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brummiereader · 2 days

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MASTERLIST PREVIOUS PART

Uptown Girl (Part Nine/ Final Chapter)

Summary: As the gathering of guests in the small bricked church, wait on your stuttering response. Tommy is also left, holding his breath for the finale of his carefully timed plans to come to fruition. Will things pan out as he intended? Or will fate be the ruling decider over the day's events?

Warnings: Language, angst, violence, mutual pining, use of one racial slur.

Word Count: 5500

Fuck, fuck, FUCK...where are they?! Tommy's panicked eyes darted between the large oak doors to you stood at the altar as your stuttering response torturously echoed back to him.

Hands clammy, ears ringing. His heart rattled furiously against its bony enclosure as a surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. Forcing him onto his feet just as you let your long awaited response slip past your lips.

" I...don't" your wobbly voice answered, head shaking in unison with the internal thoughts that had spurred on your response as Cal's grip on your fingers tightened, crushing them between the pads of his palms.

Rather poor and homeless, you thought to yourself as your answer settled among the many guests attending the supposedly joyous day. The very same answer, you'd be a fool to deny you hadn't already settled your mind on, ever since the day you learned of the promise your father had selfishly made on your behalf.

A life of hard labor suddenly sounded as peaceful, as comforting as the last rays of summer glittering through the technicolour stained windows warming your skin.

Your willingness to take on the burdens of others had finally made way for something you had shown throughout the entirety of your troubled life. Will power. Backed with a shit tonne of your famously brooding stubbornness, of course.

"Now, sweetpea..." Cal's teeth gritted together, pulling you into him like a flimsy rag doll, limp from hours of play as a sudden dread of fear rolled up your spine, eclipsing your renewed confidence as he made his intentions clear.

" Father, proceed" his head snapped towards the cloaked man, brazenly ignoring your protests and the wave of startled gasps from the members of high society watching from the pews.

"I'm sorry sir, but we..."

"I said proceed, goddamit!" Cal's voice snapped with fury, holding you tightly in place when a bellowing voice boomed from the far end of the small chapel, swiftly commanding Cal's attention.

" Enough!" Tommy yelled, hands clasped fiercely onto the back of the wooden bench in front of him. " You heard her. Now, let her go" he warned, his menacing tone of voice accompanied by the two gloomy shadows sat beside him. Teeth baring as they excitedly awaited to draw the blood of any man who dared to pick a fight with them.

"Him?" Cal scoffed as he snapped his eyes back to you, refusing to accept that less than a month's worth of time spent with a cutthroat gangster was enough to sway your mind from a life of unimaginable riches and titles that he had to offer " A gypsy thief?"

As your eyes turned to Tommy, a watery cloud of unspent tears settled in front of your vision as those present waited on your answer for a second time. An answer you found yourself unable to give under the suffocating sea of eyes, drowning you under the pressure of their stares. An answer you would flee from in a flowing stream of taffeta and lace down the aisle you had solemnly walked mere moments ago.

Running past the lure of Tommy's eyes, you crashed through the church doors and away from the answer he waited on berated breath for.

" I think it would be best if we postpone..." the priest turned to the many guests as the heavy tension you had left at the doors of the chapel in your dramatic departure, weaved its way through the sounds of shuffling feet and hushed whispers.

" Wait!" Cal stopped him as he smoothed back the stray hairs, greased with lacquer that had fallen In front of his darkening eyes.

" She just needs a little convincing, is all" his attention narrowed in on the towering wooden doors, sharply turning on his polished heel with an unstoppable determination to have his way.

Unwilling to sit idle, to see for a second time the bruising damage a private conversation with Cal ended in. Tommy stepped over his brothers, rapidly following after the echoes of raised voices that distanced him from you.

"Hold up, gents" Arthur's long body lurched in front of the exit, stopping the two pompous friends of Cal from interfering in the scrap undoubtedly about to take place.

" By the order of who?" Dicky, the son of the notorious butcher of Bordesley Green spat as a heavy hand settled on his shoulder, a quick smirk of enjoyment flashing across its owners face as he looked to his younger brother. Prolonging the schooling of the self-righteous twat in front of him on just who he was up against.

" By order of the Peaky fucking Blinders. That's who"

Dragging your body outside, you let your gasping lungs inhale the welcome chill of Autumn approaching as you let the weight of your body rest against the hood of one of the many cars lined up along the browning hedgerow.

Finally, it was over. Your refusal of marriage made known to all those present. For if god was your witness, then so were they. And soon the joyful chattering of gossip would rapidly make its way among high society. With tales of Cal's abhorrent temper unmasked under the watchful eye of the almighty and all those attending.

" Please, just a moment" you briefly looked up to the sound of concerned footsteps making their way across the cemented ground as you rested your trembling hand on your heaving chest. But concern was far from what was coming your way.

Within a blink of an eye, you felt the full force of Cal's body slamming you into the car. His fingers wrapping tightly around your throat.

" You little bitch!" he seethed through gritted teeth, releasing the shame, the anger he felt for having been shown up in front of the many noble faces of high society he deemed more important than the sentiments of the woman he was supposedly in love with.

"You dare to show me up? Me?!" he spat, inches from your face as his fingers curled around your throat.

" Cal..." you mumbled, desperately scrambling for air as you watched the dimming rays of sun cower behind the looming frightful sight in front of you.

" Now, we're going to go back in there. And you're going to tell everyone how you were overcome with a touch of the old cold feet. Ok sweetpea?" he squeezed his fingers around the protruding veins of your neck, impatient for your response his ignorance and straining grasp hadn't realised he was delaying.

"No..." you wept, furiously shaking your head as your hands searched for something, anything to hinder him from squeezing the last breaths of life you so desperately wanted to live.

" When will you understand, Y/N. I always get my..."

His damning words were abruptly delayed as you felt his body being pulled off you, his grip releasing from your neck through searing gashes as his nails dragged along your reddening skin.

With dazed eyes, and rattling lungs, you pulled yourself up to the sound of feet shuffling along the gritted ground, bodies grappling in a bloody fight, dulling out the ringing in your ears. Tommy.

"Lard" Arthur noted, pointing at the neatly curled moustache sported by one of Cal's lackeys as he internally weighed up who had the mightiest tash of whiskers out of the two of them.

" I beg your pardon?" the gentlemen's brows scrunched with insult that he, a man of such standing would use a kitchen staple intended for the roasting of spuds on his pampered face.

"To keep the strays in place" Arthur replied, smoothing down his own perfectly trimmed moustache with the pads of his fingers.

" Lanolin" the pompous man turned his head up and away from the gangster and his accompanying guard dog keeping a strong hold on the church doors.

" Beggars can't be choosers" Arthur sniffed as he straightened his tailored suit, raising his chin above his competition. Still bloody taller.

" At least he doesn't smell like Aunt Pols Sunday roast though, ay Arthur?" John sniggered, earning him a sharp blow to the side. The toothpick twirling between his teeth, dangerously close to making its way down his throat from the force of his brothers strategically placed knobbly elbow.

" Fuck off, John boy"

"Stop!" You screamed watching Cal and Tommy throw fists at each other, the flaps of their tailored suits casting shadows under their scuffling feet with every dodge of their bodies.

"Tommy, please!" you tumbled forward, trying to calm the rage within him before he left you with the slaughtered image of a dead body sprawled onto a guests' car as he held the upper hand over Cal. His gun swiftly pulled from its holster, now firmly nestled into the neck of his opponent.

" Y/N, back!" He pushed you away from the line of fire with his free hand. Bloody knuckles staining your ivory gown as his finger squeezed around the beckoning lull of the trigger, seconds from blowing a bullet through Cal's skull.

" Mr Shelby?" A meek voice broke Tommy away from his gory endeavor as you turned in unison to see a veiled woman holding the hand of a dark haired tot, tearfully sobbing through her wobbling bottom lip.

"Can't hear anything" John mumbled with his ear pressed up against the wooden doors as a small crowd of inquisitive eyes gathered around him.

" It's gone quiet" Arthur smirked to his brother, satisfied the grave Tommy had personally dug that morning would soon be filled with the body of the bastard that had delayed his punishment in the back alleys of Small Heath.

" Perhaps an ambulance is warranted?" One of Cal's acquaintances stepped forward before swiftly being pushed back into his rightful place in the newly established pecking order, void of status and wealth but instead, muscle and crazed instability.

" Are you doubting my brother's ability to get the job done, ay?" Arthur squared up to the mumbling man, offended by the mere suggestion that a Shelby, reared from fighting stock would acquire backup to take down one lone man.

" Wha...?" the pompous prick replied, suddenly realising that the only call worthy of being made was that to the foreboding sound of a horse-drawn hearse.

"Alright, alright! Give us some space. Bloody hell" John rolled his shoulders as the many guests pushed forward, eager to see the gruesome sight like the jeering crowds that waited on the ax mans delivering blow from times before.

" Anybody would think they've never seen a scrap before!" John shouted over the murmurs and growing excitement as he looked to his brother.

" Well, brother..." Arthur's smile deepened into a mischievous grin as he pushed the doors open, freeing the crowd like a King would his loyal subjects. " '...'ave at it boys and girls!"

"Tommy? What's going on?" Your eyes darted from the small child's whimpers to Tommy lowering his gun as he released his grip from around Cal's collar.

Plagued with his own childhood horrors, he'd be damned to inflict such nightmares on another innocent mind caught in the cross fire between the affairs of adults, their fragile minds were too young to understand.

" Y/N, meet Jayne. Cal's daughter" Tommy pulled away, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

" Daughter...?" Your brows knitted together, your attention pulled back to the sweet girl standing patiently next to her guardian.

" Our Jayne's only surviving family" the sister from the convent informed you as the sound of the crowds footsteps came to a stop, curious by the unexpected change of events.

" Utter nonsense!" Cal straightened the lapels of his suit as he eyed the rosy cheeked toddler from the corner of his eye. Seething with disdain for the image of himself he saw in her.

" Dear god...she's the spit of you" Johnathan remarked as Cal's head snapped away with a scoff.

" Only surviving family? But her mother...where's her mother?" Your curiosity peaked for the small child and the unusual tale her presence brought as you noted the subtle exchange of glances between Tommy and the woman that cared for her.

" Dead" Tommy straightened his back, his eyes snapping to the gulping man whose hidden lies, now held the attention of all those present.

" Found strangled to death in her bedsit two years ago, with her newborn daughter screaming in her bassinet beside her. Cal's daughter" Tommy looked to you as the horror of the childs early life came to light.

"Her murderer stood here, a free man, with us today" Tommy let the darkness that Cal had hidden from his life of riches be known as the sudden realisation that you could have shared the same fate rattled your nerves.

" A troubled life she led, but we are not ones to judge. Little Jayne is in our care now, away from danger" the sister revealed as she caressed the plump cheek of the small child, before her eyes snapped to Cal shuffling away from the growing whispers and stares of those stood watching.

His liking for visiting the back alleys of Birmingham and the service's they had to offer, was now laid bare for all to see. How he had dodged the repercussions of the horrors he had inflicted with the help of his wealth and status, avoiding the deadly drop of the hangman's nose as punishment for the life he taken from a woman few cared for, exposed. His most favourite choice of punishment, brushing down the film of sweat sitting on his forehead, those of the hands he used to squeeze the life from Jaynes' mother.

As Cal's reputation in high society came crashing down around him, so did his body as his widening eyes darted from face to face to the sound of scum and bastard leaving their mouths. All thanks to the strategically placed cane of an elderly woman, intent on seeing him take his fall from grace in a more... physical sense.

" Ever so sorry. Shakey hands" your grandmother looked down past her nose to Cal slumped on the ground at her feet, her fingers as steady as a meadow of flowers on a windless day clutching around the top of her cane.

" Now where in the bloody hell does Meredith think he's going?" Arthur's moustache twitched at the scrambling man, formerly known as Cal, running through the gritted ground away from Arrow House.

" I'll get him" John swiftly pulled out his gun, closing one eye as he honed in on Cal heading for the small pasture of galloping horses.

" Steady on, John! You'll take one of the bloody toffs' heads off" Arthur lowered his brother's revolver as the herd of guests ran forward, keen to see how the day's thrilling events would end.

Stood back, Tommy's eyes drifted to yours. Desperate for your acknowledgment, for you to seek comfort and refuge in him. But as he watched your eyes cast down to your shuffling feet, he was met with the glistening flicker of unspent tears, pooled under your batting lashes. Shit.

" Bloody hell, that horse is as skittish as a Catholic girl on confession day. She'll buck him off" Arthur's eyes narrowed in across the field to Cal precariously sat on your white mare.

" Five says she won't"John put his hand out, keen for the day to not got to waste as he waited for his brother to take the bet.

" Go on then" the two brothers shook on it in a slimy spit-covered pact as serious as any pinky promise.

Gripping onto the ivory mane of your horse, Nelly violently bucked with her hind legs as Cal desperately tried to control her erratic movements. The crowd of people that had gathered by the rickety wooden fence, encouraging the theatrical display with waving hands and hurling cheers until she delivered one mighty kick, throwing Cal off head first into the muddied ground below him.

With a satisfied flare of her nostrils, notorious Nelly gave one last boot into the face of her unwanted rider for good measure before happily trotting off to join the others grazing.

" 'ere" John relented, pulling five coppers from his pocket to a gloating Arthur.

" Five bleeding shilling!" Arthur looked down at the jingling coins in his hand, expecting the feeling of crisp pound notes to warm his fingers.

" Tit" Arthur mumbled, smacking the back of his younger brother's shaved head as the crowd's laughter grew to a roaring thunder at the sight of Cal, muddy and dazed, slumped in the grass feet from them.

Stood away from the crowd, their echos of laughter, their grinning smiles of amusement tapered back to you. Your life had been turned into a circus, on display for the enjoyment of others.

Pulling up the dragging ends of your dress, you turned and leave, running from the laughter of those who would soon be gossiping about the pitiful life you led during their afternoon luncheons in the most prestigious of tearooms.

" Y/N!" Tommy called after you, watching the cascade of tears that you had desperately kept from the peering eyes of others, trickle down your cheeks.

Shit, shit, shit, Tommy thought to himself as he ran after the rippling ends of your muddied dress, suddenly realising he had taken it one step too far in his fondness for a dramatic conclusion.

" Darling..." Tommy's feet came to a stop behind you, his hands gently cupping your waist as you sought solitude behind the small bricked chapel away from the lingering sounds of laughter.

" Go away, Tommy!" You snapped your head back to him as he raised his hands in surrender. Carelessly brazen enough to approach you without precaution like he would with your jittery horse that shared your guarded nature.

" Y/N, I'm sorr.."

"I'm glad you all find this funny. My life, the grand finale to your finishing act" you cut off his intended apology, pulling the netted veil from your head, the pearl necklace from around your neck through frustrated sobs." Would you like me to get up and dance for you all too?"

" Hey, c'mere" Tommy sighed as he tested the waters with an apprehensive step in your direction, unable to withstand the upsetting sight he was responsible for.

" No!" You snapped back, unapologetic with your adamant refusal to be comforted by the day's event and the harrowing fate that could have awaited you if your response had been two letters short.

" No, Tommy. Not this time " you shook your head, watching the hurt of your rejection pull down the corners of his eyes as you turned to leave. Shunning him out like he had done to you without the slightest possibility for reconciliation.

" Don't fret dear, she'll come around" Grannie made her presence known as she turned the corner to see the internal battle Tommy was inflicting upon himself as he watched you leave.

" I'm not so sure, Dowager" he turned back to see the gentle smile, creased with fine lines of wisdom greeting him.

" Call me, Grannie" she placed her cane in front of her, slowly stepping towards a man whose fractured heart had taken another self-imposed blow.

" I'm afraid she comes from a long line of stubbornness, Mr Shelby. Best let that steam cool off, or I'm afraid you may get burnt. And nobody likes the sting of that" she patted his arm, drawing his attention away from you marching down the dusty path his longing eyes desperately wanted to follow after.

"That was quite the finish, Mr Shelby. Are you sure you're not classically trained?" your grandmother teased, earning her the boyish smirk of amusement she had grown fond of.

" Not too much, then?" Tommy's eyes playfully asked as he gave her his arm to take, leading her back to the ruckus you had fled from.

" Goodness no. What's life without a little show, hm?" Grannie giggled as a loud wave of cheers came from the enclosed paddock.

" Seems we're not so different after all" your grandmother nodded to John sat on Nelly riding her one handed like a bucking bronco as Arthur worked the cheering crowds collecting bets.

" Five shillings says she kicks him off" Grannie turned to the grinning gangster with her hand out, lightening the heavy mood that shadowed above you both.

" You're on"

Sat back at your brooding spot in the bay window of your grandmother's cottage, you watched as the maple tree in front of her house disheveled its crisp leaves from its branches one by one into a high enough heap to jump in to, in a fit of giggles. But laughter had escaped you for more than eight weeks since Tommy dramatically exposed Cal's secret. And although you were safe from ever feeling his heavy hand strike you again, you let yourself slip into your solemn thoughts, relentlessly mulling over what had been unearthed.

Cal was gone. His life ended by Tommy with a bullet through his head. Buried by his hand in a six-foot deep hole in an unmarked grave. His name forgotten for an eternity. No flowers laced in tears sitting beside his earthy tomb. And like everything in your life, you were faced with an unexpected twist of fate.

Arrogantly bold enough to assume you would be his wife, Cal had prematurely signed his estate over to you until you birthed a son.

A child that never came to be, a demise quicker than expected, you were left with his thousands and the harrowing reminder of the young child he had fathered. Jayne.

Relinquishing the hefty sum of money left in your name, you forwent a life of unimaginable riches, and set up a trust fund for the orphaned child in the hope she would be able to carve her own future, free from the ruling hands of greedy men.

But with all matters settled, one still occupied your every waking breath. Tommy.

" Speak of the devil!" Grannie announced, suspiciously in tune with your internal thoughts of melancholy as she turned her head to the sound of a Bentley steadily driving up to her gated home.

" Right on time" she giggled as you flew up from your seat, eyes darting in a frantic panic to the weathered window.

" Into the closest she goes!" she teased as you hurried passed her, making a beeline for your trusted hiding space in the cramped hallway. A spot you had cowered yourself in each week over the past two months.

"Mr Shelby" Grannie opened the door, the gentle autumn breeze bringing notes of whisky and tobacco, with a handful of ribbon tied hydrangeas along with it.

" Grannie" he greeted her, kissing her cheek in a loving familiarity as his eyes searched behind her for a sign of you.

" Y/N?" He sighed, questioning your whereabouts as you battled with a precariously placed broom beside you in the darkened room, the door ajar enough to see the shine of his blue eyes longing for a glimpse of you.

" Indisposed I'm afraid" your grandmother gave the disappointing weekly response he'd become accustomed to.

" In the closest" she quietly mouthed, rolling her eyes as Tommy's darting gaze met yours through the thin line of light. Taking you aback enough for you to stumble into the aged broom with a thud. Oh, bollocks.

" Tell her I came by" Tommy left the bouquet of flowers in the hands of your grandmother, his pining eyes still firmly fixed on the shadow of your body behind the door.

" You have my word" your Grannie patted his hand before he turned to leave with one last glimpse of your batting eyes through the rays of sun shining through the glass-framed door he'd opened.

Never staying for long. Never intruding into your life without your welcome. Tommy would make the long drive to your Grans home in Cheltenham, arriving on the dot at exactly 12.05 every Friday.

Like a delivered telegram, like a small hello. He made it his weekly routine to show you how much he still longed to have you back in his life. How much he missed you.

" No sense in hiding anymore, dear. Your inherited clumsiness gave it away" your grandmother shut the front door, turning to see the irritated pout sitting on your lips.

" For you" she handed the freshly picked bouquet of flowers, you ceremoniously tossed in the bin along with the others.

" My sweet summer child, sit with me" Grannie sighed, ushering you to her favourite armchair beside the window of her garden.

" Before you say anything, it will never work" you stopped the words of advice your stubbornness was intent on ignoring.

" I don't even like him...that much" you started to ramble, releasing the many excuses you had convinced yourself of one by one to your grandmother's stuttering lips as she tried to get a word in. " He's so pig headed, so cocky. So..so stubborn!"

" Stubborn?" your grandmother raised her brow, a pursed smile of amusement for the characteristic he shared with you. " You're more alike than you care to realise, my dear"

" I'm nothing like him. We come from two completely different worlds, Grannie" you crossed your arms, blowing the lock of hair from in front of your eyes as you fell back into your seat like a stroppy child. " God, why won't he just let me be..."

" That's where you're wrong, my dear" Grannie leaned forward, taking your hand.

" I have a confession" she whispered. An urgent enough secret that she felt it best said in a hushed voice to you, the only person within close proximity to her home, if not miles from the nearest sign of life. " We're counterfeits"

" Counterfeits?' you voiced louder than intended as you scooted forward in your plush seat.

" Good heavens, child. Do you want the whole of the county to hear?" she scolded you and your rolling eyes as she returned to her story

" His name was Jack. Known to some as, Jack the lad from Digbeth" she divulged into her past, reliving her younger years through the memories she cherished.

" A strapping stable boy who worked on my father's land. We had taken a fancying to each other, and after a summer's night in 1847 I found myself in a rather troublesome ballooning predicament.

" Grannie..." your cheeks blushed, hearing the details of your grandmother's risky teen years hidden behind the prudishness she had shown throughout her entire adult life.

" Don't think I don't know how my favourite afternoon treat was void of its jammy filling, dear" her brows raised, reddening your cheeks to the same shade of her favourite jelly before returning to the tales of her younger years.

" He asked me to marry him, said we'd run away together and join the fair...a hopeless romantic. Of course, when my father caught wind of our plans, my Jack was banished from the home, and I was quickly arranged to marry into a noble family before my growing secret revealed itself before my wedding night" she finished, feeling a pang of sadness for her long-lost love she'd never see again and the son they shared, your father.

" My dear, we're not of blue blood, not even a hint of turquoise" she wrapped her fingers around your young hands, free from the wrinkles that creased hers.

"You come from the same cobbled streets of the man whose heart and your own you're breaking. Fate brought you together, my child. Best not to piss it off with your shared stubbornness and start off on the wrong foot, dear. Bygones be bygones, hm? She sent you a gentle smile of encouragement as your brain scrambled to reevaluate your life after yet another exposed secret.

A family of commoners. The most freeing of revelation you could have ever discovered. Not only were you free of Cal, you were free of the restraints high society held on you. Free to love and live the way you wanted, with the man you wanted. If you would let your bullheadedness be buried with the troubled past you still held on to, of course.

"Easy girl" Tommy brushed his hand along the mane of your horse, calming her jittery nerves when something, or rather, someone caught his attention in the dark orbs of her eyes.

As the smell of your sweet perfume filled his senses, the sound of your heels clicking along the cobbled stable floor sang in his ears. His hand, unsteady as your horse's temper, rested on her back, fingers rising with each calming, heavy breath she took.

"Am I in hell?" He teased, the curling lilt of his black country accent heard through the small smile of playfulness on his lips as he stood with his back to you.

Slowly approaching, you rested your hand gently on his coated arm as his shoulders relaxed in response to the comforting feeling of your touch. Only for the skin prickling reaction to be swiftly snatched away when you poked him in the ribs shortly after.

"Nope. Still alive" Tommy grunted, a hint of a throaty laugh heard through his wincing breath.

" Hey" his voice pattered out upon seeing your radiating beauty, his eyes had gone too long without gazing upon as he turned around.

"Hi" you quietly replied, apprehensive as to how he'd take your sudden appearance back into his life you'd hidden yourself away from for two months.

"You came home" his lips softened into a loving smile as he stepped towards you, desperate to pull you into him.

" Is it my home, Tommy?" Your eyes lowered, darting with every quickened breath back up to his gaze as he took in the fading sun's glittering film of light on your wind-nipped cheeks.

"Ours" he soothed the redness from your skin as his thumb brushed over the slopes of your face down to your plump lips as an unknowing silence of how things would pan out, settled between your bodies.

" New horse?" Tommy broke the quietness hovering over you both, lightening the mood before a heavy discussion of hurt feelings ensued.

For now, he wanted to bask in the moment as you stood in unison with him. And with your relieved sigh of acknowledgment to the black stallion stood outside the stables, he was reassured to know that you too, welcomed the distraction. Let bygones be bygones, as your Gran would say.

" Moody looking thing, what's his name?" Tommy led you forward for introductions, resting his hand on the slope of your back.

" Tommy. And I ride him every day" the corners of your smiling lips turned into an amused grin as a scoffing laugh loudly responded to your choice of name.

" Tommy, eh? Sorry mate, but we can't have that. I'm gonna have to steal your girl back" he patted down the muscled body of your stallion before guiding your giggles outside to the front of Arrow House.

"Still in tact, I see" you looked up at the bricks of your childhood home, feeling his eyes roam over your face, hand holding you tightly next to him. " Seems you managed fine without me"

" The house hasn't been the issue" Tommy turned you to face him as your hands brushed up his chest, fingers curling around the lapels of his tailored jacket.

" It's me. I've been bored. Got me gardening, it's been that bad" he revealed his newly-founded hobby as your eyes drifted down to the potted flower, miserably limp with a stubbed out cigarette in its earthy soil.

"Goodness, going well I see" an amused smile for the green thumb he didn't inherit from his Aunt pulled at your lips as you felt him raise your eyes to meet him, his thumb hooked gently under your chin.

"No more avoiding me, sweetheart" His fingers brushed along your skin, cupping your cheek in his hand as he searched for reassurance that things wouldn't slip into how the past two months had panned out.

"Especially not in closets, eh?" he teased as you matched his toying smile, closing your eyes as he pressed his smiling lips into yours in a tender embrace.

" I lov.." you both stumbled to give your confessions of loyalty as you broke apart.

" Ladies first" Tommy shot you a wink, his playful response echoing the moments you had spent together in blissful torment of each other.

" I love you" the three-worded confession slipped past the draw bridge of stubbornness you had lowered to welcome him back in.

" I love you too"

Pulled into the warmth of his chest, an intoxicating sense of calm and comfort pulsed through your bodies.

For as the saying goes, home is where the heart is. And your hearts had finally found a home, in each other. Always.

The end.

Thank you to everyone that commented, reblogged and liked this series. Your interactions helped me finish this final, long awaited chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the ending in the comments below! Thank you again, my lovelies ❤️.

Brummie xxx

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hajimesh · 2 days

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ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐skyfall. suguru geto

part two. sunset (him)

⥅word c. 2,656

⥅warnings. suguru's pov, heavy angst, main character death, mentions of drinking and smoking, depressed suguru, hurt/comfort (?)

𝄢♭turning page ‐ sleeping at last / let her go ‐ passenger

Suguru will never forget the morning you came back to him. He distinctly remembers it was right after a slow night at the bar, the air felt chiller than usual, and the streets were too quiet. He couldn’t wait to get home, already dreaming of his bed and the leftover pizza from two nights ago.

But the sleep vanished as soon as he saw you sitting by the window.

At first, he thought someone had broken into his place until he realized it was you, which scared him even more than the thought of a thief. As soon as he heard your voice, it was as if he felt everything and nothing all at once—it also made him realize he had started to forget the sound of it without noticing.

It was the sight of your cheeky smile, the little wave as you teased him like you used to, that got him out of his stupor. Suddenly, he was on a high, something he hadn’t felt in months.

Gone was the tiredness from working all night as he ran up the stairs to the apartment while his heart beat wildly against his rib cage. However, nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight that awaited him: sitting by the window, the curtains blew behind you as the sky shone with pinks and lilacs, clouds that looked like cotton floating in it. But even such beautiful scenery couldn’t compare to the sight of you, your beauty or the gentle smile on your face.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he felt his soul come back to his body as soon as he had you in his arms. The feel of your fingers carding through his hair immediately relaxed him, your voice soothing the dull pain that had settled deep in his heart.

He feared his heart would not make it through that morning, your presence and laugh — god, how he had missed your laugh — more than enough of a threat to his battered heart.

That morning, Suguru Geto came back to life after living like a zombie for three months without you, the pain pushed to the back of his mind as he only focused on loving you.

—

He often wondered if he should quit his job, it messed up with his sleeping schedule and mood. But that bar was where he first met you, he still remembered how you walked up to him to order a round of drinks for your friends, and by the end of the night you had left right after saving your number in his phone.

Somehow, it felt wrong to leave a place that held such beautiful memories.

“You’ll be late for work,” he heard you say, light kisses covering his face as they traveled from his lips to his jaw before focusing on his cheeks.

He could tell it was dark outside, which meant that yes, he was most definitely running late. But he was a prisoner of your kisses, he would be out of his mind to push you away.

“Shower with me.”

Suguru was enraptured the whole time, watching the water dripping down your body as you sang each song that played from the speaker you had in the bathroom. The only thing that could stop you were his lips, kissing you nonstop until he had to physically hold you so you wouldn't fall to your knees.

At that moment, he felt like he fell in love with you all over again.

He really didn't want to leave, but if you were there with him, then it meant that everything was back to normal. It made sense, right?

“See you at sunrise!”

And when he saw you by the window the next day, and the day after that, suddenly he was looking forward to each morning, hoping to see you sitting by the window where you belonged.

The world could end tomorrow, and he wouldn’t care. As long as he had you by his side, nothing could ruin his happiness.

The rush hour was at its peak, college kids flooding the small bar on a Friday night—finals were over, so Suguru kind of expected it. After all, it was something he used to do just a few years ago.

He worked as fast as he could, lining up the shot glasses and filling them with liquor so Satoru could take them to the right table. It had become part of their routine, both men realizing that they worked well together after two days of being on the same shift.

Satoru placed his elbows on the counter and leaned forward, squinted eyes staring suspiciously at Suguru.

“You seem… livelier,” he paused, “chirpier?”

Shrugging, Suguru continued pouring drinks, “why wouldn’t I be?”

Still looking at him weirdly, Satoru dropped the subject once the raven-haired handed him another round of drinks, turning on his heel and continuing to work—he could always ask him later.

Meanwhile, Suguru’s mind strayed to your conversation from earlier that day. It had been two weeks since you were back, and it was impossible to get you out of his mind. Before he could stop it, he was smiling at the memory, his heart fluttered at the thought of spending all of your weekends cuddling and watching movies. He hoped that one day, a little version of you both could join the tradition.

At that point, he couldn’t hide his smile.

With a push of his hips, Satoru tried to snap him out of his daydream, signaling with his head to the girl that stood in front of him.

Suguru stared at her, she seemed familiar, but it wasn’t until she reminded him of her name that he remembered who she was: an old classmate from high school. They had dated briefly during their senior year before he met you.

“I haven't seen you since we graduated,” she smiled at him, “I never thought I would find you here of all places!”

The atmosphere felt awkward, it was as if an elephant sat in the room and everyone could see it but him. He didn’t like that feeling one bit.

“Yeah, I work here.”

The girl hummed and shot Satoru a polite smile, her long nails tapping loudly against the granite.

“I-I was actually wondering if,” she paused, looking bashful as she switched her weight from one heel to the other, “we could go for a cup of coffee one of these days? You know, like, to catch up?”

Suguru instantly tensed up, “catch up?”

“Yeah! Uhm… like a date?”

He never liked it when people put him on the spot, both Satoru’s and the girl’s eyes set on him as they waited for his answer.

“Sorry, but I have a girlfriend,” he offered her an awkward smile.

Satoru sighed dramatically, wrapping an arm around Suguru’s shoulders and pulling him against his side.

“I don't think she’ll mind,” he winked at Suguru before turning to look at the confused girl, “he’d love to go on a date with you!”

Pushing him away, Suguru looked at him in disgust, “are you out of your mind?”

Both men were too busy staring at the other down to hear the girl excuse herself and leave.

Satoru scoffed, “I should be the one asking you that.”

“The fuck you mean by that!?” Suguru was fuming by now, attracting the interest of a few patrons that happened to witness everything.

“Hey, hey!” a third voice intervened, Nanami placing himself between them, “you two need to calm down.”

Suguru ignored the recently hired waiter, continuing to stare down at his best friend. There was no way he was going to stand there and let him treat you like that.

“I asked you a question: what the hell was that!?”

“Sorry for trying to get you a date with a cute girl,” Satoru said sarcastically, “one date won’t hurt, and you know it.”

Fed up with his words, Suguru pushed Nanami to the side and stepped closer to whom he had to call his best and closest friend. He had had enough of Satoru’s shit.

“Disrespect my girl again, and I'll forget you’re like a brother to me.”

With a sneer, Satoru reciprocated the look.

“Suit yourself.”

—

They barely talked again for the rest of the night.

Suguru could feel a migraine coming, the faint palpitations at the back of his head increasing as the minutes passed. All he wanted was his shift to be over, so he could go back to your arms.

He took the trash outside, staying there a few minutes as he leaned against the wall. His lips wrapped around the cigarette as he took a long drag, and unconsciously began to smile once he noticed the sky starting to lighten.

The sound of the door opening and closing took him out of his daydream.

“Spill,” Satoru stood before him, arms folded in front of his chest with a serious look that Suguru hadn’t seen in weeks, “what’s up with you.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Don’t you dare push me away again,” the white-haired jabbed a finger on his chest, “you were finally recovering, and what? You’re letting her control your life again?”

“I would watch my mouth if I were you,” Suguru warned him, his features hardening again, “and she isn’t controlling anything.”

Groaning, Satoru ran a hand down his face, “when are you going to get it through your thick skull?!”

“Get what!?”

After stepping on the cigarette, Suguru started making his way inside, getting tired of Satoru’s complaints. Only to stop abruptly once he heard him speak again, his blood turning cold.

“That your girlfriend is dead.”

Suguru never believed in those weird conspiracy theories that Satoru liked to feed him, and even years later, he still managed to come up with the craziest stories.

He believed there's a rational explanation for everything, not entirely a man of science, but if you could prove what you said, then he had no reason to doubt.

Every rational thought told him it couldn’t be possible, and yet there you were, holding his face between your hands as he heard your voice, and smelled your perfume.

You were supposed to be gone.

He had to hold back from breaking down as soon as he got home, your silhouette standing by the window as if you truly were there, waiting for him like you always used to. He couldn't bear to see you smile, to hear you talk about a future when you no longer had one. He could barely keep it together when you cupped his face in your hands and made him stare at you, something seemed to have switched in your eyes, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“It’s time to let go, Suguru.”

“I can't,” he whispered in a broken voice, “I don't want to.”

Three months without seeing you, feeling you, there was no way he’d let you slip away from his grasp—not again.

Tears ran down his cheeks, his heart pressing heavily against his chest as he fought the need to crumble down to the floor. He could see your eyes glistening with tears, but your pretty smile remained, giving him all the time he needed to compose himself.

“I'm so sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault,” you whispered, rubbing your thumbs against his cheekbones, trying and failing to stop the tears, “I could never blame you, I never did.”

Unwanted memories from that day swarmed his mind: the loud screech of tires against the pavement, your body next to his, the sight of your beautiful face covered in cuts and bruises mocking the peaceful look in it. The memory haunted him for months.

What was once the face of an angel, as he liked to call you, twisted into a gruesome memory.

If only he hadn’t convinced you to accompany him to the party, or if he had paid more attention to the road so he could’ve avoided the drunk driver that hit the car as he drove home. You’d still be there, with him, holding him just as you were doing right at that moment.

“I'm going insane,” he sniffled, resting his forehead against yours, “aren’t I?”

“No, no, you’re not. But you aren’t taking care of yourself,” you kept smiling through your tears, your voice gentle as if you were talking to a child, “you either sleep too little or too much, and you haven’t been attending your lectures.”

Rocking you side to side, he dismissed your comment with a nonchalant hum, “but I’m happy now, isn’t that what you want? Just… stay? Please?”

The lack of words on your part was his answer.

“Will I see you again?”

“Of course,” your smile broadened, “even if the skies fall, or a huge wave takes over the city, you’ll never get rid of me.”

Suguru’s hold tightened, your face hiding in his chest as you both tried to calm yourselves down. He didn’t dare to close his eyes, wanting to see your face for as long as he could. And even with tears clogging up your eyelashes and wobbly lips, you were still as gorgeous as he remembered.

“You’re my sunrise, and I'm your sunset,” he whispered in your ear, “never forget that.”

Not like you could. You had found your very own sunset, only yours to love and admire.

“I would never.”

Even with puffy eyes and tears wetting your cheeks, Suguru still thought you were the most beautiful woman that ever walked the earth. He helped you wipe your tears, watching you sniffle and laugh right after.

“Baby?” you spoke after a few minutes of silence and holding each other, basking in his warmth until it made you sleepy.

His lips kissed the crown of your hair while his fingers combed it away from your face, admiring your face with love brimming from his eyes, “hm?”

A lump blocked your throat, tears welling up in your eyes before quickly cascading down your cheeks as you ingrained his face into your memory.

“Look for me in the sky, I promise I'll be there.”

Suguru never saw you again after that day.

It was as if the grief took over his life all over again, the sorrow suffocating him with each breath he took. His body and soul crumpled even lower than the first time, however, with each passing week, the heaviness in his heart became lighter.

It took him a while to open up to Satoru, and when he finally did, the tears were unstoppable from both sides. Satoru felt for his friend and you, you two had had a close bond too after all, and after seeing Suguru shattered after your loss, he knew he had to be his rock.

There wasn’t a place in the city that didn’t have your name, filled with memories of your dates as Suguru and you explored the world together. But it was time to turn the page, with your memory inked on the corner of it and in Suguru’s soul.

He would never be able to forget you, and he didn’t want to.

Sitting by the window, Suguru took a look at the late spring afternoon. Living in a world without you would always be painful, which is why he found himself staring at it from your eyes. That window was your spot; he would always find you there before the sun was up, and right before it disappeared behind the horizon, waving him goodbye as he drove away to work.

The usual bustle of the streets quieted down for a moment, it was as if the world went still. Orange tinted the sky as usual, only this time, hues of blue and lilac blended across it, the wind cold and refreshing as it blew against his warm skin.

Suguru peered up at the skies with a nostalgic smile, a wave of peacefulness making its way into his heart.

“There you are, my love.”

#jjk x reader #geto x reader #jjk fic #jjk angst #suguru geto x reader #suguru x reader #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff

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alexxncl · 1 day

Text

‼️NIGHTBRINGER LESSON 49 SPOILERS‼️

now...

it's CANON that he knows he can't cook

so why the fuck 😭

luke :(((( baby :((((((((

i'm glad simeon is finally opening up though. luke being able to event talk to simeon about (before simeon himself, mind you) this proves that he's more than mature enough to have conversations like this. i love seeing how much he's grown since the beginning of the game

didn't take a screenshot of this bc i can only post 10 pictures per post, BUT i'm glad the fact that raphael showed up out of nowhere wasn't glossed over bc why is he here ??? respectfully

this is why simeon don't talk to nobody 😭 y'all can't take SHIT seriously

but in all honesty i'd just shut down and stop talking bc i get overwhelmed easily

but oh luke...

i hope he takes this as a "hm maybe the celestial realm isn't as good as it seems, maybe things aren't just black and white" instead of immediately jumping to "no simeon's too kind to be a demon bc all demons are mean and they suck", but i feel like the devs are gonna go with the latter simply bc they love giving luke development and then ripping it away seconds later

(for context, the other response was something along the lines of "he really cried his eyes out, huh?")

regardless of how much luke has grown and matured, he's still a kid. like, a kid kid. they cry when they're upset, when they're angry, when they're throwing a tantrum, and when theyre confused and/or overwhelmed. i feel like the latter might be the case with luke, which is why i chose the "i'm sure he'll be ok" option

more on this here

they're making it sound like simeon is queer/trans and honestly...i'm here for it. but that's partially bc i fall under both umbrellas. i love projecting 🫶🏽

i do wish it were this easy to come out and have your family/friends accept you bc it was a doozy for me 🫠

ANYWAYS

angst. give me more. PLEASE

i'm just so so glad that he's actually opening up. in the past, it felt like every time we get a crumb of vulnerability, he'd shut back down and act like everything was okay. idk if it's because he's more comfortable in his identity and place in the world, or his place in mc and the brothers' life, but he's more prone to actually talking about what's bothering him. it makes me happy

...this makes me a little less happy

ik simeon his his qualms with the celestial realm, but all in all, he probably still sees the place as his home and the people there as his family

what if this whole arc ends with the celestial realm opening its gates to (certain) demons? what if the boys get to visit their old home for the first time in literal millenia? and what if they get to show satan around?

idk y'all i'm trying to be hopeful, but hope can only get you so far when it comes to this game 😭

development at its finest

not focusing on a way to "fix" simeon, but to help deal with the situation at hand despite and because of simeon's condition

...ig the angst could only last for so long. back to the nerdy shit

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shellswritesstuff · 2 days

Note

listen usually I’m down bad for smut (always am tbh) but what about. what about just….some fluff…..i wanna put my head on those Titus Tiddies and fall asleep…….what if i just gently stroked his hair……..

could be post-coital snuggles

𓊆ᴅᴇᴍᴇᴛʀɪᴀɴ ᴛɪᴛᴜs X ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ - die with a smile.𓊇 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚(⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

rating: no rating/sfw. fluff!!! and a hint of angst. cuddling, intimate skinship. ugh my heart.,,

ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ oh you got it anon! i love the energy in my inbox, ty friends for the asks! ugh,, i want to hold his and and ruffle his hair and tell him everything is ok sjdalksd- (its not, 40k things u know)

Forget the worlds outside. Forget your endless anxieties, your purpose in life. To hell with it all out there, your whole existence was here in this room. This metal quarter was your paradise.

"Hush, Titus..." A faint whisper fell from your lips, pleading for your lover to relax.

A gruff hum was your response, yielding. You two were in bed like always, stealing another moment from the horrors outside. Titus laid on his back, cradling you gently. Your fingertips graced his skin, tracing the scars of his Rubicon surgery. It was unfair. Titus and his brothers bore the weight of the Emperor on their shoulders. To them, duty and living were one and the same.

You wanted so much more for him. The harsh reality of these times, it must wear him down. You'd never hear it, though. Servitude was in his DNA. His unyielding devotion to his lord and brothers alike; one of the many, many aspects you adored. Is it so bad to be selfish...?

"You told me to be quiet, but your mind is racing." Damn him. He knew you so well.

You whined, your apology coming in the form of a sigh. "I love you too much."

And you did. What would become of you if Titus hadn't returned from his mission? Had he died...

Titus pulled you impossibly closer, your head taking its resting place on his broad chest. His scent, his skin, the rise and fall of his diaphragm; you were in the moment once again. A comfortable silence swept over the room, the only noise being candle flickers. You fought hard against the comfort, not to fall asleep. Your efforts were in vain. The last thing you felt before drifting away; a hand supporting you head, and fingers running through your hair.

"Sleep, my love. I will be here."

#oh im wrecked. oh im gonna cry #warhammer 40k #space marine 2 #space marine ii #warhammer 40000 #demetrian titus #fuck leandros #sorry i gotta lock in with the tags my b #titus x reader #captain titus #demetrian titus x reader #space marine 2 x reader #warhammer imagines #warhammer headcanons #warhammer x reader #im tweaking #i opened sm2 to harvest that image heheh

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reidsworld · 3 days

Text

Scars of Time Chapter Three: (Don't Fear) The Reaper

Summary: In which you and Logan meet the X-Men.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Fem!Mutant!Reader

Category: Fluff, Angst

Content Warnings: Canon-typical violence, arguing, use of Y/N

Word Count: 5.3k

Song… (Don't Fear) The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult

Mars speaks… hey… it’s been a while😅 picked this song cause i couldn’t think of anything else that would fit this lmao

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | < Previous Part | Next Part >

2000

The road stretched endlessly ahead, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the wilderness. Logan gripped the wheel of his truck, eyes focused on the horizon, while you sat beside him, your hand resting lightly on his thigh. It had been three years since that night in the bar, and in that time, your lives had become a shared journey through the vast, ever-changing landscape of North America.

In those three years, you'd weathered countless miles together, each town a fleeting chapter in your story. From the initial sparks of connection, your relationship had deepened into something profound and steady. You’d grown accustomed to the life of constant movement, of nights spent in dingy motels and mornings starting with the scent of gasoline and cigars. Each stop had its own rhythm, its own set of challenges and triumphs, but through it all, you and Logan had found a rhythm of your own.

You'd learned to navigate his world of violence and seclusion with a blend of tenderness and resilience. The nights after his fights were always a mix of adrenaline and intimacy, where the rough edges of his life softened in the glow of your presence. You’d watched him slowly let down the walls he’d built around himself, revealing glimpses of vulnerability that were rare and precious.

Despite the unsteady nature of your life, there was a comforting familiarity in your days together. The way he would glance at you from the driver's seat, the way his laughter would break through the silence of the truck's cab—these were the moments that anchored you, making the chaos of your travels feel almost like home.

But as you settled into this routine, you couldn’t help but feel a lingering restlessness. The sense of always being on the run, the uncertainty of where you’d end up next, gnawed at you. You had found something enduring with Logan, a love that made the dark moments lighter, but there was an unspoken longing for a place where you could both put down roots, a place where the endless road could finally come to an end.

“Where are we headed next?” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you.

Logan glanced at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got a gig lined up in Laughlin City. Figured I’d make a little cash.”

You sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. “Another fight?”

Logan’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of mild irritation. “It’s easy money, Y/N.”

You turned to face him, concern etched in your features. “Logan, you don’t need to do this. We don’t need the money that bad.”

“I don’t get hurt,” he countered, his tone defensive. “You know that.”

“I know,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But it’s not about that. I don’t like seeing you in that ring, taking hits just for a few bucks. It… it feels wrong. And I—”

“Y/N, I’m fine,” Logan interrupted, though his tone lacked its usual gruffness. “I can handle it.”

You reached out and placed your hand over his, squeezing gently. “I know you can. But I love you, Logan. And it scares me, watching you fight like that. Even if you don’t get hurt, I don’t want you to keep doing it.”

Logan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t respond, but the tension in his jaw told you he was listening.

The crowd roared, their shouts echoing off the grimy walls of the underground arena, but for you, the noise faded into a distant hum. Your eyes were fixed on Logan in the ring, the harsh lights casting deep shadows across his face. The man he was fighting was relentless, landing blow after brutal blow, and every strike seemed to land with a sickening thud. Each punch, each slam, was like a knife twisting in your heart. You clenched your fists, your knuckles turning white, as you watched Logan take hit after hit, his normally stoic expression faltering with each brutal impact. The sight of him, battered and bloodied, made it hard to breathe, your worry intensifying with every second he remained in the ring.

As Logan endured the relentless assault, your silent pleas became a quiet mantra in the chaos of the arena. Your eyes never left him, and in the midst of the pounding fists and frenzied crowd, you found yourself whispering, “Come on, Logan. Fight back. You can do it.” Despite the roar of the spectators, your voice, though soft, cut through the din, reaching him clearly thanks to his heightened senses.

Logan’s head snapped in your direction, catching the unwavering support in your eyes. A spark ignited in him, and he straightened, shaking off the disorientation from the pounding he’d endured. With a fierce growl, he shifted gears, his movements swift and precise. The change was instantaneous; where he had been a punching bag, he now became a whirlwind of fury. With a series of powerful strikes and calculated blows, Logan took control, swiftly and decisively turning the tide of the fight. The crowd’s cheers grew louder as the man crumpled under Logan’s relentless assault, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

After the fight, the crowd had mostly dispersed, leaving the area around the cage quiet and littered with the aftermath of the night’s events. Logan emerged from the cage, his chest glistening with sweat and a satisfied, albeit weary, expression on his face. He made his way over to where you were waiting, arms crossed, your eyes tracking his every move with a mix of concern and annoyance.

You approached him as he reached you, handing him his clothes with a sigh. “Here you go,” you said, your voice carrying a hint of frustration. “You know I hate seeing you like this.”

Logan took the clothes from you, pulling his shirt over his head and slipping into the jacket. He met your gaze with a look of regret. “I know, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

You gave him a soft but resigned smile. “I love you.”

He managed a small smile in return, though the guilt in his eyes was evident. “I love you too, darlin'. Now come on, I need a beer.”

You both walked across the dimly lit room to the bar. Logan’s heavy steps were matched by your lighter ones, the silence between you filled with unspoken understanding.

As the two of you sat down on the bar stools, Logan spoke, "I'll have a beer and…"

“I’ll just have some water, please,” you added.

Logan pulled out some cash as he took a drag of his cigar. The bartender quickly brought over your drinks before turning to get Logan’s change. As the TV played the news, you couldn’t help but glance over at the only other person sitting at the bar, a girl.

“Ellis Island… opening its doors again… Preparations are nearly completed for the upcoming United Nations World Summit… The leaders of over 200 nations will discuss issues ranging from… to the mutant phenomenon…”

The last few words spoken by the news reporter caught both your and Logan’s attention. You noticed the girl perk up at those words before turning her head toward you as if she thought you were onto her for some reason. You squinted your eyes as you made eye contact with her.

The sound of footsteps approaching and a tap on Logan’s shoulder caused the two of you to turn around.

“You owe me some money,” the man from Logan’s last fight said. His friend tried to get him to walk away, but he quickly brushed him off.

“No man takes a beating like that without a mark to show for it.”

He shrugged his friend off again and leaned in to whisper in Logan’s ear.

“I know what you are.”

Logan turned his head. “You lost your money. You keep this up, you’ll lose something else.”

The man began to walk away but quickly turned back around with a knife.

“Look out!” the girl shouted.

“Logan!”

Logan turned and pinned the guy. His claws extended on both sides of the man’s neck, the middle claw slowly inching toward his throat.

“Get out of my bar, freak,” the bartender said, cocking his shotgun at the back of Logan's head. In one swift motion, Logan sliced through the shotgun, sending gunpowder and debris flying everywhere.

He growled, glancing between the bartender, the man, and the girl.

“Logan, let’s go,” you said sternly. His claws retracted as he looked into your eyes. You nodded toward the exit before moving to leave. You made eye contact with the girl one last time as Logan followed you out. The weight of their gazes lingered on the two of you as you left the barn-like building.

The truck’s engine rumbled softly as it idled, parked in the dimly lit lot beside the bar. The cool night air seeped through the slightly open windows, mingling with the lingering tension from the night’s events. Logan climbed into the driver’s seat, his movements a bit jerky as he tried to shake off the adrenaline still coursing through him.

You followed him into the truck, the door shutting behind you with a heavy thud. You glanced at him, noting the way his fingers clenched the steering wheel as if trying to ground himself. He glanced over, a hint of defensiveness in his eyes.

“What the hell was that back there?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the frustration bubbling under the surface. “You didn’t need to escalate things like that.”

Logan scoffed, and he shot you a look of irritation. “I escalated things? He was the one who pulled a knife on me, Y/N. I was just defending myself.”

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your emotions in check. “I get that he had a knife, but you didn’t need to go to the extreme. You could’ve handled it differently.”

Logan's expression shifted, the frustration in his eyes mingling with something softer. “What do you want me to do? Let him stab me? I was protecting us.”

You moved closer, placing your hands gently over his. “It’s not just about the fight. It’s about how it affects you. I don’t like seeing you like this—having to fight and getting into these kinds of situations.”

Logan's shoulders slumped slightly, and he looked down at his hands, where the claws had retracted. You could see the residual tension in his grip, a reminder of the struggle that had just occurred.

“Let me help,” you said softly, your voice soothing as you began to heal the lingering pain in his hands, your hands emitting a soft glow. The warmth of your touch seemed to bring a sense of calm, even if the emotional strain was still there.

Logan closed his eyes for a moment, the discomfort easing as your healing ability worked its magic. When he finally met your gaze again, his eyes held a mix of appreciation and regret. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… sometimes I feel like I need to prove something, to show that I’m still in control.”

You shook your head, a gentle smile on your lips despite the frustration still simmering. “You don’t need to prove anything to me, Logan. I just want you safe. You mean too much to me to see you getting hurt like this.”

Logan’s gaze softened, and he gave you a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more careful.”

You nodded, giving his hands a final reassuring squeeze before pulling back. “That’s all I ask.”

With a sigh, Logan turned the key in the ignition, and the truck’s engine roared to life. As he drove away from the bar, the silence between you was filled with a quiet understanding, the night’s events slowly giving way to the comforting routine of being together.

Logan slowed the truck, his sharp eyes narrowing at the sound of a thudding noise coming from the trailer behind. The faint echo reverberated through the night, unsettling the quiet rhythm of the drive.

“Stay here,” he muttered, his voice low and commanding, the unspoken edge of protectiveness familiar to you by now.

You nodded, not arguing, even though you hated being left in the dark. His hand briefly brushed yours as he reached for the door handle, a silent reassurance before he stepped out, disappearing into the shadows. Alone in the truck, you strained to listen. Muffled voices reached you, Logan's gruff tone unmistakable.

Moments later, the truck door swung open, and Logan climbed back inside, his movements abrupt. The slam of the door jolted the quiet atmosphere, making you raise an eyebrow at him.

“No, you didn’t,” he growled, his face set in a tight scowl.

You shot him a look, silently asking for an explanation. Logan sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. His frustration hung heavy in the air.

“Just some kid tryin’ to hitch a ride,” he muttered, but you caught the tension in his voice, a hint of something deeper.

You exchanged a glance with him, silently asking really? Before you could press him further, the truck lurched to a stop again. Logan avoided your gaze for a second before the passenger door opened, and a familiar face climbed in—the girl from the bar.

You shifted in your seat, sliding closer to Logan to make room for her. He grumbled under his breath, but didn’t protest. His arm brushed yours, a subtle reminder of the space you two shared—close and protective, even in moments like these.

With a soft smile, you reached into the glove box, pulling out a granola bar. “Figured you might be hungry,” you said, handing it to her.

The girl looked surprised at the kindness, her guarded expression faltering. “Thanks,” she mumbled, quickly taking off her gloves and devouring the snack.

“I’m Rogue,” she said after a moment, her voice tentative but grateful.

“Y/N,” you replied, your tone friendly. “Nice to meet you.”

You offered her a reassuring smile, sensing the weight she carried behind her eyes. She glanced over at Logan, then at you, as if trying to piece together your relationship. When she noticed Logan's dog tags around his neck, her curiosity won out.

“Were you in the army?” she asked, her voice soft but direct. “Don’t those mean you were in the army?”

Logan’s face hardened instantly, and without a word, he tucked the tags back under his shirt. You reached over and lightly touched his arm, grounding him. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in his shoulders eased at your touch. You had that effect on him—an unspoken comfort.

Rogue looked around the truck, her eyes sweeping over the worn seats, the cluttered dashboard, the makeshift home you'd both created on the road. "Wow," she murmured, her voice filled with a mix of wonder and disbelief.

“What?” you and Logan asked in unison, making her pause.

“Suddenly, my life doesn’t look so bad,” she said bluntly, though there was no malice in her tone, just raw honesty.

You scoffed lightly at her words, but it was more amused than offended. “Hey, if you prefer the road…”

“No, no!” Rogue quickly shook her head, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It looks great. Cozy, even.”

You noticed her rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them. Without a second thought, you turned the heater on and gestured towards the vents. “Here, put your hands by the heater,” you suggested warmly, moving to help her.

She recoiled instantly, her body language suddenly tense. “It’s nothing personal,” she explained hurriedly, slipping her gloves back on. “It’s just… when people touch my skin, something happens.”

You furrowed your brow in concern, your curiosity piqued. “What kind of something?” you asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Rogue admitted, her voice quieter now. “They just get hurt.”

There was a heavy silence, only broken by Logan's low voice. “Fair enough,” he grunted, taking a drag from his cigar as he gripped the wheel.

“When they come out, does it hurt?” Rogue asked, her gaze shifting to Logan’s hands.

“Every time,” Logan responded gruffly, but his hand reflexively tightened under yours. You glanced at Logan, noticing his usual stoic expression falter for just a second. You placed your hand gently on his thigh, offering comfort. He didn’t flinch—your touch was something that always calmed him. Even after all this time, you knew the pain he felt from his claws coming out lingered, not just physically, but deep in his mind. You squeezed his thigh gently, silently reminding him he wasn’t alone in this.

“So… what kind of name is Rogue?” Logan asked after a beat, clearly trying to shift the conversation.

Rogue smiled faintly, catching on. “I don’t know. What kind of name is Wolverine?”

You let out a soft laugh before speaking up. “His name is Logan,” you teased, giving Logan a playful nudge. He rolled his eyes but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, betraying his amusement.

Rogue’s curiosity didn’t stop there. “Marie,” she said, introducing herself. “Are you like us? Why don’t you have a code name?”

You shrugged, glancing out the window as the road stretched endlessly ahead. “Yeah, I can heal people,” you said, a bit casually. “But I guess I’ve never really had a reason to come up with one.”

Rogue seemed to take a liking to you, her smile warmer now. “You should think of one. Something cool.”

“I’ll let ya know when I do,” you smiled back at her, then turned to Logan, who was watching the exchange silently. There was something unspoken between the three of you now—a connection. Maybe not a family, but something close enough to survive the road ahead.

“You know, you should wear your seatbelt,” Rogue said, breaking the tense silence that had settled in the truck.

Logan glanced sideways at her, the edge in his voice unmistakable. “Hey, look, kid, I don’t need advice on auto safety–”

Before he could finish, the truck lurched violently as it crashed headlong into a fallen tree, the impact cutting him off mid-sentence. The force sent Logan hurtling through the windshield, shattering glass in every direction. Your heart pounded as you braced against the dashboard, barely processing the chaos.

By the time you gathered your senses, you could already see Logan slowly standing up outside, a deep gouge in his face knitting itself back together as his healing factor kicked in.

“You guys alright?” His voice, gruff but steady, called out.

You nodded, shaken but unhurt, though your eyes immediately darted to Rogue. She was clearly panicking, her hands gripping the seat tightly. “I’m stuck!” she shouted, her voice rising with fear.

Logan’s attention snapped to something behind you. His nose twitched, and his expression darkened, eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air. That familiar, unnerving look crossed his face—the one that always signalled danger.

“Lo?” you asked cautiously, fear creeping into your voice as his claws suddenly unsheathed with a menacing snikt.

Before you could react, a massive figure lunged out of the darkness, crashing into Logan with bone-crushing force and throwing him into a nearby tree. The sickening sound of the impact echoed in the night.

“Logan!” You screamed, heart racing. Instinctively, you scrambled to get out of the truck, but your attention shifted to the trailer, where flames were already licking at the edges. Rogue needed help, and fast.

You turned back to her, torn between rushing to Logan’s side or getting Rogue to safety. The loud, bone-rattling sound of Logan’s body slamming onto the roof of the truck made your decision for you. You forced yourself to trust that Logan would be okay—he always was.

The fire roared louder, and the truck groaned under the heat, its metal frame straining. You leaned over toward Rogue, your voice trying to sound calm despite the chaos. “It’s gonna be okay, I’ve got you.”

Panic flared in Rogue’s eyes, but she nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The fire cast eerie shadows, growing brighter as the situation worsened. You kept trying to reassure her, working quickly to free her from the seatbelt.

Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted, and you spotted two figures in the distance. A beam of energy shot toward the towering man attacking Logan, sending him flying back. Your heart pounded harder—whoever they were, they were helping.

Just as you managed to loosen Rogue’s seatbelt, the truck door was ripped open. A man stood there, his face set with determination. Without a word, he shot a beam of red light from his eyes, severing the seatbelt in one clean hit. His presence was commanding, and there was no time to question it.

“Come on!” he shouted, pulling you and Rogue free just as the truck exploded behind you. The force of the blast sent heat and debris in every direction, but you were already clear, tumbling into the dirt with Rogue at your side.

The hum of the jet’s engines filled the cabin, but it did little to calm your nerves. Logan lay on a stretcher nearby, still unconscious, his usual tough exterior softened by sleep. His face was unmarred now, thanks to his healing factor, but you could sense the tension still lingering in the air. You sat beside him, your hand resting on his arm, grounding yourself in the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Across from you, Rogue sat stiffly in her seat, her wide eyes darting between the unfamiliar figures in the cockpit. The man behind the controls—Cyclops—glanced back occasionally, his visor hiding any readable expression. The woman beside him, with striking white hair and an air of quiet calm, gave you a reassuring smile before turning her attention back to the flight.

You could feel the tension building in your chest. The silence was heavy, and finally, you couldn't hold back any longer. “Where are you taking us?” you asked, your voice sharper than intended. Your protective instincts were on high alert.

Storm turned her chair slightly to face you, her tone gentle but firm. “We’re taking you to a safe place—the X-Mansion. You’ll be protected there.”

You frowned, glancing down at Logan before meeting her eyes again. “Protected from what? Who are you people?”

Cyclops turned slightly in his seat, his posture rigid. “We’re mutants, like you and Logan. We’re part of the X-Men—a group that helps others like us.”

Your grip on Logan’s arm tightened slightly, a defensive reaction to the unknown. “And how do you know so much about us?” you asked, your voice edged with suspicion. You hadn’t trusted anyone in years, especially not people who seemed to know more than they were letting on.

Storm met your gaze, her expression softening with understanding. “We’ve been monitoring unusual activity involving mutants in the area. Logan’s powers—his healing factor, his claws—aren’t exactly subtle, and neither are yours. We knew you’d eventually need help.”

Your stomach twisted uneasily at the thought of being watched. “So, what—you’ve just been spying on us?”

Cyclops shook his head, his tone steady but firm. “It’s not like that. We monitor for mutant activity because we’ve seen what happens when people like us get caught by the wrong hands. We’re trying to prevent that from happening to you.”

Your eyes narrowed, scepticism flaring. “You mean like the people who attacked us?”

“Exactly,” Storm said softly. “There are people out there—organisations—that hunt mutants. They want to control us, or worse, eliminate us. We’ve seen it happen.”

The words hit harder than you expected, the reality of what she was saying sinking in. You and Logan had been on the run for so long, always keeping a low profile, always expecting the next fight. But somehow, they had still found you.

Rogue, sensing the tension in the air, shifted in her seat. “So… this mansion,” she asked tentatively, “what is it, like a school?”

Storm nodded, her expression softening as she addressed Rogue. “Yes, it’s a school where mutants learn to control their powers. But it’s also a home, a place where you don’t have to hide who you are.”

Rogue’s eyes lit up slightly at the idea. “That sounds… kind of nice,” she murmured, clearly intrigued by the thought of not having to be afraid of her own abilities.

You, on the other hand, remained wary. “And what about Logan?” you pressed, your gaze flicking back to him. “What happens to him?”

Cyclops turned in his seat to face you fully. “Logan will be safe. Professor Xavier—he’s the one who runs the school—can help him. He’s helped a lot of us.”

“Help him how?” you asked, brow furrowing. You had spent years watching Logan battle with the fragments of his memory, struggling to piece together the life he could barely remember. The idea of someone messing with his mind didn’t sit right with you.

“Xavier’s a telepath,” Storm explained, her voice gentle. “He can help Logan recover memories, if that’s what he wants.”

Your stomach twisted again at the thought of someone digging through Logan’s head, dredging up things that might be better left forgotten. “And what if he doesn’t want to remember?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost pleading.

“That’s his choice,” Cyclops said simply. “We’re not forcing him into anything. But at least he’ll have the chance to decide.”

You glanced down at Logan, his usually sharp, focused expression softened in sleep. The thought of him having answers, of finally putting the pieces together, was tempting, but the risks felt too high.

Rogue’s voice broke through your thoughts. “So… there’s more of us? At the mansion?”

Storm smiled, her eyes warm. “Yes. There are students and teachers—others like you who are learning to control their abilities.”

Rogue looked over at you, her expression hopeful, and you offered her a small nod, though your own uncertainty still weighed heavily on you. “Maybe it’s not so bad after all,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone.

You weren’t so sure. Trust didn’t come easily, especially after so many years of running, hiding, and fighting to survive. But as the jet sped through the sky, you couldn’t help but wonder—maybe, just maybe, this place could offer something different. Something better.

Your hand squeezed Logan’s gently, your thumb brushing over his knuckles as the X-Mansion came into view through the jet’s window.

You sat in Charles Xavier’s office, the weight of the past few hours pressing down on your chest. The polished wood desk, the rows of ancient books, and the stillness of the room seemed surreal, a stark contrast to the chaos you had barely escaped. Your thoughts wandered to Logan, who was being monitored in the basement by Jean Grey. You hated being apart from him after everything that had happened.

The door creaked open, and instinctively, your head shot up. Logan stepped into the room, looking a bit out of place in black sweatpants and an oversized X-Men sweater, half-zipped and worn without a shirt. His eyes immediately scanned the room, searching for you, and when they found you, the tension in his shoulders eased.

You stood up from your chair and crossed the room to meet him halfway. The second you were within reach, Logan pulled you into a firm embrace, his arms wrapping around you tightly as if confirming you were real, safe. His grip was strong, a little desperate, and you could feel the exhaustion radiating from him.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, but thick with concern.

You pressed your face against his chest, the familiar warmth of him grounding you. “I’m fine,” you whispered. “What about you?”

Logan pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His eyes searched yours, lingering for a moment longer than usual, as if ensuring you were truly unharmed. “I’m alright,” he said softly, but his expression tightened. “Where’s the girl?” he asked, referring to Rogue.

“Rogue? She’s here, safe,” Charles answered calmly from behind his desk.

Logan’s attention snapped to Charles, his brows furrowing. “Really?”

Before you could say anything else, the door opened again. Two people entered—one a tall man with a visor, the other a striking woman with white hair. Their expressions were calm, but serious, a contrast to the light banter you often shared with Logan.

Charles wheeled forward slightly, gesturing to them. “Ah, Logan, I’d like you to meet Ororo Munroe, also known as Storm, and Scott Summers, also called Cyclops.”

You smiled at them in recognition, offering a small, polite hello. They nodded back, their gazes assessing but not unfriendly.

Another figure walked in behind them, a woman with red hair and a composed presence.

“And I believe you’ve already met Dr. Jean Grey,” Charles added with a faint smile.

Logan gave a nod but remained guarded, his eyes following Jean as she moved to stand next to Charles.

“You’re in my school for the gifted,” Charles continued. “For mutants. You’ll be safe here from Magneto.”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest, his scepticism apparent. “What’s a Magneto?” The question came out almost simultaneously from both you and Logan, and you shared a small look.

Charles didn't seem fazed by the interruption. “He’s a very powerful mutant who believes a war is brewing between mutants and the rest of humanity.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a real stand-up guy.”

Charles pressed on, his voice measured. “I’ve been following his activities for some time. The man who attacked you is one of his associates—someone known as Sabretooth.”

Logan’s brow shot up at that, and a short, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Sabretooth?” His tone dripped with sarcasm as he turned toward Storm, pointing at her with a click of his tongue, “Storm.”

He shifted his gaze to Charles, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What do they call you? Wheels?”

A brief silence hung in the air as Logan’s remark settled. You shot him a look, trying to rein in the humour bubbling up, but his teasing was a small relief after the stress of the day.

Charles, unflappable, merely smiled. But Logan wasn’t done. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. With a quick glance at you, he grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door. “Come on, let’s get outta here.”

Before you could even react, Scott stepped into Logan’s path, blocking the exit. Logan immediately dropped your hand and squared off with Scott, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him closer.

“Cyclops, right? You wanna get out of my way?” Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Logan, stop,” you urged, stepping forward and reaching for his arm. “Just hear him out, okay?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his muscles coiling as if he was ready for a fight, but he stayed still. You could feel the tension between him and Scott, thick in the air.

Before things could escalate, Charles spoke again, his voice calm but firm. “Logan,” he said quietly, his tone cutting through the room. “It’s been almost 15 years, hasn’t it? Living from day to day, moving from place to place, with no memory of who or what you are.”

Logan’s grip on Scott loosened, his expression shifting. “Shut up,” he muttered, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

Charles didn’t stop. “Give me a chance,” he said gently. “I may be able to help you find some answers.”

Logan looked over at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “How do you know?” he asked, his voice low but edged with vulnerability.

Instead of answering aloud, Charles’ voice echoed in Logan’s mind. You could see the brief flash of shock on his face as he realised what had just happened.

Logan blinked, the hard edges of his expression softening into a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “What is this place?” he asked, a faint, bemused grin tugging at his lips.

Charles smiled kindly. “Come,” he said, gesturing to both of you. “I’ll show you two around.”

Mars speaks... (again) guess who finally updated!! Any and all feedback is always appreciated🫶

Tags... @annagraceevanss @jane-the-virgin0 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @paintlavillered @morganas-pendragons @lanabobana @inthetub @kellyxo1 @lillycore @twinky-wink @politicstanner @emiemiemiii @savy-luvs-dilfs @charlyrmv @rockerchick05 @londonbeachgirl @lefroggie @swthxrrry @marifilue @th3mrskory @aesthetic0cherryblossom

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine #wolverine x reader #hugh jackman #x men #deadpool and wolverine #fanfiction #mini series #Scars of Time #reidsworld

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chukys-mouthguard · 2 days

Text

broken memories pt. 4

3.2k words

-> sequel to kinda tempting

featuring -> mat barzal x female reader x matt rempe

warnings -> mentions of loss of pregnancy/miscarriage

genre -> angst/suggested smut

After you’d posted the official statement to the Rangers socials, a flood of messages began pouring in. Your phone was blowing up to the point you couldn’t keep track. Many of Matt’s teammates had come to find you at the practice facility to offer their condolences, none of them having a clue as Matt never shared the news. Wanting to wait until you felt ready to tell everyone.

Your boss offered for you to head home early, figuring there was a lot on your mind and wanting to give you the afternoon to yourself. Which you didn’t feel was needed, however she insisted on it when you tried to protest.

Upon returning to your apartment, you’d found several floral arrangements had been delivered for you. The front desk of your building had held them all until you’d gotten home, then brought them up for you and left your kitchen island looking like a floral shop.

Looking through the cards you’d felt so much love and gratitude for everyone that had sent them. Despite it having been a little over a month now, you still had days that were harder than others. So now that you’d been able to share the news, and let people in on things, it made the weight on your shoulders a bit less heavy.

As you made it to the last floral arrangement, you’d found a card that was not one you expected to see. It was from Mat. The message leaves you a bit confused as you put it back on its peg in the arrangement. It wasn’t to offer his condolences about the loss, it was rather him reaching out to see if you’d thought any further about the conversation you’d had the other night. Then proceeding to tell you that he loved you, and always would. You weren’t sure whether or not you should throw out the flowers or smash the vase on the floor. The last thing you’d wanted to deal with today was anything other than the fallout of your announcement. Knowing that Matt would soon be coming over and you didn’t want to bother him with the situation.

You opted to place some of the flowers around your apartment, then naturally you pulled out your computer to get some more work done. With the season gearing up you couldn’t afford to fall behind, so you were backlogging content to ensure you’d have plenty of things to post daily. By the time you’d finished editing a few Tik Toks and Instagram Reels, it had been almost three hours. Matt was now walking in the door, his hair still damp from practice as he smiled seeing all the flowers that still sat on the island.

“Wow, did you decide to quit your job and become a florist?”

You smirked at him as you put your laptop away, walking over to give him a hug and a kiss before you started on dinner.

“Yeah, there’s honestly this one player on the team I can’t stand, Rempe is his name. Not sure if you know him? So I decided to just quit and work with flowers.”

He laughed as he looked at each of the arrangements, glancing at the messages of condolences and support from so many people.

“How are you feeling? My phone has been blowing up, kind of shocked to see how many people were reaching out. And people who have gone through similar things you know?”

You nodded as you prepped a pan for some chicken, then searched the cupboard for all the necessary spices.

“It is nice to feel like we aren’t alone. I honestly was a bit overwhelmed by it all. But I was really touched by the love and support everyone is showing for us. And for all the flowers, like holy shit!”

Both of you laughed as Matt went back to the flowers, smelling them and inspecting the different ones he’d never seen before.

“Y/n, what’s this?”

You glanced back at him as you finished setting the chicken into the pan. Squinting a bit as he held up one of the cards, unable to see anything that was written on it. Shrugging your shoulders as you didn’t want to state the obvious, but you weren’t sure what to tell him.

“A note?”

“From Barzal? You can’t be serious?”

You dropped your fork on the counter as you quickly tried to protest, wishing you would’ve tossed the card in the trash but it had clearly slipped your mind.

“Matt, listen. Let me explain, because it’s not what you think.”

“Hope you had a chance to think over our conversation from the other night. It’s always been you, I love you so much. I always will. Are you fucking kidding? Why am I never going to be good enough for you? Here I thought I’d finally been chosen by you, and he’s right there in the background trying to steal you away again. I’m always going to be second to him aren’t I?”

You watched Matt as he paced the floor, soon slumping onto the couch as his head rested in his hands. His body held tight to itself as he shook his head. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of it all.

You hated hearing him speak so negatively about himself, especially when none of the things he was saying were true. You were in no way putting him second or choosing anyone over him, but you could see how the note made him feel that way. And no matter what you said or how hard you tried to explain, you knew he wouldn’t believe you right now. These feelings clearly still present for him despite the fact you two had begun rebuilding things.

“Matt, please. If you just let me explain, you’ll understand that is not what’s happening.”

Matt pushed away your touch, pacing the floor as he tried to decide whether or not it was worth opening up about this. Despite the two of you working on starting over, his insecurities about not being good enough would always remain.

“Look, I get it. The way things began with us, wasn’t normal or how it should have happened. And certainly you getting pregnant wasn’t planned. But my feelings for you have never wavered, and I wake up everyday knowing that it’s you. Not because of a baby, not because of anything other than I want to be with you. Despite everything, it’s only you y/n. And the fact that he is still in the background, trying to be with you, I can’t win!”

Matt grabbed the flowers from the vase Mat sent you, tossing them to the ground as he needed to channel his frustrations somehow.

“Yeah I’m jealous. Sure I’m insecure. Because I’m never first choice, I never have been okay? So I’m sorry that for once I thought I was good enough to be someone’s first choice. And if you don’t feel that way, then why did we bother starting over?”

You were speechless, tears in your eyes seeing how upset he was. Not knowing that he still felt like there was even a chance you would leave him for Barzal. To know he had always felt like the second choice, or that he wasn’t worthy of being with you, it broke your heart. And before you could respond, he was grabbing his things to head for the door.

“Matt, wait please!”

But he was gone without another word, leaving you to regret not having just simply thrown out the note from Mat. You headed back to the kitchen, tending to the food on the stove that was close to overcooking. Though now your appetite has come and gone, simply packing up the food before retreating to your bedroom for the night.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, maybe an hour or two, but you were jolted awake by the sound of knocking at your door. Checking the time, you questioned who would be there at almost midnight. Surely it wasn’t Matt, he had a key.

Slowly making your way to the door, you were shocked to see Mat Barzal on the other side. Reluctant to open the door you hesitated, questioning whether this was a good idea. Especially after the fight you’d just had with Matt over the note, you didn’t want any more drama to stem from Barzal stopping by.

Though curiosity got the best of you, and you’d unlocked the door, slowly opening it to see Mat standing there with a relieved smile on his face.

“Hey, I wasn’t sure you’d come to the door. Can I come in?”

Nodding your head you moved to the side, letting him in as he scanned the tens of flower arrangements on your counter.

“Wow, my flowers must not have seemed as meaningful to you today huh?”

His sarcastic tone caught you off guard as he almost seemed annoyed, clearly he hadn’t seen your post today or else he’d understand.

“Yeah, sorry I lost a baby and now your flowers don’t mean as much as the ones sent with condolences Mat.”

He looked to you confused, then realizing you must have finally made a statement, immediately cursing himself for being such an ass and making it about him once again.

“I’m sorry, truly. That wasn’t right to say. Of course these flowers were more meaningful to you right now.”

His eyes scanned the arrangements before finding a bundle of flowers on the floor, his heart sinking as he realized they were the ones he’d picked out.

“But it seems like you didn’t like them regardless.”

A soft chuckle left his lips as he bent down to pick them up, tossing them in the garbage as you could feel your frustration building by the second. Still unsure why he’d come all the way to your apartment if it were just to cause issues.

“Why are you here Barzal? If it’s to be an asshole then leave. It’s not the day for this.”

He was a bit caught off guard by you calling him by his last name, something you only did when you were angry with him.

“You didn’t text or call, I wanted to see if you’d gotten the flowers and my message.”

“Oh I got it, and your flowers ruined everything. So thank you so much, I love them!”

You crossed your arms over your chest as you looked to him for anything further, but he was unsure what to say. Not expecting to come here and argue. In his mind he’d planned on you telling him you thought about everything and wanted him back. Because that’s how Mat’s brain worked, that he was number one always. Everyone always picked him, folded for him and gave in. But he could see that wasn’t the case with you anymore.

“Where is this coming from? Don’t tell me you’re actually picking him? Did our relationship mean nothing to you? I broke off my engagement for you y/n! It’s always been you for me, and this is how you treat me?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! You did that all by yourself. And no, the cheating on me meant everything to me. It ruined me. It pushed me away and I’m sorry but whether I did the same thing back to you, I will never look at you the same. I’ll never choose you. I can’t.”

Mat’s mind was racing, he couldn’t fathom you not choosing him. To be turned down by the girl he thought he could always run back to, it was a deep cut to his ego.

“Because you two were going to have a baby? After a one night stand? You just throw everything we had away for Rempe? I don’t understand how you could pick him over me y/n!”

“Because I love him!”

The words hadn’t even registered in your mind before you spoke them, catching yourself off guard as much as you’d caught Mat in the same position.

“Oh really? You love him?”

Mat took a step closer to you, his eyes scanning your face to try and read your thoughts. Not thinking as he acted on his impulse, his hand moving to cup your cheek as he crashed his lips to yours. Your hands immediately came up in protest, pushing against his chest to get him away from you. Followed by your hand striking him across the cheek, letting him know you were serious.

“Yes, I love him. With my whole fucking heart. I am choosing him, and I will continue to choose him every single day from now on. Because he isn’t going to treat me like you did. He’s selfless, kind, loving, understanding. He doesn’t expect me to melt at his feet and fold for him like you do. He feels like the luckiest man every single day to have me by his side. Something you took for granted the day you chose to cheat on me. So yes, I love him. And it’s always going to be him. Now get the fuck out.”

Without another word Mat headed for the door, speechless as he took one last look at you before you’d shut and locked the door behind him. Retreating back to your bedroom, checking your phone for a text or call from Matt, but nothing. You could feel the tears welling in your eyes at the thought of losing him for good this time, after finally realizing how much he truly meant to you. Not bothering with it being almost one in the morning, you typed out a quick text before plugging your phone in.

I know you probably hate me, I’m sorry. But I promise, I will always choose you. I love you.

The sound of your apartment door unlocking startled you, but you’d quickly calmed down as you knew it could only be Matt. Your heart skipping a beat as you were relieved he’d come back, telling you that he wasn’t too mad to stay away. Soon enough his tall frame was in the doorway of your bedroom, his silhouette illuminated by the moonlight that was shining through your window. His chest was rising and falling quickly, likely due to the fact he’d sprinted upstairs from the parking garage.

“Did you mean it?”

His voice was soft as he slowly made his way over to you, seeing that your eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Your emotions getting the best of you as you were happy to know he’d come back, his words not registering in your brain.

“What?”

He sat on the bed next to you, taking your hand in his as his thumb slowly brushed over the skin.

“Your text, did you mean it?”

All you could do was nod your head, Matt inching closer to you as his hand made its way to your cheek. His touch sent chills down your spine as his lips now hovered over yours, teasing you ever so slightly as his eyes held contact with yours.

Before you could apologize again for earlier, his lips crash onto yours. His hand tangled into your hair as the other pulled you into his lap. The two of you fought one another for control as Matt moved so his back was resting against the headboard. A smirk on his lips as he could sense how eager you were for his touch, your text message still vivid in his mind. The idea that you’d chosen him, that you only wanted him, it excited him in the moment even more.

His hands held your hips as he grinded you down against him, not embarrassed about the growing erection that was beneath his sweatpants. A smile on your lips as you let out a soft giggle at the feeling, though you loved knowing he was turned on by you. His hands roaming your body before pulling your lips back to his. The kiss now more intense than before, his tongue slipping past your lip as he took control, but did his best to keep things soft.

This wasn’t about getting right to sex in his mind, it was about taking his time to savor the first fuck after you confessed your love for him. And he couldn’t wait to hear the words fall from your lips. He knew the moment you’d said the words to him, he would be like putty in your hands.

“Can I hear you say it? Please?”

He voice was breathy as he smile at you, his hands moving to play with the hem of your oversized tshirt that had now rode up on your thighs. Exposing your skin to him as your ass slightly peeked out from under the fabric, resting firmly in his lap against his cock that was painfully needing its escape from his sweats.

You smiled down at him, brushing his hair from his face as your fingers traced his features. Your thumb brushing over his bottom lip before stealing a kiss, your hands resting at the back of his neck as you looked down at him.

“I love you Matthew Rempe. So fucking much. Today, tomorrow, and the next day after that. It’s you, I choose you. And no one else.”

Without warning he quickly flipped you over, now hovering over you as he laughed at the small shriek you’d let out at his action. His hips grinding into you as his lips kissed from yours down to your neck, pulling up your shirt to kiss down your chest until he reached the string of your thong.

Looking up at you his smile faded, a more serious look on his face as he hooked his fingers under the string of your thongs. Slowly pulling in down your legs and tossing it to the side, his sweats soon followed suit before he’d found his place above you again.

Your hand slipping between the two of you to help guide his cock to your slit, the two of your letting out a soft moan as he’d slowly thrusted into you.

“Fuck, Matt.”

Gripping his biceps he’d waited for you to adjust to him, his thrusts slowly starting as he felt you ease up on your grip. Your legs instinctually wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, his arms now resting on either side of your head as his lips met yours, swallowing your moans as he’d begun to pick up his pace.

Fingers tangling in his hair as his lips moved to your neck, kissing and biting at your skin as he could feel your pussy clenching around him, letting him know you were slowly reaching your peak. But he didn’t want this to end so quickly, needing to take his time and be sure to love every inch of you. To show you how much he loved you and needed you. His thrusts ceased as he brushed your hair from your face, his thumb brushing over the skin of your cheek as he smiled down at you.

“You make me the happiest man in the world. And I promise to never make you regret choosing me. I love you so much.”

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stellayuta · 2 days

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Racing Hearts! - F1 Driver! Gojo Satoru (A LOTG spinoff) - Part 2

Part 1

synopsis: Ferrari sensation Gojo Satoru dominates headlines and social media with his unmatched driving prowess and intriguing personal life. Yet, beneath the surface, Gojo harbors a secret that could shake up the F1 world. An unrelenting F1 journalist, determined to unearth the truth, becomes his unexpected adversary—one who might finally expose the enigma that is Gojo Satoru.

content: mdni/18+, formula one x jujutsu kaisen, afab!reader, eventual enemies to lovers, angst, themes of isolation, mental health themes, swearing, suggestive themes

author's note: I've decided that we all deserve F1 Gojo as much as we deserved F1 Yuta. Hope the jjk and formula one fans enjoy this. This will be much more drama packed than LOTG. Keep following along!

word count: 1.8k

Gojo Satoru knew that the weight on his abdomen was off by a pound or two. Had you lost weight?

"Wake up, already" you coo at him teasingly. "You're such a sloth, 'Toru."

"Mmmm...." Gojo stretches his neck back to its limit and places his hands on either side of your hips. "Five more minutes."

Gojo opens his eyes a little to see you perched on his crotch comfortably. He likes the view. Annoying little leech Y/N, her spaghetti strap falling off on one shoulder, her satiny dress bunching up under her breasts.

"It's media day, you have to wake up!"

"You wake up too. Don't you have work on media day." Satoru groans. "Wear something red."

"Red?" your voice suddenly turns darker. "Shouldn't I be wearing teal?"

Gojo furrows his brows and looks at you. "What d'ya mean?"

"Satoru Gojo, aren't you abandoning Ferrari and shifting to Mercedes?" you cock your head to the side as Gojo's eyes pop open like glowing bulbs as he realizes what you are saying.

"N-no. It's not... How did you know?"

"I know everything... and soon, everyone will." you whisper as you lean down to place your lips on his, your silhouette melting away into the air as the room goes dark.

The sharp ringing of his 6AM alarm slaps Gojo awake.

For a minute he lays there, his breath on a high tempo, unsure of where he is. He looks around for any sign of you - a shoe, a dress, a lipstick. Nothing. You were a dream.

A nightmare.

He slaps his cheeks, trying to normalize his breaths. "Wake up, Satoru!" he tells himself, much like you did, in his dream.

Gojo sits up in bed, ruffling his white hair and blinking at the slivers of early morning light creeping through the hotel curtains. The cool, sterile silence of his Monaco penthouse is replaced by the humid buzz of Singapore. The thin layer of sweat on his skin serves as an immediate reminder that he’s far from home.

Gojo rolls out of bed, stretching his long limbs as he paces to the window. The view outside reveals the glittering skyline, the bustling preparations for the Singapore Grand Prix starting below. The Marina Bay Sands glimmers in the distance, but Gojo's mind is elsewhere.

The weight of the upcoming media day hangs over him like a storm cloud. As one of Ferrari's marquee drivers, he knows every question will be a potential landmine, especially after yet another disappointing season without a championship. Every reporter will try to pull the truth out of him. There will be questions about his future at Ferrari.

"You’re really losing it, Satoru." he mutters as he heads to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. "Dreaming about that leech? Are you really that freaked out?" His reflection in the mirror stares back at him, mocking him with that same charismatic grin he's perfected for the cameras.

He pats his face dry with a crisp white towel, then tosses it aside, grabbing his phone to check the time—6:15 AM. He had about forty-five minutes before the media onslaught would begin.

Breakfast first, he thinks, as he throws on a Ferrari polo and a pair of sunglasses, slipping effortlessly into his public persona.

"Smile for your lovers!" He tells himself. "Smile, or they won't have a nice day!" He tugs at the corners of his mouth, coaching himself.

In the hotel’s bustling breakfast area, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the warm aroma of pastries and eggs. Gojo grabs a plate and scans the room for Yuji Itadori, his teammate. Sure enough, he spots Yuji already sitting at a corner table, enthusiastically chatting with some team engineers, gesturing wildly with a piece of toast in his hand. His face glows with enthusiasm when he sees Gojo walking towards them.

"Sensei!!!!" he yelps out, extending his hands towards Gojo.

"For fuck's sake, I've only taught you for two days, when you were a rookie."

"Whatever. Gojo sensei it is!" Yuji says, shaking his head like a puppy.

"How come you're up this early though? I was about to walk up to your room and create a scene." Yuji comments mischievously.

"Media day. No choice, right?" Gojo says, sliding into the seat next to Yuji. He wouldn't tell him about the dream. Or about the teal.

He gives a casual nod to the engineers, who quickly retreat to give the two drivers their space.

Yuji digs into a bowl of fruit, talking between bites. "You ready for it? They’re probably gonna hammer us about the car upgrades again. If I hear one more question about tire degradation, I might throw a pizza slice at them, mamma mia!"

"That's a sad rendition of the Italian mannerisms." Gojo comments, raising an eyebrow.

Before the playful banter can go any further, Gojo finds his phone vibrating.

—this time, a reminder about the team's pre-media meeting. He stands, adjusting his sunglasses, already slipping into the character the world knows him as.

"C'mon, Yuji. Let’s get this show started."

Gojo stood just outside the press conference room, one hand resting against the cool wall as he took a slow, deliberate breath. The air inside the venue was a mixture of anticipation and tension, thick enough to taste.

He entered the press conference room, his signature confident smirk in place, but beneath it, for the first time in his career, he felt something foreign—nerves. The weight of the rumors, the nightmare from this morning, and the pressure of yet another championship slipping away all collided in his mind. His sunglasses remained perched on his nose, shielding his eyes from the bright flashes of cameras. He took his seat at the front of the room, the Ferrari emblem standing bold and bright against his chest. The other drivers filed in slowly, taking their places for the press conference. Geto Suguru from Red Bull sat to his left, already engaged in conversation with one of the FIA officials, while Yuta Okkotsu and Inumaki Toge from Mercedes filled the spots on the far side. The media room was packed, buzzing with anticipation.

The moderator cleared his throat, signaling the start of the event. Gojo knew his turn would come first—being Ferrari’s star driver in the midst of swirling headlines made him the immediate focus.

“Gojo Satoru,” the moderator began, his voice cutting through the ambient chatter. “There have been several rumors about your future with Ferrari. Could you tell us if there's any truth to the reports linking you to a potential move to Mercedes next season?”

Gojo cleared his throat, trying to find his usual rhythm. “You know, I’ve heard the rumors too,” he began, flashing a grin at the reporters. “But I think people have been watching too much Netflix. Ferrari’s my team, and I’m fully focused on bringing home the championship for them. Anything else is just… background noise.”

Lies. Straight through his teeth. Sheer lies.

He tried not to but he made a split second eye contact with Mercedes' team principal - Toto Wolff, who nodded at him.

The reporters scribbled furiously, cameras clicking nonstop. It was a polished answer, the kind Gojo had given a thousand times before, but something in his chest remained unsettled.

The moderator then aimed his next arrow at Okkotsu's heart.

"Regardless of Mr. Satoru's answers, how do you feel about him as a potential teammate for next year's season, Mr. Yuta?"

Yuta looked slightly taken aback by the question. He took one swift glance at Inumaki and said - "It is up to the team. I have good rapport with Toge, here. I'm sure I'll do well with Satoru although, it will be sad to see my dear friend, Toge leave."

A diplomatic answer. Expected from Yuta.

The next question snapped Gojo back to reality.

“Gojo, with Ferrari’s recent struggles, do you think you still have what it takes to win a championship this season?” one reporter asked, clearly digging for tension.

But it wasn't the words, it was the voice that shook Gojo up. It was the same lips kissing him in his dream this morning. Gojo Satoru jerks back into his chair.

"I-I-"

"Do you think Ferrari have a good reason to keep you in?" you press, furrowing your brows. The reporters around you sense this strange animosity brewing between the two of you and start mumbling among themselves.

At that moment, Gojo feels utterly alone in the room.

"We will do whatever it takes to win! That is Ferrari's way of doing things!" a voice cuts through the silence. It is Ferrari's number 2 - Yuji.

A calmness takes over Gojo after Yuji's declaration.

Gojo leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other as he flashed a cheeky grin. “Do I think I still have what it takes? Come on, have you seen me race?” He let the laughter ripple through the room before continuing, his voice a touch more serious. “Look, the season’s not over yet. We’ve had some ups and downs, sure. But if anyone can turn this around, it’s me. Ferrari’s still in the fight.” He adds.

"Well then, I wish you two all the very best!" you say as you back out from the front row of reporters.

Good. You made them say that.

Gojo sat back in his chair, still trying to steady himself. The press conference had moved on, and the questions were now aimed at other drivers—strategies, tire management, technical updates—but the tension in his chest refused to settle. His mind raced, replaying the brief but intense exchange between the two of you.

He was shaken. Not by the technical questions being lobbed his way earlier, but by your presence, by that strange animosity that had crackled in the air. You weren’t just another reporter; there was something more. You had unsettled him in a way no one else had, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Across the room, the Mercedes team principals exchanged quiet words, their glances occasionally darting toward Gojo. Even though the spotlight had shifted to Yuta, who answered the questions with his usual calm professionalism, Gojo could sense the eyes watching him from all corners of the room.

Meanwhile, you stood among the other reporters, your pen idly tapping against your notepad, but your eyes were fixed on Gojo. You could feel it too—something was brewing in the background. The whispers about his potential move to Mercedes weren’t just rumors; they were part of a larger plan, something carefully orchestrated.

You weren’t sure how deep it went or who exactly was pulling the strings, but you knew one thing: Gojo couldn’t leave Ferrari. He belonged there. The thought of him jumping ship to Mercedes, of abandoning the prancing horse in its time of need, didn’t sit right with you. Something wasn’t adding up, and you felt the need to protect him.

With your job on the line, if you must.

You owe the timid boy from seven years ago, his face freshly red from his first race. You owe him that much.

To be continued...

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blabberoo · 4 months

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You've done this before...

Countless of times...

Why now?

Bonus :)

#dead cells #hyper light drifter #driftcells #the beheaded #bobby #tutorial knight #its angst time.. and i angst all over the place..#also sorry if there are mistakes in asl #thinking about drifter being his reason he started caring for both dead and the living...#he knows of his time being so limited. yet as he continue to fell for him...#that dawning fear slowly catches up..knowing that all of their experience will be nothing more than a memory #im ok :)#im not #my art

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pkmoth · 7 days

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having swap au thoughts. *slaps roof of claus* there's so much mental illness in this guy. im gonna blow up everyone in the room and then myself

#what if you felt unbearable guilt because your brother went missing in the two seconds you were separated #and you feel like there mustve been Something you couldve done to prevent it #if only you had stuck together. if only you hadnt let him tag along on your basically-a-suicide-mission in the first place #but none of those things happened so you go through three years blaming yourself #continuing to search for him because maybe hes still out there. and maybe exhausting yourself on an aimless search is a way you can atone #and then you're pulled into this big destiny adventure so your searching is put on the back burner #you're so busy doing important things and meeting new friends and there are points in your adventure where your heart feels lighter #and maybe you open up just a little about the crushing guilt you feel. and your new friends say it wasnt your fault #maybe you start accepting that your brother is really gone but you have to keep living your life #saving your brother was a far out dream but saving the world is something you have the power to do #so you try your best. so you dont fuck up this time #your guilt becomes the fuel keeping you going #and then at the end of your journey #you find out one of the biggest obstacles on your journey #the human chimera that you felt kinda horrified at and a little bad for even as you fought them #is your brother you've been mourning and agonizing over not being able to save #so um. The Guilt is even worse now #now he doesnt just feel responsible for his death. he Now feels responsible for him becoming this Creature Thing under porkys control #and in a lucas dies scenario. hoogh i cant imagine how claus would feel after that.......#however the thing that spurred this post was thinking about the lucas lives postgame scenario (it just got a bit out of hand lol) so.#your brother is alive and back home again and youre so unbelievably glad #but the guilt still creeps up every time you see how much hes Changed. physically and mentally #you had just started to accept the fact youd have to live without your brother but somehow having him back is almost just as painful #things cant just go back to how they were before. youll never be the exact same happy family as you used to be #its strange adjusting to having lucas back and its strange trying not to step on each others toes with their trauma #you cant help but be clingy because you couldnt bear it if he disappeared again under your watch #but nobody wants to be watched all the time especially when youre recovering from your brainwashed identity as an army commander #FUCK I REACHED THE TAG LIMIT I WANTED TO RAMBLE MORE AUGH. THEY MAKE ME SO ILL. i swear its not all angst theres some lightheartedness in it #mother 3 swap au #mothfics

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mrsstampede · 10 months

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Vash flower shop owner, vashmeryl au. Lol it's just so perfectly silly. I know so original and funny bc he's a plant he'd own a flower shop 🤪.

But these aus are so cute I can't help it lol.

Make it even more cheesy by making meryl the work addicted reporter who stops in to buy some flowers for a work event or maybe she reluctantly home for Christmas and stopping buy to get flowers for her mom/parents who she has a strained relationship with bc of course.

Vash being a literal angel on earth being a fan of Christmas and trying to get meryl to enjoy the Christmas spirt lol.

Even more cheese if they are ex lovers who broke up bc meryl went off to college and a big city while vash wanted to stay and live a more peaceful life .

Millywolf background being the high school sweethearts that made it and are happily married. That meryl watched and wonders if she made the wrong choice bc look at them being all gross and lovely and happy.

Maybe to add more silly drama if wolfwoods orphanage is being threatened to be shut down. Meryl having to choose her new story or reporting on this actual news story.

All that cheesy fun stuff lol

#idk man i just want some silly holiday cheesey romcom vashmeryl #with a hint of angst #vashmeryl #vash x meryl #ramblings #idk if knives is alive in this i forgot about ooop #probably somewhere being a grinchy butt #milly and vash would be vomiting holiday cheer all over the place #meryl says its all capitalism bull but she enjoys seeing vash so happy #vash would definitely spend the holidays helping out those in needs too #like donate his time at soup kitchens #things like that #the group probably all would make plans to go do stuff like that

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boatemboys · 5 months

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i forgot how much i like ahasbands/redwood?? whatever. theyre so domestic they make me sick

#jasper speaks #i always call them ahasbands but i saw someone say redwood which is cute but i prefer ahasbands #anyway. i think grumbo will always be my favourite mumbo ship but the pros of being a multishipper is everyone wins #i like to think they both have little copper rings. martyn keeps his orange and mumbos goes bluegreen #martyn keeps his orange because it reminds him of the spyglasses and last life as a whole #mumbo forgot about it and it turned bluegreen over time (except he didnt actually forget about it #the bluegreen reminds him of martyns warden parts)#i also think mumbo would keep his ring like. in a chest or in a pocket #because he doesnt like how rings feel (wow wonder where he got that from) (its me)#he keeps it in his pocket unless hes in a place where he could easily drop it and not realise (such as redstone or flying long distances)#in which case he'll put it in his ender chest #i could make some angst thing about martyn thinking mumbo hates him for making his ring dirty and keeping it buried in a chest #and mumbos just totally oblivious #what the fuck is my warden martyn tag again. this counts right #warden martyn rambles #i need to stop burying all of this in tags

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hubrishazard · 10 months

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If its true that 15 got therapy offscreen while living a domestic life as 14 then I think that's a cop out. Sorry

#dw spoilers #doctor who spoilers #ultimately its not a big deal since this show's plot is all over the place always anyway #but if the implication is that living a 'proper normal domestic life' is basically therapy? then im booing that #outside of how its resolved though #the potential decision here to resolve the time war ptsd arc is interesting and i feel like its a good idea #like after so long of the doctors character being so heavily informed by that trauma #changing up some of the fundamental-but-still-changeable aspects of the doctor helps keep the show interesting. keeps it evolving #in an ideal world the 'resolving time war ptsd' arc would be a whole season long and full of catharsis and angst #but if he just wants to do it offscreen so he can jump right into a new era of the show then i can see why #after writing 4 entire seasons of dr who heavily informed by the time war ptsd

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gutsby · 8 months

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Waiting Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.

Part 2 | Part 3

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.

At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.

All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.

From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.

Joel frowned.

“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.

“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”

That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.

Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.

“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”

“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.

He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.

You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.

“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.

But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.

“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”

In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.

“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.

“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.

“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”

Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.

A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.

You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.

“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.

Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.

You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.

Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.

Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.

The police officer hadn’t bought it.

He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.

You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.

Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.

This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.

But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.

“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.

“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”

He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.

“Needin’ a room?”

The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking, please.”

Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.

“King or two Queens?”

“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.

At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.

“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”

No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.

“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”

The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.

“Alright.”

Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.

Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.

He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,

“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”

You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.

You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.

You turned back to Joel.

“Here you go, Daddy.”

In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.

“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”

In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.

If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.

A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.

Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.

He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.

Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.

He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.

So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.

He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.

Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.

To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.

Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.

Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.

Fuck, he needed a shower.

Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.

You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’

But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.

Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.

All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.

That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.

For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.

Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.

Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.

Fuck this.

He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.

And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.

You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.

“Sofa’s broke,” you said.

Joel blinked.

“Broke?”

You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.

The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.

“You can sleep there.”

Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.

“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”

“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”

Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.

Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.

“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”

Fuck.

“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.

“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”

By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.

“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.

“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”

Joel swallowed.

“Tails, what?”

“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”

Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”

Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.

“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”

“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”

You raised both brows, mildly amused.

“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.

“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.

Joel tensed under your touch.

“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.

It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.

“What game?” he asked.

“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”

“Too Hot?”

“You heard me.”

“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”

Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.

The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.

Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.

“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.

He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.

“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”

Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,

“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”

To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.

“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”

Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.

And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.

You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.

“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.

“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.

“I bet you will.”

The man was a menace when he had the will to be.

At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.

“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.

“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.

Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.

His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.

Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.

“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”

Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.

“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”

“Twenty since I felt one this good.”

You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.

It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.

Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.

Even through the towel, he felt huge.

You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.

“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.

“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.

All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.

He peered down at you with a curious look.

“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.

You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.

You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.

“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.

Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.

“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.

You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.

“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”

Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.

“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”

Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”

Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.

You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.

“Joel.”

Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.

“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”

Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.

Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.

Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.

“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”

“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”

“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”

So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.

Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.

“Touch me, Joel, please.”

His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.

“Nah.”

Curt and cruel as ever. Then:

“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”

He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.

“Motherfucker.”

“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”

And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,

“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”

It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.

At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.

You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.

And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.

A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.

While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.

“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”

“Out.”

This motherfucker.

“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”

Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.

“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”

Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.

You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.

“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.

“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”

“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”

You stared him down, incredulous.

So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.

“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”

You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.

You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.

You were still hungry as shit.

Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.

You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.

By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.

You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.

You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.

Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.

What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.

You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’

Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.

In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.

You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.

Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.

You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.

Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.

“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.

You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.

You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,

“Like this?”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.

A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.

The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.

Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.

Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.

Well.

You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.

You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.

You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.

“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.

“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.

Daddy?

There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.

“Y’all been spying on us?”

“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.

You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.

“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.

It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.

“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.

“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.

You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.

Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.

“We’re about out.” Micah announced.

Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.

“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.

You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”

“Do I?”

You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.

He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.

“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”

The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.

“You think so?” you hummed.

“I do. I really do.”

“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.

“Wyatt can fight.”

Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”

Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.

“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”

“Six.”

“Fifteen at least.”

You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.

This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.

“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.

“Twenty.”

“Honey?”

The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.

It was Joel, of course.

Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.

Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.

“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.

Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.

‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.

Instinctively, you recoiled.

“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.

He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.

Joel raised both eyebrows.

“No?”

His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.

“Fuck no,” you answered.

A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,

“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”

“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”

No one moved.

Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.

Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.

“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.

“You’re a brat,” he fired back.

In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.

“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”

“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”

Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.

“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”

Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?

“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”

“If that’s what you—”

“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”

Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.

“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.

You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.

Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.

So you took off running.

Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.

You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.

“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.

Fat chance, Miller.

You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.

Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.

Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.

It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.

“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.

“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”

You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.

Then he pulled you over his lap.

Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.

“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”

You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.

“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.

Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.

“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.

Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,

“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”

You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.

“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.

Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.

“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.

Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,

“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”

You fuck with my head.

Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.

“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”

You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.

“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.

“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”

At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.

Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.

“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,

“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”

It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.

Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.

“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”

His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.

“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.

By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.

“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”

Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.

You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.

“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.

No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.

Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”

At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”

Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.

He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.

“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.

“Yeah.”

“How high?”

“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.

“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.

“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.

It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.

“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”

The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.

He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.

“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.

“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.

“Cobwebs and all.”

Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.

“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.

“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.

“So Prohibition-coded.”

“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”

You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.

At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.

Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’

No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.

No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.

Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.

“Good?”

“Great.”

You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.

“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”

“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.

His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.

“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.

The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.

In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.

When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.

Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—

“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”

Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.

“Joel, please,” you begged him.

“Baby, I’m—”

About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.

“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”

On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:

Dad 💙

Fuck.

FUCK.

Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.

You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.

Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.

“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.

Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.

“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”

But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.

It stopped.

Then started again.

The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.

It stopped once more.

The screen stayed black.

You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.

Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.

“Answer,” you hissed.

“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.

“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”

Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.

“He-e-y man.”

You were so fucking dead.

Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.

“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”

A beat.

“She’s good, she’s good.”

For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”

“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”

“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”

You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.

When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.

You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.

At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.

“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”

You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.

The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.

Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.

“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”

You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,

“This is not a fucking game.”

He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.

In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.

Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.

By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.

When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.

The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.

His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.

The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.

“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.

“Joel,” you choked.

Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.

With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.

“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.

He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’

“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”

Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.

He couldn’t finish off like this.

Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.

Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.

He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,

“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”

Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.

You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:

“Hey, dad!”

Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.

Might as well make it fun while it lasts.

“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”

Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.

You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.

He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.

Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.

“My sweet girl.”

“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”

“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”

From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.

At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.

“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.

Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.

“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”

As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.

He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.

So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.

He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.

You covered the mouthpiece.

“I can’t, Joel.”

“Sure you can, sugar.”

“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.

Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:

“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”

Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.

“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”

You didn’t need much more instigation than that.

You came. He followed.

And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.

Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.

Until it was in you.

Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.

You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.

“Did it…”

“What?”

“Joel!”

You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.

“JOEL!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”

Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.

“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”

Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.

“What’s…ovulating?”

You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.

There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.

“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”

That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.

“Where are you going?!”

“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”

Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.

“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.

“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.

Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.

“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”

Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.

As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.

Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.

“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.

Joel turned his head and almost groaned.

Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.

Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.

Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:

“I’m not actually her dad!”

All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:

“I SURE FUCKIN’ HOPE YOU’RE NOT!”

#NO ONE SPEAK TO ME FOR AT LEAST A WEEK #THIS IS DISGUSTING #I AM DISGUSTING #DO NOT PERCEIVE ME PLEASEJE HAHAHAHAH #brain rot ❤️#joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dbf!joel

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