turned. Like the pen, like more trust, you hadn’t turned to face him even though he knew you’d heard the door snick shut behind him. He’d stepped as quiet as he could up behind you, quiet like when he was sneaking to kill, and he’d brushed a single tip of his finger up the length of one of your skinny, little ones, so much smaller and finer than his thick, brutish ones, stroked the palm of your hand. You’d made the tiniest sound, interrupted by a swallow, but he’d heard it. He’d heard the want in it. He’d not forgotten either, and he sees that sound in your eyes now, again, as you stare at him with an intention he’s not so fucking crazy that he doesn’t know you shouldn’t possess.

He smiles a little again, and you don’t return it, but it’s okay, he sees the sound of your want in your eyes anyways, and that’s infinitely more satisfying to him. “It would serve us all well to remember to try to be a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving.”

You swallow, shaken, he can tell. Shaken by that thing inside you for him he knows shouldn’t be there. You scratch a little in the book, say slowly, “It starts with you, I think, you have to forgive yourself first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. There are things you talk about you clearly have no understanding of. You’re young. You don’t know better. He understands. “I think… I think, I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Who have you been?”

And again, he doesn’t mean to say it, but you tell him so much you don’t mean to say either that he feels he might as well also. “Someone–” That anger again, he can’t help himself even though he desperately wants to. “Someone my daughter would be afraid of.” Full blown rage now. At you. Yes, at you. You force things from him he doesn’t want to give you, and there’s a thing within him that wants to punish you for it, take a pound of flesh in repayment. “I want someone to forgive me. I want to be forgiven. I want to experience it.” Truth is like fire, hypnotizing, seductive, once it catches, inextinguishable. He wants to hate you sometimes for forcing these things from him, for not giving him a choice, and worst of all, done so unintentionally, unknowingly. He wants to not give you a choice either.

“From who?” You ask. Silly little girl. You need to learn the art of restraint, of temperance. He should teach you.

“Our hour’s up.” He looks away, dismissing you. As if he’s the one in charge here, and not the one caged. Divested.

“No, it isn’t. It’s–”

“Our hour’s up,” head snapping back towards you, barking– “It’s time for you to go.” And something in his gaze must tell how far he’s been pushed, by you, for you jerk up and out of your chair suddenly, turning to scurry towards the door, not bothering to say goodbye, not bothering to turn back, not bothering to notice the clatter of your pen on the linoleum.

He watches you go, a single black seam runs up the back of your hose, and the sight makes him feel violent, eager for darkness and the solitude of his white box room.

He doesn’t know why, maybe the way the rain beats against the singular tiny window in his room, maybe the way it whispers at him like all the other things that whisper at him now, but he knows you’ll come before he hears the stunted jangle of keys, the sigh and click of his door, the bare pad of shoeless feet on the hard floor, you’d thought this through, your too fast, too shallow breathing.

He’s staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, cock hard, a little chafed. He wasn’t able to make himself come tonight, sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes he needs the imagination of your wet cunt more than just the mere memory of your voice in his mind and the remembered feel of your gaze on him, but he’s never let himself picture the full act of fucking you. Thinks it would send him to a level of unhingedness he’d find unable to restrain in your presence. He only thinks of bits and pieces of you, like a dissected doll pulled apart for his half pleasure. Never the full thing, ever.

You try and say whatever it is you want to say several times before it finally comes out, all choked and feigned regret, but you do try and put on a good show, swallowed up by nerves as you are. “I– I just– I just came to make sure you’re okay,” you whisper. You’ve never been in his room before. He’s never had you in his space like this, and it makes him leak.

“You didn’t come for that.” Voice slow, still wide eyed, looking up at the white domed ceiling, something like victory in the shape of a hymn pounding through his veins. He won’t look at you until he’s ready.

“I… I felt badly about how we left things this afternoon. I shouldn't have– I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t end our talk the way– the way… Joel?” You stutter, trail off, voice small and unsure.

He sees you move out of the corner of his eye. One step forward, two back, pressing up against the door again. Little bunny full of regret for coming into the wolf's bed, and he moves suddenly, swift despite his age still. He has little to do here besides move his body, make sure it doesn’t grow rust. He sits up quick as a whip, swinging his legs over the edge of his too small bed, planting his feet wide and sturdy on the cold floor. He can see the tremble of your throat even from here, the pristine lines of you. Your hair and your face and your tits and the tiny little pearl buttons of your blouse like soldiers waiting to be felled on the battlefield. He’s going to rip them from you, pluck the garments keeping you hidden away from your skin, spread you out, filleted.

“That’s not what you came here for, angel.” He shakes his head slowly, and your panic ricochets higher, makes his cock harder. Your arm reaches back for the latch slowly, fumbling behind you, and he braces his legs. Your other palm outstretched, fingers trembling. He gives you another slow shake, as if that small gesture could keep him at bay. “I hear all the things you tell me. Don’t worry. I always hear.”

“Wh– what do you mean?”

“I always see the things you want me to know. I know… I know. It’s okay.”

“I don’t– I’m not sure… I shouldn’t have come.” Your hand finds the latch, angling your body to slip through as swiftly as possible, and his muscles coil tight and ready. “I just wanted– to– to make sure…” You pull the door open, move to slip away, and he lunges for you, catches the edge of the swinging door, lets you float in the lie that you’ve gotten away for a few seconds, scurrying a few paces down the dark corridor of his perfect place where he’s found his perfect girl.

The morning after I killed myself, I found an angel.

You make it as far as the bend in the hall before he’s trapping you in his grip, swinging you around so fast you bounce against the white tiled walls, cages you there, open mouth immediately at your jugular, biting down hard while his big palm completely smothers your face, forces your choked cry back down. His other arm wraps around your waist, lifting and dragging you back down the hall towards his white box and his little bed and all his fantasies, artery caught between his teeth, no more choices to be had, exactly like you leave him all the time. He whispers at you to be quiet, quiet, quiet, angels are always good, and then he’s shutting the door behind him, trapping you inside and plucking the keys from your skirt pocket, locking the two of you away together as you should’ve been from that first day.

You try and struggle in his arms, little feet kicking weakly at his shins, scratching at his sides where he has your arms trapped, but the sound of your fight is restrained, held low and gurgled in your throat, and he knows that you know that this is what you’d come for, that you’re getting exactly as you’d sought.

“Fight harder if you’d like,” he says low in your ear, throwing the keys to the far corner and wrapping both arms tight around you, pressing all the air out. Finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you, the plush heat of your breasts against his chest, the soft swell of your belly against his stomach. He’s so fucking hard he wants to rut into you like a beast. “I want you to be scared,” and it’s the foremost truth he’s ever shared with you. The heart of all his depravity. “I want you to want it so bad you’re terrified. As bad as I want it. I want you to not want it also. Want you to fight and cry and scratch and bite, and then take it anyways ‘cause I’m gonna to give it to you anyways. You always take all of my choices from me,” he adds on, voice going barely there, mumbled, pressing a tiny kiss to the tiny hammering pulse in your throat, and you let out your first soft moan. An angel singing right into his ear. Your fighting tells all sorts of lies. He hoists you higher, presses you closer, and you wriggle and squirm, grinding his erection into the soft apex of your thighs.

“Joel– stop, please– please. I– I didn’t think–” He bends his head to your breast, drags his nose over the hard peak he feels beneath the silk of your blouse, nuzzles there, enjoying the sound of your breathlessness, again that feigned shock. You’re right, you didn’t think, and it’s too late now. What did you expect would happen, coming here to his cage like this in the middle of the night? He catches the taut peak between the edge of his teeth, tugs gently, plucking your cords.

With a fist wrapped in the length of your hair he forces you to your knees at his feet, jerking your head back roughly so that your mouth falls open on a gasp giving him the opportunity to hook his fingers over the edge of your bottom teeth, stretching your jaw open wide. “Open– lemme see,” he orders. “I wanted you so bad,” dragging the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of your jaw. “I want you so bad. All those days when you forced me to tell you things I didn’t want to tell you. I’m going to show you temperance now, angel,” he nods his head down at you condescendingly when you try and protest. I didn’t force you to do anything, “But you did. You did. You pulled things out of me I didn’t want to share. And now I have to have you. You always take all of my choices from me.” He clicks his tongue down at you, and there are tears in your eyes that go wide and something worse than frightened when he tugs the elastic waist of his soft white pants down, pulls out his angry erection and heavy balls. Your expression morphing from something worse than frightened, to something like desperate, like hungry, like his for the taking. And he’s big, he knows it. Much too big for the pretty little throat he’s about to force it down. But he’s going to be gentle, he’s going to help you, teach you.

“Joel, please–” And look at you beg, so pretty with tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks. He brings the searing brand of his erection to your cheek, presses the burning hot skin all over your face, coating himself in the wet of your tears, marking you in the thick male scent of him. And the feel of you, just like this, just this little bit – with his fingers still hooked over the edge of your teeth he turns your face so that your open mouth brushes against his length. “Taste– I know you’re hungry for it. Give it a kiss hello, little angel.”

Your eyes flash up to his face for a brief moment, almost too quick for him to catch, and then you’re pursing your mouth against him, swallowing the shudder that moves through his entire frame. A tiny kiss to the ridged underbelly of his cock, the drag of your lips against the length of him to the fat tip, and then another kiss with wet lips and enough tongue to undeniably lick up some of what’s slicking it. You want him, even if you won’t admit it, even if you cry or fight. It’s all he needs to know.

Still caught by the teeth he jerks your head back forward, opens you wider and forces his cock down your throat. You gurgle around him, whining, shrieking, false, he knows what you really want. Can feel it in the slicking of your tongue around the proof of his desire for you, he’s giving you everything he has, and he spits your name, purges it from his belly like an infection over and over again while he starts to fuck your mouth. Feels you gulp hard just at the right moment to get his leaking tip caught tight at the choking opening of your throat. He could come just like this. He could, he could. You’re all his. Fill your belly with his semen until it bulges, feed you himself until you’d never be without him. He lets his head fall back, looks up at the white dome, at the false home of the false God, tells you again, voice all cracked and broken and gone away from him, “I don’t believe in God anymore, but that’s okay. I have you to believe in now,” fucks harder, listens to your cries climb up the walls, savors the scratch and shove at his thighs when he tightens his fist in your hair to a painful degree. You always take all my choices from me, always. But he knows that if he’s to show you temperance he must exercise his own, and after a few more slick thrusts, he pulls wetly from your mouth, enjoying your whistling groan as you sag face first against his thigh. He pets your hair now gently, fingers twisting through the softness. He’d always wanted to feel it, memorize its texture, its scent. There is nothing about you that isn’t worthy of veneration, of doing the worst thing in the world just to have you, taste you, keep you.

He lets you rest for a moment, wonders at the fact that you haven’t screamed yet. You easily could, call for help, salvation, an escape. You haven’t, and it soothes him. Makes him feel disgusting in a way that doesn’t match up with how disgusting it should feel to force himself on his pretty angel; a self satisfied type of disgust. Something he should be more ashamed of than he truly is. But when you have so little, when you barely have yourself, when theft is the only means of self satisfaction, little recourse remains for creatures caged in perfect places with only bad avenues left to them.

He hauls you up by your underarms, lets his wet cock press trapped between the two of you, and he’s so close, so close, so close to what he’s needed for so long. He gathers you in his arms, cradles you gentle and with purpose. Tucks your hair behind your ears and wipes the tears and spit from your face, takes it the sparkle of your big wet eyes. So pretty. “Truly like an angel,” and chucks you beneath the chin when you shake your head at him. “You are. So pretty and so soft.” And then finally, like so many times he’d forced himself not to imagine it because he was terrified of what the fantasy would turn him into, no longer the dancing bear in the distance finding it’s escape, but a hungry one, a violent one, an animal so far beyond control all it could do was devour, he pulls you close by the tip of your chin and swallows your mouth whole. All tongue and teeth and the slick slide of your own fervor because yes, it’s there, tangling with his own mouth, pressing your own spit onto his tongue like an offering. You kiss him back.

You kiss him back.

And, “I want to make you my little butterfly,” he says, “Spread you open, pinned just for me to look at. Only me.” He whispers it into your mouth, soft and secret and true. He’d string you up if he could, split you open and peer inside, rifle through the shafts of your ribs like a lexicon that spells out the truth of who you really are. And then that sudden anger again, that furious stone spinning in his throat. His touch becomes harder, punishing, “You’re going to tell me everything about you,” he says with all that rage in his voice, spits the stone out at you. “You shouldn’t have kept secrets from me.” Fuck the little red book and the scratch, scratch, scratch. He’s going to have all your truths. He’s going to be the one taking all of your choices away from you now.

He hauls you towards his little bed, popping the pretty pearl buttons as he goes, knowing he’s going to go to his knees later to collect them like treasures for himself after this is done. He rips the blouse from your shoulders, shudders at your indignant little gasp with the sound of the tearing silk, and you’re all soft skin and fine lace and the prettiest thing he’s ever beheld with his own two eyes in this whole life.

You bring one delicate hand up to his throat, try and grip him there, push him back, but he presses into the touch, sucks at your mouth again, harder, biting, and you say onto his tongue that you shouldn’t, and please, Joel, just wait, but he won’t and he can’t and he tells you it’s useless to fight because he’s having you regardless.

“No, no– none of that. You’re going to take your fucking like a good little girl,” and something about his words or his tone or the look in his eyes must make the connection in your brian that this is happening click because you suddenly go boneless, head falling back to bear your throat for him, soft sound of concession slipping from your lips.

He goes in for the kill, he’s always been exceptional at that, after all. Teeth latched at your jugular, tongue up and across the slope of soft sugared skin, and you taste like salvation. He’s saved now, he’s sure of it. Everything he’d lost, his daughter, his mind, himself, he’s going to find it buried in your cunt. Joel is absolutely certain of it.

He divests you of your skirt, the pretty lace, leaves the nylons held up by tight elastic around your soft thighs, and then it’s all just bare skin and heat and your soft whimpers, the coolness of your hair between his fingers. He lays you out across the length of his bed, takes in the majesty of his winnings. An angel felled and caught. You lie there staring up at him, and there’s an innocence to your gaze that brings him to his knees, set down and at your mercy now. He parts your legs slowly, one small kneecap in the bowl of each palm, the softest skin he’s ever felt beneath these death roughened hands, and Joel could sob now, weep if he had the time for it. He spreads your thighs wide, palms dragging up the insides, calluses catching on the smooth nylon and watches the dip and hitch of your belly as you gasp and shiver.

“Are you scared?” He whispers right as his palms reach the uppermost part of your thighs, and you’re all softness and warm, damp skin, plush in a way that makes his mouth water and his gums ache, and then he’s finally laying eyes at the center of you, and you’re slicked in the gloss of your desire for him. Playing pretend, feigned fight and reluctance, but he’s looking right at the heart of you, and all he sees now is your truth. You shake your head no, let out a soft breath. “Look at this drippy little cunt,” and he drags his thumb over the pearl of your clit just as whisper soft as his voice is. A half screeched hitch claws up your throat, your thighs jumping at that first touch. He needs to see more, hooks a thumb at each delicate lip and spreads wide, but gently, so as not to hurt you. That’s for later. He stretches your little hole, enjoys the shy wink it gives him.

“My God… look at you,” he says with something like reverence in his voice. So slick and gorgeous. “I think this little cunt’s going to take me in very nicely.” He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit again, clicks his tongue when your knees try to struggle shut. “None’a that, angel. Be good for me now.” He presses harder at your clit, runs his thumb down to your twitching opening, passes there lightly, coating himself in your leaking slick. “I wanted you so bad,” he tells you, one more moment for confessions before he starts. “I want you so bad. And you’ve always taken all my choices from me. Forced me to stay myself when that’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“You’re Joel,” you whisper, and bring your hand to circle the wrist of the hand he’s petting you with. Not pushing him away or pulling him closer, only a gentle manacle around the thick of his bone. He looks up and into your eyes as he presses his thumb slowly inside of you, hooking it over the thin edge, twists you open slow and gentle and measured, gets you ready for the thickness he’s about to split you open with.

“That isn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to forget all that, all the bad, her, I wanted to forget all of it. I tucked her name under my tongue for so long it became blood, and I wanted it like that. And you didn’t let me.”

Your thighs shift restlessly around him, and you bring one foot up to the edge of the bed, anchoring yourself there so that you can begin a gentle rocking motion of your hips, fucking yourself slowly on his thumb. Your breasts heave and sway with the motion and his balls go so tight and so searingly hot, he could come just now like this from the sight of you, suddenly green and untried like he was in his youth. He didn’t think it was going to be like this, and it’s like he’s wasting your honor, stealing it from you, but something given can’t be stolen and his plans are foiled, he’s not in control but he doesn’t really care either. He finally has you.

He bends his head, brings his mouth to your slick swollen cunt and takes the first sip. Groans so deep in his chest he’s more animal than man suddenly, sucking hard and sharp on your clit, he pulls his hand from you and laves his tongue over the entire slope of your sex, tongue dipping into the well of you. He spreads your lips again, wide, stretches your hole and fucks you with his tongue, big nose pressed to your clit, drowning in your sweet musk. Your fingers twine in the overly long curls of his hair, and he grips your thighs so hard he’s sure you’ll be left with the mark of him later which only makes him rougher, stronger in his hold. With your grip in his hair you sing for him in soft moans and whimpers and more feigned resistance with whispers of no, Joel, and please, stop while you ride his face, his entire mouth covering your cunt, eating it. More beast than man, not Joel, not a father, not a brother, not a killer, only yours. Carved in the image you’d wanted him to be. The one you’d made him with your words and your looks and your scratch, scratch, scratch. All those times you’d asked him what do you want, Joel? And he’d never had an answer for you because what was he supposed to say? You, this, freedom, your wet cunt, the far off field and the dancing bear and my daughter back, alive, my brother, face not unknown. My name, my name, I want my name back. I want myself back. To be alive. I want to be alive. You come on his tongue, first with a shudder and then with a groan, your entire body flushes hot, and it’s a concession of yourself and a door opening, the first vestiges of what the rest of his life will be.

“You’ve got the sweetest little cunt, baby. Goes so tight and wet and fluttery,” he licks up the sticky sweet of your come, runs his tongue over the wet around his mouth, feels it trickle through his beard. “Think I’ll keep you.”

Pulling his shirt up and over his head, he crawls up the length of you, slotting his hips between your damp thighs, pushing his soft pants down his legs as he goes, gathering the small of your wrists in a manacle of his fingers to pin them up above your head. He drapes himself over your body, covering you entirely with his weight and pauses for a moment, nuzzling through the curtain of your hair to get at your ear, your throat, your smell. “Are you going to fight back?” He says soft into the small shell of your ear.

“No, I don’t want to.” You turn your head further to the side, bearing more of your throat to him.

He follows your orders, runs a line of wet kisses up the delicate column, tastes the pulse of your heart and the slope of your shoulder. “Why not?”

“I don’t have it in me. I’m not a fighter, I came from a place where there was always fighting, where I always had to do battle constantly. I don’t have it in me now, anymore, ever.” You turn to face him again, lick at the line of his mouth, suck on his tongue, your hips rolling now against him, his erection slotted between the soaked lips of your cunt, swallowing him in warmth. “But also, because you were right. Because I want you. Because I did take all your choices from you.”

Your words pull a groan, a whimper from him, and he pulls his hips back, presses forward, uncoordinated and slipping against all that slick, hot skin. He lets one of your wrists go, keeps the other trapped above your head. “Fuck– grab my cock,” and he feels the heat of your fragile formed hand wrap around the thick of his cock. An ugly, brutish thing held by perfection. You squeeze gently, twist just barely, and he feels his tip rim puckered skin, hot and round and persistent, probing against you as you try and find the right angle. “I’m gonna ride this cunt – hard. And you’re going to take it just how I give it. And you’re going to beg for more and harder and you’re going to thank me.”

Yes, yes, yes. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel.

You notch the tip of his cock at the wet mouth of your cunt, and then he’s pushing in, saving himself, finding salvation, returning or leaving himself, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He presses in, in, in all the way until he’s sitting hard and heavy and deep inside of you, and he’s sure he can almost feel your heartbeat when he bottoms out, balls pressed to the slick curve of your bottom. Your breaths scratch in whimpers against his ear, his hair fluttering in the wind of your gasps, and your free arm wraps tight around the back of his neck, your hips rolling to take more, impossible, for he’s already deep as he can be, tip to womb. But he shifts his weight, grinds against your cervix and enjoys the sound of your pained moan.

“You feel right there? Where it hurts? That’s where I fuck you full’a my baby, little angel.” And his thoughts are unhinged, his desires full of madness and future and possibility. He pulls his hips back, drops them and shifts his weight forward inside of you. “And right there?” Grinds against your most sensitive spot, “That’s where I make you cream all over my cock.” He pulls his hips back again, focuses the tip of his cock at that desperate place inside of you and with his hand gripping your bottom to the point of pain he pounds into that place over and over again. The slick wet, obscene sound of his cock fucking in and out of your drippig cunt rings in his ears, and he grits thourgh clenched teeth, “Say thank you, say thank you. Beg me for it harder.”

And you’re so good, so good, and all please, Joel. Harder, harder, more. You’re so deep, it’s so good, please, more.

He’s going to fill you up and mark you and keep you for himself, and he bends his head, wraps his mouth around the full and heavy weight of your bouncing tit as he fucks you into orgasm around his cock. Going tight, tight as a fist, so wet it drips down his balls and onto the already soaked sheet of his too small bed, and you come for him the way he’d never let himself fantasize about before. Your moans like a song in his ear, and it’s so fucking good, better than any dream, better than anything the voices in his head or the dancing bear could have ever conjured up. He shifts upwards, anchoring himself above you so that he can look down at you as he fucks down deep into your cunt, cock punching against your womb so that it hurts, so that the look on your face is folding in on itself, but good enough still so that your pussy convulses again in another forced orgasm. He wants to look at you as he fills you with his spend, turns you into something he owns after this.��

“Gonna fill you up now– gonna fill you until you’re leakin’ me.” Your hands slide up the soft slope of his stomach, his chest, fingers dragging through the hair there, twisting and pulling on it, up to his face where you cup his chin gently, eye to eye and all wrapped up in your cunt he starts to come, the thick heat of his semen coating your womb while you milk him deeper, every last drop of every last part of him he has to give.

When he’s done he pulls heavy and wet from you, the sight of your swollen red cunt gaping from him, he finally pulls the slick ruined panty hose from your legs, the marks of the too tight elastic leaving brands in your soft skin, he fingers the grooves gently, clicks his tongue at the sight in reproach. The only thing leaving marks in your skin now should be him. He pulls your wrists back into his grip again, and the look on your face is almost melting in submission, soft and spent and sloppy, leaking cunt all covered in him.

He ties each delicate wrist to the iron frame of his bed, tight, he can leave marks here now, you’re all his, and returns his attention to the source of his salvation, ignoring your protests as he eats his own come from your cunt until you’re crying a little too loud to remain undiscovered, coming twice more before he gives you reprieve, but he’s the one taking all your choices now, and you have no say in what happens after this.

He eyes the forgotten keys he’d thrown to the dark corner of his white boxed room, “If you’re not good and quiet, I’ll leave you here for everyone to find, naked and fucked and leakin’ me. Pretty used cunt for the whole world to see, that what you want?”

“No, Joel,” you shake your head, all falsely innocent gaze sparkling up at him.

And he tells you how good you are because the two of you are only going to share truths with each other now, only going to share everything. “I had nothing for so long. Nothing. Not even my own body, not even my own mind. Now I have you, and I won't give you up for anythin’. You’re mine now. They all told me so.”

“Who told you?” You ask softly, but he ignores the question as he draws his clothes back upon himself.

“I find myself so hard to remember and so easy to forget, but you remember me. You said so, and now I’m going to make sure you never forget.” Joel collects the keys and the pearls brought to him for his salvation, the dancing bear is so close now, and wraps your shredded clothes back around you, unties your wrists from the bed only to re-secure them, and hoists you folded over his shoulder for the taking.

Joel lost his daughter, and then he lost his mind, but now he’s found you. And they said it would all be okay now that he’s found you.

The morning after I killed myself, I found the end of my suffering, and at the end of that suffering there was a door – behind that door, I am alive again.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#vic fic #Joel Miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us au #Joel miller smut #dark joel miller #dark fic #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal characters

373 notes · View notes

didhewinkback · 8 months

Text

the moment you knew

a something old blurb, exploring the moments they both knew they were in love with each other. it switches pov halfway through

word count: 5k, warnings: its not the proposal

---

2009

When you were fifteen, Johnny’s parents were going to be out of town for a whole weekend and he was planning on throwing the banger of the year. It was all anyone in your year could talk about for the whole week. Everyone was planning on going. Everyone, that is until your parents told you they had plans that night and you had to babysit Archie. You screamed, you cried, you got sent to your room but they wouldn’t budge, not caring at all about the fact that they were absolutely ruining your life.

You sat on the couch that Saturday, playing round after round of Mario Kart and bemoaning the state of things when there was a knock on your door. You told Archie to pause the game while you got up to answer it, expecting it to be the pizza he begged you to order, grumbling and stomping your feet the whole way. You swung the door open, cash in hand, only to find Harry on the other side, holding a few DVDs and a spare gamecube controller.

“Room for one more?” he asked, smile growing on his face when he sees the shocked expression on yours.

“What - what are you doing here?”

“Came to hang out with my best mate Archie. Guess you’re alright too.” he says, pushing past you to get into the house, heading straight for your kitchen.

“Harry!!!!!” Archie shrieks, running from the couch to the kitchen and hugging him tight, Harry laughing as he hugs him back. “I’m soooo happy you’re here, she was being sooo soo boring.”

“I dunno, man.” he says, smiling over at where you’re frozen in your spot, in shock that he’s here, crashing you and your brother’s pajama party instead of being at the actual party a few blocks over. He winks at you and your cheeks immediately burst into flames and you have to look away. That’s new. “I think your sister’s pretty cool.”

“Not tonight. She’s in a mood.” Archie says adamantly with a firm shake of his head, which makes Harry laugh, hard. His head tilting back, eyes crinkling. You can’t take your eyes off him. Has he always been this cute?

“Hey mate, ‘m gonna get some snacks ready in here, but I brought my controller, why don’t you get us all set for the next round? You’re the only one I’d trust with this,” he says, deadly serious, handing Archie the controller, which he holds to his chest with utter reverence, nodding before sprinting back to the tv room. Harry watches him go with a smile, before turning back to rifle through your fridge.

“Think your dad will notice if we nick two of his beers?”

“Why are you here?” you blurt out, mind still whirring from seeing him on your doorstep.

“Ouch.” he says, raising his eyebrows at the blunt question.

“I don’t mean - I just mean - “ you say, shaking your head, unable to think of anything else but the fact that he’s here. Not at the party he’s supposed to be at, the party of the century, but here. In your house. To play Mario Kart with you and your little brother.

“Johnny’s party is tonight. Everyone’s going to it. Like Katie’s gonna be there -”

“Yeah, well, you couldn’t go. Wouldn’t have been any fun without you. ” he says simply with a shrug, not waiting for your answer as he grabs two cans of beer, letting the fridge door swing shut behind him as he turns towards you. “Rather be here. With you.”

Oh.

And it’s like the world tilted off its axis. Time stops as you stand there, absolutely frozen in place, staring back at him as he grabs a bag of crisps off your counter, experiencing a feeling you’ve never felt before, a feeling that in years to come would only grow stronger, a feeling you would associate with him and only him. All these little moments from the past year suddenly make more sense, like missing pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

The way his hand holding yours at his birthday party made sparks shoot up your spine, the way your heart races when you catch a whiff of that new Axe spray he’s been using, the way your cheeks flush when he holds eye contact with you, something that never happened before this year. It’s like your chest has been cracked open, warmth flooding your veins, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Your heart is racing and you feel like you’re on fire.

You love him. You’re in love with him.

Oh god.

“You coming?” he asks, starting to head towards the tv room, beers and snacks in hand, pausing when he looks back at you, brows furrowing. “What’s that look on your face for?”

“What?! Nothing - nothing.” you say quickly, warmth flooding your cheeks. “I’m fine. I’m gonna grab some pretzels or something.”

“I already grabbed the pretzels.”

“Right. You did. I’m uh. I’m going to wait here. For the pizza. Should be here aaaaany minute.” you say, brain scrambling for any sort of excuse, needing a minute to stand here alone and think.

“Oookay. You’re being really weird.” he says, heading into the living room, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, the flush on your cheeks only getting warmer by the second. You can hear him and Archie talk in the tv room, his animated tone making your heart beat even faster, thinking about how good he was with your little brother, how good he was with everyone, how good he was.

You bury your head in your hands, trying to catch your breath, to slow your racing thoughts.

You were in love with your best mate.

What the fuck were you going to do?!

2019

It was his mum’s birthday and Harry was prepared for anything.

Rain? He had ordered three types of tents, all to block out a potential storm but not detract the view from the garden that his mum cherished so much. Sound system glitches? He had five different kinds of bluetooth speakers and six auxiliary cords to be sure there would be no interference with the Shania Twain playlist he curated himself. Uncle Mack has one too many and starts asking Gemma how it feels that her younger brother will be getting married before her? He had Johnny prepped to keep an eye on his drinking and distract him with Man City stats if needed.

It had been ages since he had been able to be home for the celebration and he was determined to make it perfect. He loved his mum more than anything and even though he had a team of people willing (and paid) to assist him at the drop of a hat, he was set on doing most things himself, a point he knew his mother would take pride in. He had invited all her favorite relatives and closest friends, ordered a massive catered menu inclusive of all food allergies and even decorated her favorite cake, strawberry cream, himself. He had first aid kits, a stocked bar, endless supplies of SPF. He was prepared for absolutely anything.

Anything, that was, except for you.

He was having a drink with his cousins, reminiscing about the family parties of the past when he looked up and there you were.

Christ.

He’d never seen you in that dress before. He felt like his eyes were bugging out of his head as they traced the way it held your body so perfectly, like it had been custom made for you. He was practically ogling you, something he had never done before, at least not consciously. You’d always been pretty but today, right here, right now, you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It felt like the earth shifted under his feet. Like the world tilted off its axis. His pulse was racing, his brow starting to sweat.

He was making his way over to you before even making the conscious choice to do so. It’s been ages since he’s seen you or even talked to you, his calls and messages going unanswered for weeks now, ever since his album listening party in August, which yeah, he fucked that one up. Should’ve talked to you first, should’ve done something different to not ruin the tradition you’ve had together since you were 17, the way you’ve been ignoring him making him realize it always meant as much to you as it did to him.

He can’t seem to get anything right these days, keeps doing what is expected of him, what looks best, ignoring what he wants and hurting people in the process. His brain has been so muddled these past few months that at this point he doesn’t even know what he wants. He feels like he doesn’t know anything. Especially here and now, feeling like he’s burning up on the inside just from looking at you.

He knows he should give you space, let you come to him so he can take the time to pull you aside and right any wrongs but he can’t stop himself, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. He was by your side in seconds, breath catching in his throat when you turned away from your conversation with Gemma to face him, small smile on your face.

“Y’ look - that dress is nice. Um. Y’ look - y’look really nice.” He’s stuttering over his words, barely able to string a single sentence together, feeling hot under his collar, Gemma’s scrutinous gaze not helping in the least.

He hasn’t felt this way around you since he was 13 and tried to hold your hand on a walk to the heath one day, only for his sweaty fingers to get caught in one of your bracelets. He had turned practically scarlet in embarrassment, pretended there was a bee he was trying to shoo away, refusing to admit the truth, that he had a massive crush on you and all he wanted to do was hold your hand.

“I’m going to get a drink.” Gemma says, eyes darting between the two of you. “Either of you want anything?”

You both shake your heads, thanking her with smiles and he can feel her eyes linger on him for a second, the way he keeps shifting his weight, fiddling with his rings, his sister picking up on his nerves better than anyone before she squeezes his shoulder and heads over to the drinks. He watches her walk away and then turns back to face you, where you’re staring down at your hands, not able to make eye contact for more than a few seconds.

“‘M really glad -” he starts to say, at the same time you say “Is your mum - ?” before you both cut yourselves off, sheepishly laughing.

“You go,” he says softly, desperate for you to talk to him about anything, biting on his tongue as he wills his mouth to stop moving, feeling petrified that if he opened his mouth right now all that would come out would be something along the lines of “I know ‘m engaged and you’re my best mate but you look dead fit.”

“Was just gonna ask if your mum was having a nice time.”

He deflates a bit, was hoping for more about you or what you’ve been up to, anything to get a good read on you but you’re talking to him so he’ll take what he can get.

“Yeah, think she’s cried about three times already. So far, so good.” he says, resisting the urge to duck his head to force you to make eye contact with him.

“You done good, H.”

“Thanks,” he says and you smile at him quickly before looking back at your hands, silence falling between you once more.

He hates this. He’s not sure what’s going on or what he did, knows it's more than just that party, the two of you have been out of sync for months now and clearly you’re trying to avoid talking about it but he has to try something. He’s got a feeling there’s things you aren’t telling him, but he also knows there’s been certain things he’s been avoiding talking about, the nerves gnawing away at him about his upcoming nuptials, how he’s not sure what he’s feeling is just a case of cold feet or something more, something that terrifies him when he thinks about it too much. So, he doesn't. He just looks back at you, feeling more lost than ever before.

A strand of hair falls in front of your face and he has to clench his hand to hold himself back from tucking it behind your ear, suddenly feeling desperate to touch, to drag his knuckle down your cheek and along your collarbone, wondering if the sensation would make your breath catch, fire simmering in his belly at the thought of being the cause.

What the fuck?

He shakes his head, trying to drive those thoughts out of it, not sure where they’re coming from, thoughts he’s never had about you until now, at least not that he’s aware of. His cheeks burst into flames, looking back at you to be sure you can’t tell what he’s thinking, but you’re barely looking at him and he can’t - this can’t be how today goes. He needs his best mate, needs to have a fun day celebrating his mum, needs to forget the weirdness and stress of this year, if only for a few hours.

“Hey, so I know we’ve both been busy and I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he says, speaking quickly when he catches your look of apprehension, “which is fine, ‘ve done that with you loads of times it’s nothing - I didn’t mean to bring that up. Not like that. I just -”

He pauses, takes a deep breath, tries to rearrange his scrambled brain.

“We’re both here and you look great and I’d just - I’d really like it if we could just forget everything else and just hang out like old times. Just have fun. Me and you. And Johnny. ‘M flying solo today -” he says, catching the way you visibly relax and oh.

Is that it? Do you not like Erin? You’ve always seemed to get along with her just fine and they’ve been dating for years and you’ve never said anything. If that’s it, why haven’t you said anything? Your friendship has been rocky since the engagement but he never thought - if you’d had a problem you’d have said something, right? But you’ve both been avoiding any talk of relationships in recent years, cagey about the subject with each other ever since that fight you got into the pub a few years ago. Maybe that’s been a mistake.

He wants to get into it now, demand answers from you, but knows that would negate everything he just said, and knows that keeping everything light is the only reason you’re still looking at him now.

“It’s been a really weird year and right now I just want to hang out with my best mates, celebrate my mum before my work schedule gets mental. Let’s just fuck around today, yeah? See how many beers we can sneak Archie?” he says, something loosening in his chest when you huff a small laugh.

“Yeah,” you say, smile growing on your face. “That sounds good to me.”

“Cool. Let’s grab a drink then?” he says, turning to walk towards the bar.

“Wait,” you say, reaching out to grab his hand, quickly letting go when he spins back to you, his hand tingling with the ghost of your touch, itching to grab hold once more. “I just - I’m sorry for not being around, um -”

“Hey, no, ‘s fine. Got nothing to apologize for. Y’ just -”, he pauses, placing his hand on your shoulder and squeezing once, eyes never leaving yours. “Y’ know you can talk to me about anything, yeah? Your friendship means everything to me. You’re my best mate. That’s never changing.”

“Right,” you say and there’s a flash of something in your eyes he can’t quite decipher, gone just as soon as it appeared.

“‘M gonna hug you now.”

“Please don’t -”

“It’s happening whether you like it or not,” he says, wrapping his arms around you, feeling relieved when you do the same, relaxing into his hold. He’s holding you tighter than necessary but so are you, both of you seemingly needing to be close after this year of miscommunication and distance. He could stand here all night holding you, he thinks, feeling the most at ease he has in ages. You pull away first, quickly rubbing at your eyes but before he can say anything you’re already starting to move away.

“To the bar, yeah? Pretty sure Archie’s got a new girlfriend he won’t talk about. A few pints oughta loosen him up,” you say, already heading over there.

And he knows alcohol will only make more of a mess in his already muddled brain, the way he’s fighting the urge to watch you walk away, a swirl of confusing emotions flowing through him, but he needs this time with you. To have fun, let go. To forget. Scared of what will happen if he ruminates too much. So he doesn’t.

Six Months Later

He presses his palms to his eyes until the memory disappears and all he sees is black, practically curling in on himself as the April air whips around him, the estate lights blinking in the distance, the last of the partygoers still going at it. Was that the moment? Should he have been paying more attention?

You said you loved him for most of your life - had he been that selfish, that wrapped up in his own bullshit to not notice? He wracks his brain for signs of something he missed, rifling through memories to try to look at them from this new lens. Tries to think of the biggest moments of friction in your friendship, they are far and few between but …oh. There was that holiday break that haunted him for years when you wouldn’t talk to him when he brought home… - you said you felt sick but was it because he brought a girlfriend home? Were you jealous? Or heartbroken?

He continues on his walk, shaking his head at himself, at this night, at what this weekend has come to. He’s felt off kilter all year, feeling like he’s performing to an adoring crowd, his performance instincts trickling into his real, personal life, making him feel like a shell of himself. He knew something felt wrong the second he got down on one knee in front of all of Erin’s friends and family but brushed it off as nerves because she looked so happy so surely he must be too?

But he’s been lying to himself, too scared of disappointing those around him to grapple with the truth, trying to convince himself that this was part of growing up and becoming a man, that real love, the marriage love, isn’t the all consuming, unquenchable, need them like you need air kind of love. That a mature love is one that just feels fine most of the time, something expected, simple, fine. He keeps telling himself that being so public with his love life is what happens when you enter new tiers of fame with a famous partner, that everything is happening as it should, regardless of how he feels about it. Resigning himself to this new reality without taking a moment to challenge it or question it or demand better for himself.

Not questioning how weird it is that his engagement, supposed to be one of the biggest moments of his life, happened without his best mate ever knowing. That the thought of telling you filled him with so much dread that he avoided it entirely, just sent you an invite to the engagement party like a coward. How you had politely offered congratulations then avoided him for the rest of the night, which turned into the rest of the year, blaming work schedules and busy social calendars, leaving him feeling more unmoored than ever before. Never questioning the reason why that was, not realizing you’ve been his anchor for so long.

You.

You’re the first phone call he would make when he couldn’t sleep late at night, on a bus somewhere in another American city, feeling so young and old at the same time, worn down from years on the road while feeling all the confusing emotions of being a teenager, needing to hear your voice to calm his racing mind. The first face he would seek out in any crowd, especially that first solo night at MSG, feeling like he was teetering on the edge, getting swept up into something so much bigger than himself, and then locking eyes with you, the two of you looking at each other as if to say “can you fucking believe this?”. The first person to call him out when he started getting too used to this new world around him, a bit high off his own supply, leaning into the parties and the girls and the paps screaming his name, the free drinks and clothes and gifts, starting to expect things to be done for him instead of asking first until you shrewdly looked at him from across the table one day at lunch in 2014 and said, “you’re turning into a bit of a wanker”, which shut that down right quick.

The first person he would fly over when he felt lonely on tour, living for the way your face would light up when you could see the view from the stage, the way you lived for all the tourist attractions, your post show fro-yo bike rides turning into late nights at whatever bars were close by turning into private parties at the best restaurants each city had to offer as his career expanded and took shape. The first person he would see when he landed back home and over the years crashing at your house for days on end became crashing at your dorm became crashing at your flat in the big city, with you showing him your new favorite spots in London, telling him he can’t call himself a true Londoner until he lives here for more than six months at a time. Some of his favorite memories over the last few years have been exploring the city with you, you playing tour guide for once, taking him to off the beaten path museums and coffee shops, indie theatres and underground dance clubs, determined to make your home city feel like his, a feat that became impossible when he got engaged to an American.

He thinks back to his mum’s party, how visions of you in that dress lingered in his mind for weeks on end, how when he began to promote the new album, it was sometimes your face he saw when he closed his eyes and sang, something that only happened when he was trying to write songs with White Eskimo when he was 13, desperately trying to rhyme “hairband” with “want to be your man”. How he’s tried to sit down in the studio the past month to work out his thoughts through song, only confusing himself more when the only lyrics that would pour out of him were about you. You, who he’s barely spoken to these last few months.

He’s spent the last year trying to convince himself that the distance between you is due to growing up and schedule changes, that it is always difficult for the best mate who’s a girl to get along with the fiance. He knows how horribly reductive and stereotypical that is but you weren’t giving him anything to work with and he was too determined to not rock the boat to ever ask, never once thinking you were keeping your space because his engagement broke your heart. Because you’re in love with him.

You’re in love with him.

He wants to be angry with you, angry that you could keep this from him for so long, never saying anything for years, that you waited until now to do anything about it but instead he only feels anger at himself. That he missed the signs, that he didn’t try to talk to you more over these last few months, that he let you think the only solution was to leave. That he spent years convincing himself that when he gave any of your boyfriends a hard time it was just him being protective, that those pangs of jealousy he felt whenever some random bloke made you smile was par for the course of your friendship, that it was totally completely normal for his blood to boil whenever one of his mates from LA asked for your number, a request he always ignored. How could he be so bloody stupid?

He clenches his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose with a shaky hand. This weekend has felt like someone placed a ton of bricks on his chest, the pressure slowly building and burning every hour that passed by. He couldn’t catch his breath all night until he finally found you on that courtyard, heart fluttering at how pretty you looked until he took in your expression, your packed bags, the way you were clutching onto your mum.

He winces when he remembers how broken you looked, tear tracks down your face despite your best efforts to wipe them away. He had been desperate to do whatever he could to make you stop looking like that, whatever he could to help. Never once thinking…

He stops walking, staring up at the night sky as he blinks back tears, tries to slow his racing heart, his racing mind. Every thought that has flown through his head over the last few hours, every memory that he has picked apart, overanalyzed, it's all come back to you. You, one of the only constants through his ever changing career and ever growing life. You, his best mate and his favorite person on the planet. You, who stood in that courtyard looking like the most beautiful woman he has ever seen and told him you’re in love with him, that you’ve loved him for most of your life and he’s not sure anything could get any better than that.

The fog in his head clears as he blinks up at the sky, feeling more settled in his body than he has all year, feeling like he finally truly knows what he wants.

It’s you.

It’s always been you.

Nothing has ever made more sense to him. He’s been in love before, has had it reciprocated but nothing - none of that, none of them - ever felt like this. He didn’t know anything could feel like this. It’s like his chest has cracked open, the world tilting on its axis, a missing puzzle piece finally fitting in place.

All the confusion, all the agony, all the questions have suddenly faded away. There’s a reason it always felt like something was missing from his relationship, from what was supposed to be his great love. There’s a reason few things have felt worse than having to watch you kiss Conor Williams at that birthday party. There’s a reason he never feels more settled, more at home, more himself than he does when he’s with you. He started loving you when he was 13 and a part of him never stopped. He’s never been able to give himself over fully to anyone else because a part of him has always belonged to you. And now he wants you to have all of him.

He’s in love with you. And you’re in love with him. The greatest woman he’s ever known, his favorite brain, the heart he’s always felt most protective over has been steadily beating for him all this time. He can’t stop the tears now as they streak down his face. Feeling the most confusing combination of elation, clarity and dread. Because he knows now what he has to do and it’s going to be ugly. It’s going to be the worst thing he’s ever done to another person.

Because he can’t get married tomorrow. Not to someone who isn't you. And he wants to like, date you first before he -. He shakes his head at himself, running his shaky hands through his hair, huffing a laugh of disbelief at how he’s already getting ahead of himself, how he already feels like he can breathe properly again, how nothing has ever been more clear.

He’s going to go face this now, before any more damage can be done. He’s going to talk to his mum and Gemma, then he’s going to talk to Erin.

And then he’s going to go get you.

a/n: if you've been with this story and me for a while first of all ily second of all, you know how much i looove to explore their past before writing a big moment for their future and this was so fun to think about and work through. i had written the whole first half and his 2019 bit in like march so i loved getting to come back to it! thought everyone would like to see where he was at post confession. let me know what you think ! also the collage is just of his parts, i didnt want to put a pic of 2009 harry up. outside pics are the party, middle pic is rehearsal dinner fit.

taglist:@tobesolovelysstuff, @louyoursins, @daydreamingofmatilda, @jojo-blog53, @marzhshaim, @devilsqueen722, @just-happiness-only,@lomlhstyles, @feestyles, @spock4presidnet, @sunshinemoonsposts, @indierockgirrl, @jerseygirlinca, @kissitnhekitchen, @goldnrry,

#something old #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles angst #i didnt edit this much #please let me know what u think love u mean it

174 notes · View notes

oneirataxiahiraeth · 2 years

Text

Queen of Kings

Pairings : fem!reader x spencerreid

Warnings : swearing, mentions of violence, Morgan being noisy, the team instigating, smut, face riding, unprotected sex, sub!spence x dom!reader, switching POV’s

Word Count : 2.3k

“y/n.” Spencer merely stated. He said nothing else but you simply knew the constant clicking of your own was driving him absolutely insane. So you stopped. Like any normal person would do when they could sense their partner a bit tired of their antics.

“sorry.” She mumbled, as Garcia went on presenting the case.

Morgan and JJ gave each other discreet looks before the two shook theirs heads. It was an office wide thought that before you and Spencer had began dating you would be the ‘man’ of the relationship. Based on how you handle yourself and your work you radiated that strong dominate hand vibes. Spencer… did not. Honestly everyone thought that he’d be following you around like a lost puppy, but it’s been the other way around.

You stop by his desk 20 times a day, asking if he’s hungry, or thirsty, or tired, etc… every meeting you steal the spot on his left, making sure your hand was right on his unless either of you needed to write something down. It was know an office wide thought that Spencer had more ‘man’ in him than was originally thought. He walked around like he was the shit, and you followed because you truly thought he was. It was almost hilarious how wrong they could’ve been. And though it’s never been brought to either of your attention, you’ve definitely noticed the change in dynamics around the office.

“alright, wheels up in 30.” Hotch sighed, as he stood from his seat.

You turned to Spencer waiting for him to stand before you followed. He reached out his hand for you, and you took it, allowing the assistance up.

At this point, watching the two of you Morgan couldn’t keep it in. He let out soft laugh, shaking his head as he packed up all of his paper into the file he was given. Everyone stopped to look at the man they were convinced had gone crazy. JJ had joined him with slight laughter, everyone now staring at the weird pair.

“I think they’ve finally snapped.” Garcia take a step back as if their crazy was contagious.

“No, no, it’s-” Morgan sighed, looking up at the two before shaking his head again. “It’s nothing.” He dismissed, standing from his seat.

“What?” You asked. The way he looked at the two of you, you could tell it was something about one of you… or both. And you were never one for being kept out of the loop. “Why’d you just look at us like that?” You questioned, crossing your arms and he shrugged.

“I just… I can’t grasp the dynamic you two have.” Derek shrugged, answering honestly and everyone relaxed.

They two were curious, even Hotch, but none of them actually said a word. Emily smiled as she realized Morgan finally cracked with curiosity, winning the bet she had made with Rossi between Morgan and Garcia. Your eyebrows furrowed as Reid tilted his head to the side.

“Our dynamic…?” Reid questioned.

“Yeah, the way you two work is just… odd.” Morgan continued. “Y/N is this bad ass in the field, she kicks down doors and make grown men cry, and you… are a human calculator.” He teased. “You would think

Y/N would be the one leading you around.”

“You think I couldn’t be the ‘dominate’ one in a relationship?” Reid asked, his voice so soft and innocent, almost answering his own question.

“No I think you’d couldn’t be the dominant one in a relationship with, Y/N.” Morgan replied, everyone watching closely.

“Patience baby” you hummed, teasing your slit with the tip of his cock. You watched his face twist with desperation, and pleasure, making a mental note of the scene as if it’s be the last time you’d see it.

“Please, I need it so bad, please” he begged, hands bound behind him by pretty green velvet ropes he picked out himself. He had a light layer of sweat building on his skin, cheeks red and pupils disliked to high hell. He was truly a sight for sore eyes, and you were loving every single second of it.

“I know, baby, but you’re just so fun to play with.” You brushed, a damp strand of hair away from his face, acknowledging your cruelty. “but since you’ve been such a good sport…” you smiled softly, lowering yourself on his cock. He whimpered a thank you, as you let out a moan going down.

“Spencer couldn’t even ask you out on a date, y/n.” Morgan brought up. It was a long time ago, and Spencer was so nervous he couldn’t even speak without fumbling over his words around you. Eventually everyone got fed up with the rambling and told you to catch the hint. Which you did, thankfully, you asked him out. “He couldn’t even look you in the eye for the first 4 months you came here.” He added. “You expect me to believe the same guy who forgot his own name the first time you met wears the pants in the relationship?”

This was obviously a serious topic for the agent. It had been eating at him for weeks. As much as he was joking, he was also seriously curious.

“I feel like it’s a mutual-” Spencer began.

“Bull.” Rossi interrupted from the corner.

“Neither one of us wears the pants… we each wear our… own… clothes…”

“He just said you’re name when you were clicking you’re pen and you stopped before he even finished.” JJ mentioned.

“I was being a little annoying.” You shrugged.

“How did you know he wanted you to stop clicking the pen.”

“If I didn’t know then I would say I shouldn’t be a professional FBI agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” You responded. “Is this what you guys do in your free time? Question the dynamics of our relationships?” You asked and some nodded, others just stood in shame.

“I just find it hard to believe.” Morgan shrugged.

“Fuck Spence, your so fucking good.” You moaned, bouncing up and down as his head was thrown back, panting like he’d just run a 5k marathon. You were so close to your orgasm, it felt cruel to both of you to stop now… so you did. You lifted yourself completely off of him earning the brattiest whine you’ve ever heard come from the man.

“y/n.” He grumbled.

“I’m sorry baby, did I give you permission to cum?” You frowned playfully. “Don’t get an attitude now, sweet boy, we still have the whole night to play.” You hummed, pressing your lips against his neck over the reddening spots you created not too long ago.

“I can’t- I can’t for much longer, please let me cum.” He pleaded, his voice so helpless and tired you were so tempted to just untie him and let him fuck you however he wanted.

“You’re so spoiled, it’s sick.” He moaned. “I give you everything you could possibly want and you still want more…”

“I’m sorry, baby I just-”

“Am I not enough for you?”

“No you’re perfect, I love you.” He panted.

“Do I not satisfy you, Spence?”

“You do, fuck, you do.” He shuddered. “I’m sorry.”

“Would you rather some other woman be here right now… touching you like this?” You asked. His head shot up right, shaking violently, eyes foggy and glazed over with lust and desperation it might’ve been the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“No, no, never that, just you, I just want you.” He tugged at the ropes, binding his wrists.

“I don’t think I believe you…” you teased, nails lightly raking down his bare chest.

“Let me make it up to you.” He begged, “let me make you feel good.”

“Hotch are you hearing this?” You turned to your dark haired boss who seemed wildly amused. “I’m pretty sure this is considering workplace harassment.” You joked, but he just shook his head.

“So if the two of you making out in front of my car every morning before clocking in.” He shrugged.

“Throughout all of this, you have never denied the fact that Spencer is the dominating presence in your relationship.” Garcia put out there, shutting her lips as you starred at her in betrayal. You looked back to Spencer who just seemed a bit underwhelmed and like he was expecting this to happen. And knowing him, he probably was.

“I’m just confused as to how that works…” Emily tilted her head. “Like in the bedroom do you-”

“Emily!” You groaned.

“Whaaat?” Her eyes rolled. “You don’t seem like the type to… go quietly.” She filtered her words. You looked back to Spencer who looked to you, ready to accept whatever you put out there.

Spencer didn’t mind the team knowing that were the one in the relationship who “wore the pants” It’s not like the weren’t thinking it anyways. Spencer held a certain professional status outside of his personal life and you respected that. Neither one of you brought your personal lives in you work, at least you tried not to. He would get teased for months, and hassled for questions about his sex life, but he wouldn’t mind. He knew you’d be there to curse them all out before any question got too personal.

“Does it matter?” You questioned.

“Yes.”

“Very Much”

“We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t”

“Yup”

They all spoke in unison.

“Y/N’s the pants.” Spencer spoke up. The all looked at him and you started in shock.

“I knew it!” Morgan slammed his file against the desk.

He moaned into your flesh, tongue darting in and out of your count as you utilized the headboard behind him. His hands gripped on tightly to your thighs, making sure he had no room to breath regular air. Just you and your scent, he wanted to suffocate in the likes of you. You moaned were loud and erratic.

“Oh my god, Spence, I’m gonna cum.” You whined, body thrashing against him, leaving forward as your hips rolled down, pushing yourself harsher up against his tongue. “I’m cumming, I’m cumming, fuck I’m- fuck” you cried out, body vibrating as pleasure went ripping through you. Vision blurring for a quick moment, as yours body stiffened above him. He didn’t stop at the announcement, in fact he kept going. His lips wrapped around your clot causing you to cry out, not allowing you any chance for a breather. Whether it was to provide you with extra pleasure or find time to hid the fact that he came just from the simple pleasure of you riding his face.

“Spence I can’t m’too sensitive.” You pleaded but he didn’t stop, slurping and licking up all the juices you were leaking on to him. His chin covered in your slick, tongue coated in cum, he felt like he was in heaven. “Shit” you whined, finding the little strength in you to pulling yourself away from him, collapsing besides him on the bed.

“Did I do good?” He asked and you nodded.

“You did perfect, Baby, s’good.” You trembled slightly at the after shocks.

“I might have uhm…” he frowned for a moment and you shook you head.

“It’s fine baby, I know.” You nodded, “you did so good for me, you deserved it.” You hummed and he smiled once again. “But I want you to do one more thing for me okay?” You asked and he nodded.

There was a need for any questions. He was ready to do whatever you wanted for him.

“Fuck me.”

“Do you make him call you, Mistress?”

With all that hassle, and reading from previous years Spencer was certain he’d get the heat of all this. Fortunately for him, it was you taking the hit. As everyone did their own analysis on the case filed, everyone 5 minutes someone popped up with a new question.

“Morgan, what the hell?!” You scoffed, and he shrugged.

“It’s a serious question, and I need a serious answer.” He admitted. “As a profiler I could come up with mine own conclusions, but I like to get my information from the source.” He claimed.

“Do you role play?” Emily peaked her head over the chair. “You know, like bad cop and criminal, or teacher and student-”

“Does he call you mommy?”

“Shit” you cried, bawling up the sheets in your hand as you moaned out.

Spencer hand his hands on your hips, using them the fuck into you the way exact way he knew you like. This way brought the loudest noises out of you, and even made you squirt once or twice before. This was your favorite position, and the one you gave him all the power with whenever he fucked you.

“You’re so pretty” he commented out of breath, and so close to letting go once again.

He could tell you were already close. Cunt convulsing around him, squeezing him so tight as if you were begging for him to fill you up with his seed. Your legs were already beginning to tremble and you could feel yourself slipping into a blank mind. He was in total control now. You were just a babbling mess begging for him to get you where you needed to be.

“Please cum in me, please Spence, want it so bad.” You begged, back arching into his chest, as your eyes watered the closer you got to falling apart around him. “Want you to fill me up, please.”

“Yes ma’am.” He huffed out.

Even when he was in power, even when he had the upper hand, he still knew you were in charge. It was always you.

Just as he felt your body begin to stiffen and tremble, he thrusted one last time. He made sure to stuff himself as far into you as he humanly could before releasing his seed into your cunt. Warm white strings of seed painted you sensitive insides, leaving his mark in you, and making sure you felt it. He milked himself dry in your cunt before pulling out slow enough to make sure everything stayed inside. You’re body limp and fucked out of energy, along with his now laying right next to you.

“I’m filing a complaint to Strauss when we get back.” You joked, causing your friends to laugh.

“Seriously though, does he let you tie him up?”

#wattpad #aesthetic #spencer reid #criminal minds smut #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #derek morgan #sub!spencer #dom!reader #dr. spencer reid

2K notes · View notes