Tumgik
#violence only leads to ruin
wis-art · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
women love each other
1K notes · View notes
cryptidghostgirl · 1 month
Note
omg omg omg totally new silly idea- human! alastor x human! reader where they meet at a party and go outside for a walk near the pier and the moon is beautiful and… they pull out weapons on each other (specifically Alastor a knife and reader a gun) and thats when they decide to form a partner in crime partnership
And in other to keep appearances they are forced to “fake date”
Mimzy: youve been spending some time with that new girl havent you, is she your gf or smth?” chuckle
Naize 20 yr old smth Alastor trying to think of a response thats not that:...
Mimzy: OMG IS SHE?
Alastor: sureeeeee
And they aren't actually into each other until a lot later into their partnership when they’re chasing some guy and reader gets to them first and just starts going at it “hey man i think hes had enough” “YOU WANT WHAT HES HAVING???” thpe shit
and Alastor has to catch his breath and he lowkey thinks hes dying because his heart starts beating a lot, And he goes again to mimzy for advice cuz i dont think he has anu friends and shes like “oh sweetie…”
And because its quite impossible to not get attached at one point theyre in another chase and reader starts laughing hysterically like “did you see him trying to run away??? lmao” and he goes “I couldnt take my eyes off you” and then just grabs her face and SMOOCH >:)
I think its a good trope- fake dating to actual dating even if its. about. murderers- :3
A/N YOU GUYS COME UP WITH THE BEST REQUESTS JESUS CHRIST!!! Also I promise I will get to the rest of the requests this weekend, I had two exams today so this is the only thing I am gonna post. Sorry.
Cover Up (Human!Alastor x Human!Reader)
Pairing: Alastor x Reader
Warnings: uh, murder. Mild gore. Violence. Weapons.
Word Count: 4,460 (I went a little overboard with this one)
Master Lists:
Master Lists 
Hazbin Hotel Master List
Tumblr media
"I'll walk her home, don't worry Mimzy." Alastor was saying as Y/n pulled her coat over her shoulders.
The noises of the party still raging on filtered into the grand entryway of the house, muffled through the walls. Mimzy shot her two friends a suspicious look.
"It's nothing like that, Mimz." Y/n sighed, straightening the collar of her fur coat, "I just asked cause of all those murders in the news. Kinda freaky, don't you think? I don't really wanna be out alone at night and Al here was kind enough to offer."
Mimzy crossed her arms, eyebrows raised.
"Sure." she teased.
"Mimzy." Alastor sighed in response and she put her hands up in false surrender.
"Sorry! Sorry." she hummed playfully, "I know you two free birds would never."
Alastor rolled his eyes and, turning to Y/n, held out his arm. She took it daintily, a grateful smile on her face. The pair had just met a few hours earlier but had quickly fallen into a casual camaraderie. He lead her from the house, Mimzy calling her goodnights and wishes for their safety after their retreating forms.
It was a mostly quiet walk through the desolate midnight streets of New Orleans. Y/n hummed softly, kicking a can along with the toes of her healed shoes.
"You'll ruin them that way, wont you?" Alastor asked, feigning concern.
Y/n just shrugged.
"They're shoes. Yeah, they're nice but I wont let that stop me from living. Let's stop by the water, it's so pretty tonight."
Alastor turned slightly, looking out at the Mississippi with it's slightly turbid waters reflecting the light of the stars. He tried not to smile, it was like she wanted him to carry out his intended work. She was making it so easy for him.
"Sure."
They turned towards the rail and Y/n let go of his arm, leaning her elbows against it. She let out a sigh of longing as her eyes tracked the ripples in the surface.
Alastor watched her for a moment, the moon illuminating her features. She was a handsome woman, there was no doubt about it. It had been proved to him tenfold by the amount of prospective partners she had turned down dances with at the party in favor of drinking with him at the bar. That was not what Alastor was interested in, however. Once he was sure she was distracted, once he was sure she had no intent to take her eyes from the glowing river, he looked down. Moving his coat slightly to the side, his hand quickly found its way to the hilt of the knife he had stashed in his waistband for just such an occasion.
He pulled it out, the weight familiar, almost comforting in a sense, in his hand. There was a click. He looked up, the blade pointed to its intended target.
Y/n was facing him now, a wry smile on her face. One foot in front of the other, she took a step forward. The muzzle of the gun, the cocking of which had been the source of the noise which had drawn his attention, just a few centimeters from his chest. The tip of his knife hovered indefinitely by the open center of her coat. He chuckled in amusement, eyebrows raised.
"I thought there were a few more bodies in the news than there should have been. A gun? Really?"
Y/n shrugged.
"I'm little. I don't have the privilege of being able to overpower my victims like you."
Alastor hummed softly. A slight breeze picked up, playing with the edges of their hair.
"What a shame."
Y/n laughed lightly.
"I don't think so. It works well enough."
"Those machines are inelegant, they are detached."
"And you prefer a sense of intimacy to be involved in all your escapades?"
Alastor removed the knife, holding it up to his eyes. He turned the blade over in his hand, examining it closely. Following suit, Y/n let her hand fall to her side, the gun still cocked should an occasion arise to use it.
"I have an idea." he suddenly announced.
"Oh?" Y/n asked.
She took a step back, returning to the water's edge. Alastor followed, leaning over the railing beside her. They watched one another closely, weapons still clutched loosely in their hands.
"Yep."
"You gonna tell me what it is or am I gonna have to guess?" Y/n teased after a moment, breaking the oddly comfortable silence that had fallen after Alastor's last words.
"There have been a few times, of late, where I've come a bit... uncomfortably close to being seen."
"Getting lazy." Y/n hummed, "Or maybe just cocky."
"It seems like you could use a hand, someone with brute strength in case anything goes wrong."
She scoffed, smiling just the slightest bit.
"Are you proposing we work together?"
"You're the one who said it, not me."
Y/n shook her head slightly, amused.
"How would I know you wouldn't just turn on me? End up killing me or decide not to step in if I needed help?"
"And how would I know that you wouldn't rat me out? Alert someone to where I was and what I was doing rather than telling me someone was coming? It's called trust, Y/n."
Y/n thought it over, fiddling with the gun in her grip as she did so. Alastor watched, seeing the gears turning in her mind through the light of her eyes.
"Fine." she said at last, un-cocking the gun and holding a hand out to him, "You've got yourself a deal."
Alastor smiled, slipping the knife back into his belt before grasping her hand in his. It was chilled by the air of the January night enveloping them.
"Deal."
Y/n quickly learned Alastor's preferred demographic. He had a penchant for angry men, drunks. Y/n had been a one off, a spur of the moment opportunity he had thought to take hold of. Alastor had not been like that for her. Y/n's preferred victims were also men. Anyone that showed any pressing interest in her, anyone who tried to take her home for the night, always ended up six feet under. For both, murder was a way of processing their personal experiences and traumas.
As a result of their deal, Y/n and Alastor began to spend more time together. They had to learn one another's intricacies, their ways of thinking, their nature of being. It was a necessity if anything was actually going to work. They both had rather busy work schedules, Alastor as a radio broadcaster with his very own show and Y/n as a seamstress at a local dress shop. Because of this, more often than not, the only time they had to get to know one another was through shared meals. Both of them had to eat, needed a lunch break or dinner. It was just what worked. Because of their slightly shared demographic of victim, they ended up in bars together quite frequently as well.
It was in one of these meet ups that they ran into their first difficulty. Y/n was sitting across a table from him outside a cafe, lazily sipping on a coffee as she perused the missing persons list in a newspaper. The newspaper was old, they were exchanging information about who was responsible for what. Working together didn't just mean knowing one another as they were now, but their histories as well.
They should have known not to sit in such a public place. Both had many connections in the city due to their jobs, though few friends. It just so happened on that day that the one true friend they did have in common was walking down the very street they sat on.
"Alastor?" Mimzy exclaimed, catching sight of his familiar face and moving towards their table.
Y/n folded the newspaper, placing it on the table as she turned towards the sound. Mimzy came to a stop, her brow furrowing in mild confusion as she saw her friend was not in fact alone.
"And Y/n, fancy meeting you two here."
"Pull up a chair, Mimz." Y/n smiled and Mimzy obeyed.
Swinging a spare chair from a nearby table, she quickly joined them.
"I haven't seen you two since the party! How have you been."
"Fine, fine." Alastor hummed and Y/n nodded her assent.
"And whats this with you two getting coffee?" Mimzy asked, a teasing smile slipping onto her face as Alastor took a sip of his own drink, "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"No, not at all Mimz." Y/n shook her head, a slight smile on her face, "It's always a pleasure to see you."
"You sure this isn't a date or something? I mean, with the way you two left and everything... having coffee alone..."
Alastor nearly choked on his drink. Y/n and Mimzy turned to him as he put a hand to his chest, clearing his throat.
"Excuse me." he said and Mimzy's grin widened.
"Oh this is totally a date."
"No!" Alastor exclaimed, exchanging a fervent glance with Y/n across the table.
She raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips. Without words, she told him to handle it. Alastor sighed.
"Are you sure?" Mimzy asked, a suggestive tone to her voice.
"I... uh..." Alastor stuttered, his brain working in overdrive to think of anything else. It came up empty, "Fine. Yes. We're... we're on a date."
"You caught us." Y/n chimed in and Mimzy turned to her.
"Oh my stars! You two.... I shoulda guessed you'd get on like a house on fire. Shame I can't invite you to any more of my singles parties though Y/n, you are a riot."
Singles parties. A hunting ground. Y/n smiled.
"No, no, Mimz. We're not exclusive or anything."
Mimzy's eyes widened slightly at the revelation as Alastor shot Y/n a look across the table. Dating was going to be hard for them to sell but swingers too? What was she thinking.
"Really? How exotic." Mimzy hummed in thought.
"We're all going to hell anyways so, why not." Y/n shrugged.
"Oh you." Mimzy laughed, placing a hand on Y/n's shoulder as she got to her feet, "Well, I won't keep you love birds any longer. I'll see you next week for the next party then?"
"We'll see." Alastor hummed placidly.
Once Mimzy had gone, he rounded on Y/n.
"Swingers?" he asked, eyebrows raised, "Really?"
"Hey, you're the one who started the whole 'we're dating' thing." Y/n sighed, picking the newspaper back up and resuming the task at hand, "I just made it easier for us."
"It will utterly destroy my reputation if this gets out you know."
Y/n shot him a look over the top of the paper.
"Al, you got a lot more to worry about than pretending to be a swinger in terms of your reputation. Now, Marcus Alcost? Six four, buff, scar on his left forearm? Brown hair?"
"Blue eyes?"
"Umm... yeah."
"Yep, that was me."
"Nice. Musta been a tough one to take down."
Alastor would track men, following them out as they left the establishments in the small hours of the morning with the intent of returning to their families. He would stalk them, corner them, lead them in. Y/n would stand watch, alerting him at the first sign of trouble.
The moment she heard footsteps, chatter, Y/n would duck in. Grabbing Alastor by the arm, she would whisk him off in some random direction, having consistently used the time she was on lookout to scout for escape routes.
They had had a few close calls, one or two times he had had to press her up against a wall and pretend to kiss her to avoid prying eyes. They always had a good laugh after something like that. Mostly, things worked out well. They each had survived on their own for years at this point. They knew what they were doing, adding another person into the mix just made it a tad easier.
Y/n, on the other hand, didn't need to track her victims down, they did that work for her. She would dress up all pretty and the moment someone asked to take her home or something of the like, would agree. Then she'd pull them into some ally or another under the guise of not wanting to wait a second longer and attack. Alastor would stand behind her, arms crossed menacingly as she carried out her work. He threatened so she could perform and she never had any trouble thanks to him.
That was, until one night about a year into their little partnership. As the time had passed, their relationship had grown. They still held the ruse of dating up before anyone who asked why it was they each spent so much time with the other but, a real friendship had begun to blossom between them as well. As it turns out, they had a lot more in common than just a tendency to commit brutal murders. Y/n knew Alastor well by now, better than anyone else most likely, and he knew her as well. That was how he could tell something was wrong.
Y/n had given Alastor the usual signal from across the bar and he had settled his tab. As he followed the pair, Y/n and the tall man whose hand she held, Alastor had noticed something was off. Normally by this point Y/n was stumbling around, pretending to be drunk and ditzy. She was doing this very thing now but in a more halted and jagged way. The man she was with seemed more believably drunk than she was, swaying this way and that. Her movements were uncharacteristically harsh as she pulled the man into the ally about a block ahead of him.
Alastor picked up the pace, breaking into a light jog. He reached the ally and turned down it, expecting to see Y/n flirting with the man or with her gun out already. Instead, he was met with something entirely different.
At the back of the ally lay the huddled mass of the man. On top of him was Y/n. The thuds of her knuckles against his face was the only sound breaking the silence of the night. She hit him, again and again. Alastor stood there, stunned.
"Dear, whatever is the matter?" he asked at last, trying to wrap his head around the situation.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Y/n."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He could see the splatters of blood now, on the ground around them and the wall behind. The thuds included the occasional squelch, the crack of a bone.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"You'll ruin your hands for work tomorrow if you keep at this."
Still, she ignored him. There was a sickening crunch. Sighing, he approached.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He could see it now, the man's mutilated face. Part of his skull looked like it had caved in. He had stopped moving long ago.
"Y/n, dear," Alastor tentatively reached out a hand towards her shoulder as he spoke, "don't you think he has had enough?"
Y/n whipped around to him, her eyes wild and her bloody raw knuckles raised. He froze, his hand hovering above her shoulder. There was blood everywhere. It soaked the sleeves of her collard shirt, it dripped from her fingers, it decorated her face and her bared teeth.
"What, you fucking want some too?"
Alastor's breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded against his ribcage, begging for escape. It wasn't fear, it couldn't be. He could take this girl down in ten seconds flat, blood hungry as she was.
Y/n's eyes, sharp with violence, softened slightly as she saw his reaction. She let her hands fall, resting them on the man's chest.
"He tried to drug me." she revealed, turning her eyes back to her mess, her masterpiece.
"He what?"
"Yeah." she sighed, using the back of her hand to push her hair from her eyes, leaving a residue of blood in the wake of the movement, "I caught him, switched the drinks."
Alastor shifted his gaze to the man before falling on Y/n once again. Her face was blank now, all the rage gone.
"He tried to drug me." she said again, her voice hollow.
At last, his hand found its home on her shoulder and she turned to face him once again. Alastor extended his free hand to Y/n. She examined it for a moment before daintily placing one of her own in his and allowing him to help her to her feet. Both her hands now rested in his as they looked back at the remains of the man.
"Well, he's definitely dead."
Alastor let go of Y/n's hands. Now free, he used one of them to turn her face to his. Blood spattered, wide eyed, lips slightly parted -- his heart fought for freedom from his chest once again.
"He deserved it."
Alastor let go of Y/n's chin and used the cuff of his jacket to wipe some of the blood from her face.
"Can you walk me home?"
Normally if she had asked something like that, Alastor would have teased her to no end. Why be scared of the monsters in the dark when she herself was one of them? But her voice had been small, timid. She had avoided his eyes and his fingers tingled at the prospect of her viewing him as protector.
"Of course, my dear."
They did not have another planned meeting until two weeks from that day. Y/n had a big project at work and wouldn't have any spare time because of it. Alastor, normally restless at the idea of having to wait so long to satisfy his bloodlust either by killing or seeing the show of death, was grateful for the respite. He was confused, overwhelmed even, because his strange reactions, the change in his patterns of thought towards the girl, hadn't ended at Y/n's front door.
No, she was haunting him. Like a vengeful ghost, he saw her in his mind. She took up every waking moment, he didn't know what to do. Alastor waited a day and still, it persisted. The skip of his heart, the odd slightly sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of their reunion. He waited three days and it didn't stop. By the time the end of the week rolled around and Alastor still found himself smiling at the prospect of only having to wait another week not to kill but to see Y/n again, he did the unthinkable. It was the only option he could come up with. Besides Y/n, she was the only other person in the world he even half trusted. Alastor called Mimzy.
"Alastor, darling!" she excitedly exclaimed into the phone, "What a surprise! What can I do for you?"
"Yeah, hey Mimzy. Um..." he struggled to find the words, fiddling with the phone cord as he walked to the window, looking down at the street below, "I just... I need your advice about something."
"What is it, hun?" she immediately replied, "Seems its got you in a tizzy, not a lot can do that."
"I... It's about Y/n."
"Uh-oh, trouble in paradise?"
"No. Maybe?" he turned from the window, collapsing in his desk chair, "I don't know."
"Spill."
"Well, we... I just.... Mimz, I can't stop thinking about her."
"Well I would hope not, you've been together for almost a year now."
"Yeah well, about that. It may have been a... stretching of the truth? Shall we say?"
"Al." Mimzy warned after a moment's silence, "If you are playing with this gi-"
"No!" he exclaimed, cutting her off and quickly crafting an excuse, "No. It was just to get our parents off our backs. We had a deal. They were both pestering us about when we were gonna get married, you know how it is."
"I thought your dad was dead?"
"My ma though, she really wants to see me settled down."
"I guess that explains the swingers thing." Mimzy sighed, "It didn't really seem in character for either of you. So, whats the matter?"
"I told you, I can't stop thinking about her. It's like... it's like... look, we're not dating, but we're friends, you know? And we were out at a bar together a few nights ago and she just... she did something and when I looked at her, it was like I died."
"That little minx." Mimzy laughed in glee, "What the heck did she do?"
"Just something, okay?"
"I have got to quiz her about this."
"No! Please, no. She'd... probably be embarrassed."
"Mmm... okay...." came Mimzy's doubtful reply, "So what was it you needed help with?"
"Well, that. It was like the breath had left my body entirely. I felt... sick, my chest hurt. It was so strange. I thought it would go away once I got some sleep but it didn't. Every time I think about her, it feels like there is a vice around my heart and I can't stop thinking about her."
"Al, seriously? This is what you're asking me about?"
"Yeah?" he uncertainly replied after a moment.
"What are you, twelve?"
"Mimzy, are you going to help or not?"
She sighed.
"Alastor, you have a crush on her."
A beat.
"I do not."
"Yes, you do. Maybe even more."
"I..." his brow furrowed, his breath left his body.
This was bad. This could be dangerous, detrimental even.
"Are you sure?"
"Butterflies in your stomach? Pains in your chest? Can't get her out of your mind? You're even breathless for christ's sake Al. It's textbook first pangs of love."
"Fuck."
Mimzy laughed.
"You're already pretend dating, what harm would asking her to do the real thing with you do? My bet is, she's probably been feeling the same thing about you. That tends to happen in cases like yours, I've seen it before. The whole 'fake love turns real' trope. It's overdone if you ask me."
"Mimzy, this isn't one of your trashy romance novels. This is my life."
"So live it radio man! Go get that girl."
Alastor was nervous, trembling even as he sat at the bar. His glass of whiskey had gone warm on the table as he watched Y/n dancing and having fun in the crowd. This was how it usually went when it was his turn to hunt, she'd have fun and he'd find a target. Once the target left, he'd grab her and they'd move out.
Tonight he was distracted and it showed. The man had nearly given them the slip. With Alastor's knife still sticking out of his shoulder, he had ducked away and started running. Of course that meant Alastor and Y/n had to give chase. They ran after him through the streets of New Orleans as he screamed bloody murder and Y/n's heels clicked definitively on the ground. He was thankful that the hour was late and no one was out and about, thankful the man was so drunk his words came out closer to garbled singing than pleas for help, thankful he was slowed by his consumption.
When they at last caught up with him, Alastor grabbed his second knife from his belt and, taking the man's hurt shoulder in his free hand, buried it deep in the man's back. He fell to the floor, sputtering, coughing up blood. In a few moments he was still. Alastor turned to Y/n, panting.
Her pretty eyes traced a path between murderer and victim a handful of times before a smile broke out onto her face. Before he could really register what was happening, she was doubled over in laughter, clutching her stomach.
Alastor watched Y/n, eyebrows raised as they both caught their breath. After about a minute, she straightened up and turned to him, wiping a tear from her eye.
"What?" Alastor asked with a wry smile, "What is so funny about a dead man."
"He..." she broke out into laughter again, "He... the way he ran! And we almost lost him?! Oh my god, Al, that coulda been so bad."
"The way... he ran?"
"He... didn't you see it? Oh my god, it was so funny. Like he was running in a three legged race with an invisible partner." she wheezed.
Alastor felt the heat pooling in his cheeks. Mimzy was right, it was time for him to live his life. A normal existence could coexist with his hobby, Y/n had already proved that to him.
"Didn't you see?" she asked again.
"No." he shook his head, "I was... I was watching you."
"You were... Al, theres no way you were." Y/n scoffed, "No way. If you were watching me, he would have gotten away. If you were watching me, it would meant that you were unconcerned by your oh-so-precious reputation being ruined. If you were watching me, it would mean..."
She trailed off as he took a step closer to her, his gaze flicking between her eyes and her lips. Y/n's cheeks flushed pink.
"Alastor."
Her voice was a dying prayer. Reaching a trembling hand up, he laid it on the back of her head, his fingers tangling with her hair as she looked up at him with wide eyes. Alastor closed the gap.
He had been so scared. Scared she would push him away, that she wouldn't kiss back. Even a little bit scared he'd just become the next name on her list of degenerate men she'd killed.
There was a moment, a split second, where his fears were realized. Then, she washed them all away. Hands buried in the lapel of his jacket, she pulled him closer, Y/n leaned in.
They broke apart after a moment, their cheeks flushed and utterly breathless.
"I-"
"Would you like to go on a date with me, Y/n?"
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Are you going to try to kill me again?"
"Oh please, I thought we'd moved past that darling."
Y/n smiled, still holding him close. Alastor let his hands fall onto her waist as they swayed slightly under the light of the moon.
"Yes Alastor. I will let you take me on a date."
"We will not be swingers."
Y/n laughed.
"Just had to make that clear."
"No, Alastor. If I am going to get you, I want you all to myself. Now, what are we going to do about that body?"
----
Next Part -> Cover Up pt. 2
1K notes · View notes
loveindefinitely · 4 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
02 — 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘐'𝘔 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘈𝘉𝘖𝘜𝘛
Tumblr media
༊*·˚ LUST FOR LIFE — task force 141 x reader
featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price
warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, legal age-gaps, inexperienced reader, angst, graphic violence, slight power imbalance, enemies to lovers, slow burn, betrayal
series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.
// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //
"You assaulted two Special Forces Operators, kid," Price says, a barely veiled grimace contorting his features. "That's not a good look."
You tug against where your hands are cuffed to the metal bars, your brows furrowing. "Kidnapping the girl -- whose dad you killed after taking her virginity -- isn't a good look either."
...Alright.
So, if you could go back in time, and never eavesdrop on the four men who have completely ruined your life, you would take up the offer in a heartbeat.
Between landing your fist to Gaz's jaw, and where you are now, your life has become a total shit show.
Like, complete, this might just be a fever dream level of crazy.
It started from the moment you saw blood trickling from your now late father's forehead, and in the glint of the moonlight, seeing Ghost holding the gun.
Then, you'd turned, without another thought, and landed a punch right to Gaz's jaw. The man who had taken your first kiss no more than two hours ago.
You can relive the moment even now, under the harsh neon lights of an interrogation room, as if you're experiencing everything for the first time once more.
༊*·˚
Gaz hisses, wincing as he brings a hand up to the aching pain radiating from the bone that'd taken the brunt of your punch.
"You guys -- what the fuck --" You stammer out, eyes wide and borderline manic as you gape at the man before you. "You guys just killed my dad!"
"Yeah, but," Gaz starts, before backtracking. You figure he has enough braincells to realise that 'rationality and reason' isn't going to work with you, not in this state, and especially not after you just witnessed the murder of your only living family member. "Ah. Well. He wasn't a good guy."
You really, truly, cannot believe the audacity of this man.
Your mouth opens.
Gaz grimaces.
Your mouth closes.
He takes a step closer, hands raised in a placating gesture.
"Take another step near me and I'll punch you again!" You threaten, with an aggressive point of your finger.
You're extremely aware that your punch had done next to nothing, and Gaz's reaction to it was more one of sympathy, but the threat lands nonetheless.
"Alright, alright, we're not gonna hurt you," he raises his hands further, eyes bouncing between your own. You're not sure what he sees -- maybe resentment, or horror, or fear.
Whatever it is, it makes his frown deepen.
He goes to say something else, when your bedroom door opens with a soft click. "Finishin' up, ya read--"
Soap pauses his whisper, ice-blue eyes meeting yours. His grimace isn't unlike the one Gaz is sporting, and it only worsens your mood. If looks could kill, he would be lying on the grass beside --
Oh god. Your dead dad.
"Steamin' Jesus," Soap mutters under his breath, looking up to the roof in some semblance of a last minute prayer.
There's a moment, then, for a decision to be made. It's as if your brain can only come up with two options, and one of them will lead to your untimely death.
So, really, it's not entirely your fault when you pick up the salt lamp sitting on your bedside table and throw it right into the arrogant Scot's face.
"Holy shit," Gaz's eyes are comically wide as Soap cries out, the heavy pink rock slamming into his nose. He stumbles back, and the sound of your lamp hitting cartilage even has you wincing, panicked state or not. "How the fuck have you survived this long with those kinda reflexes, Soap?"
Soap drops into a squat, cradling his nose in his hand as he tilts his head back, squeezing the ridge between two calloused fingers. His voice comes out nasally as he mumbles, "Mighta' broke 'gain."
Your entire body is trembling, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you creep to the window with soft, quiet steps.
Maybe, you think, in the back of your mind, I can make the jump into the garden.
It's not to be, however.
"You're smarter than that," Gaz directs an unamused glare your way, before grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you towards your door.
Digging your heels into the carpet, you attempt to wrestle out of his grip -- but a trained military expert and you are no match, not even with the energy overtaking your body.
"Let go of me!" You grit out, tugging and displaying your weight in the opposite way to his goal. He doesn't even turn around as he drags you out of your room, slamming your door shut behind you.
"What the fuck is goin' on," Ghost's growl comes from the stairs, heavy bootfalls following until he's standing, gaze drifting from you, to Gaz, to Soap, back to you again.
"Fuck, man," Soap whines, squeezing his eyes shut as he keeps his head tilted back, blood running down his lips and chin. You somehow find it in yourself to feel slightly bad. Not enough to apologise, and certainly not enough to stop fighting back.
They were going to kill you. Probably. Or, like, what's the skin trade like in your area? Oh god. Fuck. Shit.
"She saw," Gaz mutters to Ghost, and his eyes narrow, black face paint crinkling where it's been put on the upper half of his face, skin not covered by the balaclava.
There aren't any lights on, and it's the lights on downstairs that cast shadows and highlights over the men's' faces.
"Fuckin' christ," Ghost groans, before turning and walking back downstairs without another word.
You continue to struggle against Gaz's hold, but both of your wrists have been collected in his hand, and he's pulled you so your back is to his chest. If it were any other circumstance, you'd be blushing, most likely turned on from such an embrace.
Right now, however, you're questioning every possible decision you've ever made.
"Ye Dad treated ya like shit 'nyways," Soap says, too loud to be under his breath, but too quiet for it to be conversational. "Dinnae why yer freakin''."
"You're murderers!" You hiss back, lips pulled back into a snarl. Your muscles ache from the punch, the hefty throw, and now from struggling against Gaz. "And I don't exactly have any other family, do I?!"
Gaz makes a sound of agreement, before shaking his head and countering. "We're not murderers, not really."
You choke a laugh, but it's entirely too wet and sad for it to be threatening or cruel. "So you guys didn't just shoot my father?"
"Si pulled th' trigger," Soap pouts, almost like a child would over a lack of candy.
"Soap," Gaz exasperates, and although you can't see his face, you're sure it's dismayed and annoyed. "Seriously?"
"What?!" Soap counters, and when it comes out high-pitched, he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his nose tighter. "Jus' tha truth, dinnae why yer so shitty. Yer not tha one bleedin'."
Speechless.
You are fully, unbelievably, speechless.
What the actual fuck was wrong with these... men? And what was wrong with you for being more than ready to spread your legs for them not too long ago?
You needed therapy. And coffee.
And a time machine, preferably. If one was made available at this given moment.
"Get down here," the final man of the hour shouts up the stairs, and your blood runs cold. There's something about him that's not quite as threatening as Ghost, but somehow makes you even more fearful.
Gaz, with surprisingly careful and gentle movements, guides you down the stairs. The parallel of how Ghost's hand had been at your lower back as he invited you to the lounge room, mere hours ago, isn't lost on you.
His hand doesn't move from the tense grip it has on your wrists. You can't help but feel like it's a completely unnecessary gesture, considering the fact that any of them could take you down within seconds if they really needed to. Hell, they all had actual, military-grade weapons.
"Seriously, Gaz?" Price huffs, looking entirely like a disappointed dad in this moment as he stands, leaning against your kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed over. "One job, mate."
"You lot weren't exactly quiet," he retorts, but he slowly releases your wrists.
At this point, you know it's a lost cause to try and escape this situation, so you just ball your hands into wrists at your sides. You can't imagine it's an overly threatening position, considering how your entire frame trembles, and your lips wobble.
Your father was dead.
And the men that had made you feel so comfortable, so cared for, are the culprits.
Stupid, stupid girl.
They are dangerous men who do dangerous things.
"Peas," Soap's voice is practically a beg as he stumbles into the kitchen, opening the freezer door with no preamble as he scours it for... peas.
They're in the far right of the bottom shelf.
You don't tell him that.
"Have some water," Price encourages, holding out a glass cup full of chilled water.
Your eyes narrow, standing your ground. "Not accepting drinks from murderers. Dad taught me that, y'know?"
Gaz chokes a laugh, before covering it up with a fist to his mouth and a clearing of his throat. It fools no one, and you allow yourself the tiny bit of pride that fills your chest at the reaction to your taunt.
"Ghost," Price mutters, resigned and almost frustrated as he looks at you.
You understand why, as soon as the feeling of a needle imbedding into your neck has you flinching, pain prickling at the intrusion in your muscle.
"What --" you begin, before your legs fall out beneath you, your eyes falling to half mast as Price hefts you up, beefy arms holding you beneath your armpits as your body becomes dead weight.
"Sorry, kid," are the last words you hear, before black overrides all of your senses as drugged sleep takes you.
༊*·˚
Sometime between then, and now, you've found yourself in a white-walled room, blinding lights turning the throbbing in your head from a low pound to an echoing boom of a drum.
"We didn't plan for... any of it to happen the way it did. This was our only choice." Price shakes his head, hands resting at the top of his vest as he studies you.
Right. The virginity, kidnapping and assault thing.
...Great.
"I must've forgot the part where I resisted arrest," you retort, forcing your eyes to remain open, despite the heaviness to them. It's as if a weight has been hung from your eyelids, and every blink drags them down more and more each time.
"Jesus -- you're not under arrest," Price rubs at his eyes, head dipped down as if he's recollecting his thoughts. You're not sure if he's had any sleep, although your sense of time has been completely thrown out of the window.
"Then release me," you say, voice softer than you'd intended, more pleading -- a truer reflection of your current state of mind.
The air is crisp, cool, like that of a hospital. Chemicals and bleach are a potent undertone to the clean scent, and it makes you question what could've previously been done in this room to warrant them.
Your heart pounds almost weakly, and you know if there's any more heartbreaks to come, it might just give out.
How you've resisted a complete mental breakdown is beyond you, and frankly, you'd give yourself a pat on the back if you could. Although, that act might in itself be a sign of insanity.
"Not until we can be assured you're safe," Price insists. "And not until we can clear your name from the books. We have enemies, sweetheart, and those enemies were also your father's. They are not above punishing you for your father's sins."
Your heart is lodged in your throat, and it takes everything in you not to just burst into tears and pray. Pray that this is all some sick joke, some terrifying nightmare that you haven't woken from yet.
But you know it's a baseless hope. You know that this is real.
You're in a military base, somewhere, surrounded by the country's most dangerous men. The most dangerous men on their side, at least.
"So I'm not getting charged for assault?" Your voice is entirely too small for the situation, not for someone who's still cuffed to a bed, going through grief in the most ruthless type of way.
The worst part is that you don't entirely miss your father. You miss the comfort of having a family member, that's true, but he wasn't a good parental figure, and his treatment of you could be classed as abuse to most people.
And from what these four are saying, he wasn't a good man either.
People didn't often talk about how separate the two things were. It was possible to be a great man, but the worst of fathers, and the opposite could be true, too.
Fate had dealt you a bad hand, in giving you one who was terrible on both sides of the coin.
"Technically," Price leans back into his chair, his voice littered with exhaustion, "We... should report it."
Your stomach drops.
Price's eyes meet yours, and somehow, he must see the turmoil battling inside of your head, because he lets out a deep breath, deflating just a bit.
"No. You're not getting charged for assault, sweetheart."
"Don't call me that," you reply, too quick for your brain to catch up. The endearment is entirely too wrong, smarting on a chafing wound, a reminder of the mistakes you'd made, and the deception these men had pulled on you. "...Please."
You refuse to meet his eyes as he nods, slowly, as if in understanding.
"What did he do?" You don't mean to utter those words, to ask that question, but after you do, you can't find it in yourself to regret it. "What made him worthy of death?"
Price rubs a hand over his face, and for the first time, you register the lines of his face. Lines of a story having been told, proof of a life lived. It makes you want to learn, to find the origins of the small scars you can see, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
"He broke many promises. Betrayed his team," Price states, and you can tell the millions of words he leaves out, the context better off left unsaid. "He did terrible things. Killed people who had made no faults."
Oh.
For some reason, it hadn't truly hit you, not before now, the truth behind his death. What hadn't you been told?
How hadn't you been made aware that he was -- he was part of the special forces. He was a dangerous man -- he was one of the men he'd warned you about. How blind had you been? For so long? Those business trips, when he'd come with bruises, brushing them off whenever you gained the courage to make attempts of caring, of forming a relationship with the man who raised you.
They weren't business trips. They were missions -- ones with impossibly high death rates.
And he just.
Hadn't said a word. Just continued to treat you like you were worthless, a nuisance, a pain in his ass. Something worth protecting, if only so your weight in gold wasn't minimised.
What were you to do, if he just. Didn't come home after a mission gone awry? If he died on the field. If you woke up one day without a single living family member left.
You only realise that tears have fallen down your cheeks when Price's thumb brushes them away, your nose scrunching with a sniffle.
Jerking back, as if electrocuted, it takes everything in you to glare at the man whose gentle hands had led you to this position in the first place. "Don't touch me."
He backs away. Doesn't argue.
It hurts your heart in a way you don't want to touch with a ten foot pole. Not right now. Not ever, maybe. Preferably.
You let out a deep, stabilising exhale, before weakly meeting Price's gaze. "Can I sleep? Feeling kinda shit after the drugs," you mumble.
Price's lips twist into a grim line, but he nods curtly. "'Course, kid. Call out if you need 'nything."
You just lay back, turning on your side, facing the white wall as the lights turn off, leaving pitch black in its wake. Your wrist smarts where the handcuff has left a red mark, your free hand rubbing at the small patch of visible skin.
If you were more aware, more... ready for the conversations you needed to have, you would've demanded all four of them speak to you right this moment.
But your head is heavy, and thoughts are few and far between.
Grief and confusion cement in your brain like a thick fog, your emotions like cars without lights in the thick mist.
No directions, no ability to brake before crashing into one another.
You're an absolute mess, and you have no one to blame but you and your sick curiosity, your reckless decision making.
But, you realise, this was a long time coming.
Because there's one thing Price -- nor the other three men -- don't know.
Your father wasn't the only one who held secrets.
And it was you who held the key to this force's undoing.
Tumblr media
a/n. lol so like. who's ready for some enemies to lovers? sorry to everyone who wanted immediate hurt/comfort!! for some reason plot lines and depth hit me and i was like. i need to do it justice. so here we are!!!
thank you all SOSOSO much for the reception of the first part. it genuinely means a lot to have people excited about my stories??? like omg youre all SO kind. comments and reblogs make my absolute week!! mwah mwah mwah
taglist comment/msg to be added. @captainjamster @alfa-jor @simp4miguell @yaboibauldano @dreamaboutpinkk @guyser @lovewithasideoflust @redz0mbie @ghost-is-my-bbg @astro-ghoul99 @the-faceless-bride @casterousaudrey @cutiecusp @kit-williams @lilpothoscuttings @florabelll
Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months
Text
Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (I)
Tumblr media
AU MASTERLIST || PART II
Tumblr media
PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)
WORDCOUNT: 7.7k
WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, angst, mutilation, violence, death, being hunted, reference to unwanted attention from a man, 1890s period standards for men/women, religious references, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
Tumblr media
“Miriam?” Your voice carries over the open street, one of the two small steps leading into your nonexistent front yard firm under your feet. Across the way and one house to the left, your older neighbor, Miriam, readies her horse for you—kept behind the paddock door of her attached single-stall stable. Men and women shuffle past along the cobblestone, clopping hooves and tipping soft caps. Giggles and gloved fingers. 
The city is lively today, and you’ll be glad to be out of it for the better part of the morning.
You brush down the front of your shirtwaist, patting at the pleating along the front before folding your shawl across your shoulders; hiking it farther into your high-collared garment. 
“Miriam!” You call again, shuffling down that last step and trying to shove yourself farther into the crowd. Keeping your black skirt close to you, you sigh long and pray the pouch at your side will stay away from the hands of pickpockets—a tailor gets off well enough, but every penny was worth it. One setback could ruin you.
Which was the reason you were now making your way into the country on your neighbor's horse. 
Miriam glances up from where she fiddles with the bridle strap, her head mixed in with the masses. You smile, raising a hand far above the sea as men sneer down at you, hearing the tinkling bells of her laughter. 
You make it to her and Whistlejacket the Thoroughbred as you huff, rubbing your gloved hands together before the clicking sound of your heeled shoes can catch up to your ears.
“By the Lord, it’s chilly, Love,” Miriam utters, patting the horse as you softly rub the animal's neck. Black ears twitch to you, chestnut eyes soft and pliable. You smile before replying with a chuckle. 
“And the chill won’t stop Mrs. Ida from having my hide for that wool-lined cycling jacket, unfortunately.” 
“Ah,” Miriam scoffs, “Mrs. Ida. I’d tell that one to mind her manners to the fine lady who makes her husband's waistcoats.” 
“She always asks for them a size small,” you hum, rummaging through your satchel to make sure you have the money you need for the wool that’ll go inside the order. “One with more of a brain would say she was trying to say something.” 
Your eyes glimmer as you send your neighbor a glance. Miriam slides you a cheesy look.
“‘More of a brain’, the girl says,” she mutters as you laugh brightly. “A wonder you’ve not found a husband yet.”
You ignore the comment, sliding down Whistlejacket’s side to slip your foot into the stirrup, huffing at the beast’s size before shimmying up with all the grace of a young hooligan. Panting on the saddle, both legs over one side on account of your skirt, you take a breath and happen to glance at the dark house that borders Miriams.
“Miriam?” The words escape you in a moment of curiosity. “Pray tell…is Mr. Riley back from his trip to London yet?”
Mr. Riley—Simon as you know him to be called by only a whispered passing. It was apparent with your little…interest in him. It wasn’t a carnal interest, no, God forbid, it was a hesitant need to understand him. 
You’d never sown nor mended so many clothes than to his own collection. 
Frock coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, and trousers all—ripped to shreds before being placed on your counter like it didn’t matter a smidge. And those deep brown eyes of his…endless; seemingly incapable of human emotion above the tight layer of silk that the man wears up to his nose. There was something strange going on with Mr. Riley, and you were determined to figure it out, but he was also quite alluring to you in a simpler sense. 
You liked how he spoke to you.
“London?” Miriam asks, putting a hand to her wrinkling chin. “My, was that where he was off to—how do you hear about these things, Girl?”
You clear your throat, putting back on your smile. “Oh, never mind that. I was just curious, see.”
Whistlejacket’s feet shuffle from under you, the tall beast’s strength seen through his broad neck and well-bred attitude. Miriam’s husband had been a carriage driver, and when he died, the widow had taken Whistlejacket into her care as the only living family she had. 
You rub at his neck again, and the horse nods his head up and down, knickering. 
“You’ll take care of the old fellow, then?” The question is layered, anyone going through the forest to the farmer’s fields knows that the shadows grow long. 
Knows what can hunt you. 
You glance at the woman, nodding firmly. “And bring you back your share for taking the lovely creature out.” 
With that you’re out, taking the reins in your hands before easing Whistlejacket into a walk and entering the flow of traffic; waving a hand behind you in goodbye. Miriam calls on the smoggy wind.
“D-don’t stray from the path, Love!” 
A path wouldn’t save you from the Ghost.
It is the year 1897, and beasts live here. 
They roam in the dark corners and the forgotten alleys of every city and street—silent, unseen. Waiting to strike with white fangs or sharp claws; a snarl or a whisper. Vampires, demons, specters lost to time…Werewolves. 
Nowhere was safe, and so, the world had to adapt. 
As Whistlejacket’s hooves meet the slowly depleting cobblestone of the outer city, the clink of the metal bit dances in your ears; your face roves back and forth through the fields, those far in between houses. In your bag, you have more than just money. 
Holy water, a crucifix, and, of course, a knife made of pure silver. When in doubt, silver was always the safest bet.
But the forest…the forest was unpredictable. 
You breathe slowly as it comes into view hours later, those creaking branches and the breeze that speaks to you—in your head, you hear the plea. Or the threat. 
Turn back. 
The both of you stop only a foot from the treeline. Whistlejacket knickers, feet shuffling. Your hand finds his hide, rubbing soothing circles as your lips thin. 
“Easy,” you whisper, but nothing could be farther from easy. Your fingers brush through the horse's hair as he moves his head, hooves taking a step back. “Easy.”
The blackness of this forest is unnatural—the others in the city and town go around it; a four-day trip. You didn’t have four days. Like a moth to a dark altar flame, the oblivion takes you in and the forest expands in your view the longer you stare into it, down that path of overgrown grass and gravel. Rocks and twigs. 
With one hand you grab at your shawl and pull it closer to your neck, holding the reins lightly as your fingers twitch around them with the other. 
“Easy,” you say for a third time, quickly looking away from the path and clearing your throat. 
Clicking your tongue, your boots tap Whistlejacket’s side and after a puff from his large nostrils, the animal ambles forward, far slower than he had before but still moving nonetheless. Your hesitance bleeds into him, and you know the horse's senses are far better than your own.
But you were stubborn—you’d come too far to go back now, and if you wanted to be home by supper you had to buy the wool you needed and leave as quickly as possible. Going through this forest would take up most of that time. 
The trees enshroud you, and in their brimstone grip, they reach with gnarled fingers like a leering phantom. You lean to the side to avoid one branch, feeling it pull at your shaul slightly; trying to grab at you, it seemed. This place would devour you whole, but you were less scared of the general aura and more of the fabled monster that patrols this place. 
The Ghost.
Whistlejacket is unsure of this, despite the journeys you’d both been on. It always worried you how such a large carriage animal could still get so nervous after years of desensitization—the horse didn’t flinch at the yells from the city; or the howl of mutts at midnight. But this brimstone forest made him shiver under you like a child in the cold.
As you speak to him lowly, your hand reaches into your satchel and grasps that tiny silver blade, attaching it to your cinched belt as your skirt sways in a dead breeze. A chilled puff of air falls from your lips, though there is no coldness in these standing sentinels—it is a dead-like atmosphere. Every pound of your heart can be heard. 
“You know, old fellow,” Whistlejacket’s ear twitches back to you, but his eyes do not leave the path. You spare a tense chuckle. “I’ve half the sense to tell Mrs. Ida to shove that wool lining right up her—”
Something sharp echoes far off into the trees and you pull on the reins with a tight breath. 
Whistlejacket squeals, trying to bolt, but you keep a strong hand on him—eyes flashing from one dark void to the next in between the trees as his hooves dance. Your head bobs with every jerk of his legs, yet you barely notice it. 
A twig? You ask, heart hammering. No, no that sounded like an entire tree getting snapped in half.
Eyes glancing over your shoulder, you look back down the road and find the tiny speck of light that signifies the exit of this place, the last glimmer of home. With a heavy look around, you close your eyes and shake your head. 
Mrs. Ida was…something else…but she was one of your best clients for all her abhorrent behaviors—money was tight as of currently, and the woman’s husband was incredibly rich due to his practice as a physician. This wool was needed not only for the jacket but for your shop upkeep and the price of fabrics, needles, and threads. This wool was an investment you couldn’t miss.
“Whistlejacket,” you click your tongue but the animal snorts and shakes his head, backing up. “Whistlejacket!” Your voice carries despite not even being above a hard whisper. 
“I promise you, when we get to the farm I’ll let you eat all of the sugar cubes you want—my treat.” Your hand finds the space between his ears and below his skull, the soft black mane twisting in your fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Your eyes are half-narrowed. 
That wasn’t a twig.
Monster Hunting was a booming profession—and many took to it out of glory or need for coin. Those hunters had been in and out of this forest for short generations, trying futilely to catch what was rumored to lurk here before they got ripped to shreds like their fathers had. 
The Ghost. 
Some say he stands over nine feet tall; and has fangs that are bigger than a man’s palm—claws like butcher knives. Blackened and dead is his brain, cruel and maniacal. 
The Werewolf’s heart is chained to hell, and his soul to Satan. He is cursed ever to walk like a beast and feast on human flesh while in his wolf-skin and out of it. 
A ghost.
The Ghost.
You close your eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the stench of blood or the injuries you’d seen those hunters bore—being dragged back into the city screaming and wailing in pain. Arms and legs ripped clean off, never to be found. Most never came back at all.
“Please, Whistlejacket,” you plead, bumping your forehead into his neck. Whispering into his skin, you take a deep breath. “We need to go on. Quickly. We can’t stop here.”
Stopping was making a bigger target on your back—letting your scent linger in the stale air. 
With one last whinny, his fast flinching feet, the horse pushes forward as you click your tongue again; faster and more uneasy. But you didn’t slow him, no, if Whistlejacket was going to speed up, you were completely fine with that.
Moving again, you loose a sigh from your lips. 
There were many dark stories living here, some too heavy to tell aloud, even—one specifically was the tale that you’d overheard in your shop while helping Mr. Riley fix a large hole in his waistcoat. 
Riding along the path, you guide your steed down a small indent, blinking at the images your mind conjures up. 
Mr. Riley had been far quieter that day than in the recent past, and you thought perhaps he was beginning to warm to you after a few long months of silence and clipped business talk. That day, though, you had your doubts. 
Mr. Moore and Mr. Hill were coming in to inquire about the state of their overalls, working-class both and eager to have their second pair of articles fixed. Mr. Riley had been there first, and thus, you’d been talking to him for the better part of ten minutes.
“Mr. Riley,” you’d explained, holding his black silk waistcoat in your hands while opening and closing your lips. “I…I really must begin by asking how exactly you manage to do this to your clothes. In good faith, I half-believe you have a habit of getting into bar fights with a knife-wielding fiend in your free time.”
Brown eyes had stared at you above that cloth of his, soft cap on his head protecting blond tendrils of hair. Scars peel at his skin, old and pale. 
You’d never been afraid of him, despite his large frame and his intimidating muscle—the gruff aggressiveness of his tone. It was strange, but you had a feeling he would never do anything nefarious…perhaps his morals shone through far better than his conversational abilities.
“Can you fix it or not?” He grunts in question, hands in his pockets. Eyelids blink at you slowly, long lashes caressing flesh. 
You roll your eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I can.”
In that intermission of silence, you’d heard the words from the men behind Mr. Riley—missing the spark of amusement that had coated those brown orbs as they watched you. 
“Did you ‘ere, then, Mr. Hill?” A sharp, hurried whisper. Your eyes blink at the two as the man ahead of you slightly shifts his shoulders, tilting his head to the side to stare behind him. “There’s been killin' in the East district—they’re callin’ the ‘unters in, see.”
“Hunters?” Mr. Moore huffs. “They’ll not make a smidge of a difference now. I’ve heard about it—they say the Ghost slunk in from the Forest and ripped the man to pieces.”
“Aye! They found pieces of flesh hangin’ off the shop signs. Like he’d been put through a machine, I hear. Half a jaw was left in the street, an eye leading into the trees, and…and…”
“Gentleman,” you call, oblivious to how Mr. Riley is as tense as a rope, eyes small and tight on the two men. He barely breathes. 
The two look to you as if being caught by their mothers. You frown. “Time and place.”
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
“M’sorry, Miss, lost myself.” You smile through a sigh and turn back to Mr. Riley. 
“Well, now then, I…” He quickly walks to the door, boots heavy and knee-length frock coat swishing as he pushes open the barrier and slips through. You gape, confused for a moment. By the time you think about opening your mouth again, you can already see him entering his own house across the street and pulling the door closed firmly.
The curtains close. Black night leaking out around the illumination of the oiled street lamps. It was the news in the morning that called to the true horror that you’d overheard in your shop. 
Mr. Lambert was never your favorite patron, in fact, you’d call him a creep at best—insistent on marriage to you and a hazard, considering that your home was connected to your shop. He knew exactly where you lived and when to use your time in his less-than-pure favor. 
Mr. Riley had been a natural deterrent in recent months, but what really struck you was that the brown-eyed man had managed to show up exactly when you needed him regarding Mr. Lambert. The small silver bell above your door rang his arrival whenever the other was trying to lean over your counter, smiling sweetly at you as if you were a prize to him and his leering eyes. 
Mr. Lambert would instantly straighten, tense, and dart away with a metaphorical tail between his legs while shooting nasty glances. 
But you’d never imagined him to be dead.
You’d never imagined his body to be hung from the trees that border the forest like a trophy—the Ghost had dragged him out of his home, the door busted off its hinges, and the inside all but demolished by fighting bodies. Neighbors said they’d heard howls on the wind; yowling and wet snarls like a rabid dog. 
Mr. Lambert was mutilated. Unrecognizable mass of flesh and hair, bone seen through shredded skin and tongue lulling from a ripped-off jaw. One eye and a branch through his toro to hold him up.
Now halfway through the forest, in the densest bit of trees, you can’t help but imagine becoming just like him.
You hadn’t spoken besides to reassure Whistlejacket, yet the fact was that you couldn't even reassure yourself—like a child, you cling to the animal below you and try to ignore the murmurs. Your shawl had been pulled up and over your head, creating a sound barrier for you that truly did nothing to help. 
Looking slightly to the side at a large and moss-layered boulder beside the path, you shiver not from the cold. 
“Maybe I should have just waited the four days…” Your whisper leaked out, and it seemed a sin to break the silence that had been layered here. 
A shadow filters past the side of your eyes, a silent motion atop the boulder that you think perhaps is a crow. You pull at your shawl to show your face a bit more, turning your head upward. 
Atop the stone is not a bird—it is not an animal of natural birth or of sound mind. It is a beast of ancient rites and white-fanged dreams; left here among the living in a sick game of predator and prey. 
You don’t register that it’s really there, the Ghost, until its blackened form stands to its full height, great shaggy fur under the remains of clothes scraps, and muzzle curled to show off fangs and pink gums. There are his ears, atop that head; they point to the sky before flinching back to staple themselves to its elongated skull. Long hands that scrape the stone below it near the claws that dig into the rock until they make long scratches. 
Like a demon made flesh, this Werewolf was the epitome of nightmares. So strangely human and monster at the same time. 
Eyes like a burial mound. 
You stare in numb horror, gloved hands steadily tightening over the leather reigns until your knuckles pop. Whistlejacket does not yet know the beast is here, glaring into your soul and branding it; taking a large step closer to the edge of the boulder as the moss flakes under his egregious large paw-pads. 
A low rumble is all it takes, those pupils small and beady, from within the breast of the Ghost’s expansive chest. Whistlejacket’s nose sniffs the air, his head turning and already tense. 
The horse screams like a dying banshee, spine curling and legs kicking out. He bucks as the Werewolf snarls through a loud howl, all four limbs connected to the stone and roaring. Your back slams into the ground as you’re tossed off Whistlejacket, your mouth releasing a scream to join the rest of the noises that echo off the foliage. 
Crashing into the path, your neighbor's horse disappears with one last high-pitched squeal into the darkness as you feel your bones rattle at the connection to your spine. Tumbling down a slight hill, you quickly get your skirts in order before scrambling to your feet with pain brimming in your scraped skin. Looking back to the boulder, your pounding heart rampages. 
But the Ghost isn’t even there. 
“Oh, Lord Almighty,” you whisper, backing up multiple steps. “Oh, Lord.” 
The blade is missing from your belt—you don’t know where you’ve dropped it in the fall and that might just be the death of you. Mr. Lambert’s story infects you; the other hunters.
You frantically look at that mighty stone, up and down, while skittering backward. 
Where did it go? 
Panting, you only stop when you hit the firm frame behind you, a large tree trunk of fur, and a hard chest that you sink into. You freeze—eyes wide and unblinking. A thin squeak exits your mouth, and a reverberating call purrs over your vertebra, making you shiver with fear. 
Minutes draw before you gather the courage to delicately turn your head upward.
Those eyes meet yours again, small and coated over with rage; pale fangs so close to your forehead they’re like ivory with dripping saliva. One drop hits your flesh, but you fail to register it. 
Those eyes. 
Up close you’re completely stolen by them, sucked in and whisked away as a bride, this mixture of dark wood and earth. Brown so rich you’d never seen something like it…or…or had you?
Incredibly, in between your panic, something sparks you as being familiar in a way you can’t quite place in this state. 
The Ghost is gargantuanly large, so much so that he bends his spine to lean over your entire body and growl down at you, the sound starting in his gut and expanding up to his throat. The fur around his neck is so thick it’s like the mane of an exotic cat, ironically, as tufts of hair are on the tips of his ears. 
You stare and try to memorize the look in his eyes as clawed hands come up at your sides, horrifyingly human with long fingers; five-pointed except for the fact that the skin is blacked like hide. Sweating, you shake before your lips start talking for you, as they usually do. 
“I do hope I’m not intruding, Kind Ghost.”
The beast halts his slow entrapment, right ear twitching forward at your voice. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth does not close. 
“I…I only wished for safe passage.” Internally you wonder if you’d lost your mind—if it had broken in this moment of hysterics. Your voice is far more steady than it should be. “I must get to the other side of the forest, you see. Urgently. I have business that must be settled. Though,” you add quickly, tone cracking for a moment. “Though, I knew not how to contact you to ask.”
The Werewolf’s heart can be felt on your back, a deep thum of pulsing power and raw death. It watches, its mouth twitching a smidge more closed and lungs rising. Its feral heat leaks through your clothes into your flesh. 
A furred hand connects with your hip and you squawk as you’re shoved to the ground very suddenly, thrown to the side onto the grass with only your palms to catch you. You’re flipped over, those same claws slamming beside your head before you can push back up and try to run. But there could be no running. Like a moth to flame the Ghost would hunt you down until there was nothing left of you but bloodied carnage. 
You throw up your hands in front of your face, the great form splayed over you and a sniffing nose digging into your stomach. There is a low whine of a hungry maw as the shaggy head moves up and around. Like a human, the Werewolf’s hand grabs at your wrist, pinning it down to the ground as the other digs into the earth, dragging it up like a farmer’s plough. 
 “H-hey!” You shout, pushing with your free fingers at the muzzle—in sound mind, you’d never even think to do such a thing. “Get off of me!” 
You should have been terrified, and maybe you were, but you’d gone past the point of knowing it. This beast was leering over you like Mr. Lambert, but far more dangerous and…and…
“Are you smelling me?!” Your angry voice makes his dark eyes snap to yours, and in an instant, you’re staring up his muzzle, body splayed out below him. 
You shutter.
“Eh…Just don't…rip anything, would you?” You were talking to a Werewolf as if he was capable of higher understanding in this form—as if still human. Voice small, you thin your lips and feel sweat run your eyebrow ridge, heart pitter-pattering. 
Why were you still alive?
The snout resumes, running along your shoulder and finally stopping at your neck with a pass of the Ghost’s tongue over his lips. You close your eyes tight.
This was it, you think. Of course, you’d be the one to lose the only blade that could let you actually damage this monster, the silver glinting in your mind as you curse yourself violently. You feel the puff of his vile breath on your neck, his claws peeling at your shirt collar slowly back. 
Your breath hitches, fingers winding through the fur below your grip, but the confusion breeds with the horror. The sensation of his soft fur wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was perhaps the finest material you’d ever handled. While it wasn’t the time for this, your occupation was impossible to ignore…this texture was far better than any silk.
But he’s stopped moving entirely. Lids fluttering, you open your eyes slowly, afraid but addled at the inaction. 
Brown side-eyes you closely, fangs dripping next to the meat of your neck and parted to show a lulling tongue. The beast purrs as you stare, looming with enough mass to block the sun and moving that muzzle closer to your pulse. In an act of pure desperation and womanly instinct at the sight, you snap out your leg and, not hesitating a moment longer as the animal’s tongue meets your flesh, you send your shoe straight in between the monster's legs.
A sharp yowl makes your ears ring, but you slip out from under the Ghost as it banks back, snarling and yapping before it rights itself with a shake and rabid hunger. The look from before is gone—but you’re already through the trees by the time the enraged hunting cry makes your neck hairs rise. 
Guttural, savage, and devoid of humanity. 
On the path you find your blade, and you snatch it as you gather your skirt in the opposite hand and dash away. To where, you have to tell yourself, you do not know. But it’s human nature to run, to sprint until your throat tastes like blood and your stomach rolls with bile—all of that can be tolerated if for the simple promise of survival. 
So run you did. 
Faster and harder than you ever had in your life, you sprinted into the brimstone trees and the dead thorns, not looking over your shoulder at the noises of snarls and breaking tree trunks; claws through the earth, and the primal howl of a hunt. Your throat is raw and scraping, clothes thoroughly ruined as you crash through a thorn bush while cutting up your arms and legs in tiny streaks of crimson. 
Droplets make a path behind you, a path, and a scent to tell you by. But with how the Ghost had been smelling you too deeply, you doubted it would be long before he tracked you down to finish the job.
You lose a shoe in the mad dash, lungs heaving and whimpering from the sudden absence of sounds entirely—as if the beast had disappeared into thin air. Still, you don’t brave a glace behind as you take turns and bends in the earth at random, running deeper and deeper into the foliage. 
Bloodied and running out of strength as you hop a small stream, yelping when you slip and bash your wrist into the ground, you had never wished for Whistlejacket more. All you could hope was that the horse was making his way out the other side of this hellscape. 
You never should have come through here.
Tears stain your eyes, blurring the edges as you manage to run into a small clearing, head whipping back and forth from one area to another. Every turn was the same—every tree similar! 
But the house was different. 
No more than a hut, really, it was stone and had a thatched roof, nestled in a field of black flowers and wisps of dead grass. The door was opened, but the ground was torn up by claw marks—spanning up the sides and near a broken widow.
You rush to it without a blink, and just as you make it to the threshold, you grab the thick oak door with your torn gloves. Turning, you find him across the open glade. 
Air is shoved from your lungs as you wheeze, the black shadow in the tree line. Brown eyes burn past flesh and bone—beady. Twitching lips and high-pointed ankles with rising fur. It was like a statue. Not even moving; barely breathing as it…watches. 
What had happened to the snarling—the howling hunt?
Had…had he been behind you the entire time?
You whip the door closed and frantically slam the bolt in place, the blade brought to your side and shaking in your tight hold as you back up quickly. 
“Oh, Miriam, damn you, you’re always right.” You gasp, back hitting the edge of a table. “Curse me for never listening.” 
Your neighbor had expressed worries the day before your departure, but you’d been stubborn as always—wool, you said you needed. Just enough for a coat. It was nothing; nothing that should have led to this. 
You feel like passing out, bile rising into your throat before you swallow it back down and breathe in quick heaves. 
But the door didn’t cave in, and no great monster barreled through to eat you up and pin you into a tree branch. The house settled, the minutes dragged on…
…and nothing happened. 
Your heart slowly goes back to a hesitant normal, like a mouse after being chased by a hawk; a lamb by a wolf. Standing up straighter with blood saturating your clothes, the uneven strides of your shoe-less foot mean little to you as your form slinks to the broken window. You don’t feel the pain in your cuts—the sweat or dirt—before you bend down and hiss at the stretching flesh.
Knees knocking on the floor, you peek above the sill slowly, eyes wide open and tiny pupils quivering. 
“Why didn’t it come into the glade?” You ask yourself, seeing the large shadow in the far-off coverage of the dropping leaves. A steadily dying sun. You weren’t making it back home tonight. “Why is it staying away—it knows I’m in here.”
Surely it wouldn’t let you live? 
Your brows tighten, swearing there are eyes looking back at you through the kaleidoscope reflections of the glass. You duck down, vibrating as your vision runs across the strange hut.
One room, it only held a table, a tiny desk, a trunk, and a bed. A fireplace with no logs. Dust lived in the corners, and candles that were unlit were melted in plates and cups all around your view—score of them as if the dark was something the owner feared vehemently. 
This would be your sanctuary for the night. 
“Do Werewolves not come upon hallow ground?” Your voice bounces off the stone. “Was this a priest's hut?”
If there was a church nearby in this damned place, that would truly be the best scenario. Churches held hunters more often than not. 
Standing, you walk the space, feet aching as the adrenaline wears off and it all sets in. You place your blade into your belt, but your fingers never leave the pommel. First, you go to the desk, picking through letters and thin papers. 
Blinking, you pass them over in favor of the journal, the one next to the hastily thrown down quill—the spilled ink. 
Your hand touches the leather and flips it open, ears peeled for any noise from outside. The drawings come into focus quite quickly. 
Diagrams and intense study fill your brain, images of the Ghost sketched so lifelike that you flinch back and physically recoil until you gather your bearings. 
“I don’t suppose this would be of any help,” you utter with a frown. “Will it tell me how to make silver bullets? Give me a revolver?” 
Shaking your head, you close the journal before the faded name on the cover register—you walk away slowly before you halt. 
"Simon Riley."
Your heart tightens and those brown orbs come back to you. It’s like your mind expands in a millisecond.
Simon Riley and his frequent trips out of the city. Simon Riley and his shredded clothes exactly like the ones that the beast wears. Simon Riley and his silent, black, soul. His secrets.
“No,” you try to convince yourself, chuckling as your panic spikes. Every interaction whizzes past with surety. “No, that’s not possible. I couldn't have been that inept when he was right in front of me.” 
Anger pierces you, and all sense leaves. You know it to be true, know it to be the reality even if you'd just put the pieces together yourself. This was too perfect that God himself must have come down and laid it out for you to find.
In a moment of raw rage, you stomp to the door—hand snapping to the bolt and reaming it back. The outside chill makes you growl, but you exit the hut nonetheless. It was like a spit in your face.
“Simon Riley!” You scream into the air, hand in fists. “Get your arse out here and explain to me why I’ve been fixing your fucking clothes while you’ve been galivanting around the bloody forest!” 
Call you insane, but seeing your work constantly ruined made you more mad than being chased like an animal, especially if this animal had no intention of killing you. He'd had the option, but he hadn't.
That only serves to make you even more angry.
Your finger points into the tree line. “I spend my God-given time to make them perfect for you, and this is how you repay me?” A rustling from the bush to your left. You snarl and turn to find the upright form as it blinks at you, muzzle closed and ears forward. It steps out into the grass with one paw before you brandish your blade at it.
The Werewolf freezes, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest.
“I’m going to rip that damn fur from your body and teach you what it’s like to have your practice insulted, you twat.” Those eyes don’t stray, just like they never had in your shop. 
Yet there was a more primal tint to them—more wild, unrestrained. Aggressive. 
The monster stalks forward with slow and heavy steps, walking up to you until it can once more stare you down. You take down a shaky breath and press your knife into his abdomen as fur encompasses your field of view. 
Your confidence wavers.
“D-don’t you know it’s rude to chase down a lady in her travel shoes?” 
A snarl grinds itself out in cut intervals as if he were trying to speak to you, snapping fangs and tilting head. You have somewhat of an idea of what it means.
“I’m not apologizing for kicking you in the balls, Mr. Riley. You deserved it.” You lower the knife from his abdomen. 
A nose pushes itself into your neck again before you shove him off with a curse. He doesn’t even flinch before he tries once more.
“Would you quit it?!” You yell, scoffing. “What in the devil is wrong with you?” 
It was like he was trying to rub his head all over you—as if nothing but a dog scenting a bone.
Isn’t he? Your lips thinned. It wasn’t foreign to think he wasn’t in the right state like this. Of course, he wasn’t. Mr. Riley would never act like this, even with how often you saw each other.
Lord, you didn’t even know if he liked you that much, but judging by whatever this is, it happened to be quite a bit. You huff and push him back with a scene of finality, slithering backwards into the hut before slamming the door. 
There’s a low grumble from outside, the barrier shaking as a large paw presses on it with immense force. 
“No!” You order, pulse running. “No—you figure yourself out first! I’m not letting you in like that.” 
The sudden enraged roar is so loud the broken window shakes. It makes your veins quiver under your skin. But there's a heavy slam of leaving feet moments later, the sound of screeching trees as branches are bent back. 
You pause and stand straighter after a long minute. Your lungs inhale.
“It listens better than the man,” you breathe, feeling weak. Bravery was tiring. 
Yet, there was still the problem of the dead.
Simon Riley was the Ghost—a Werewolf. He’d killed people, many, many people in these trees. 
You grab at your neck softly, the scent of earth and blood stuck under your fingertips, infecting your very soul. 
“...So why didn’t he kill me?”
You helped yourself to the clothes in Mr. Riley’s trunk, taking what you could find and slipping into it for bed. It was nothing more than a large undershirt and pants, but you wouldn’t be the one complaining. Luck was back on your side, as you also found a small package of bandages and matches. 
Lighting the candles one by one, afterward, you did what you could for your wounds. You weren’t keen on traveling to find water to clean them out, so, for now, a wrapping would have to do. 
The beast patrolled the glade. 
You’d hear him occasionally bend by the door, shadowing along the crack before there was a tapping of claws on stone and a huff of hot breath. He’d always leave you unaccosted, a smacking of gums and licking of chops heard through the cracked window before the dog darts away. 
Where fear had been previously, curiosity starkly remained at the forefront. 
“Simon Riley,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of his bed after that same event that had happened not an hour earlier. And the same an hour before that. Clockwork. 
A wolf stalking his hunting grounds, making sure all is where it’s supposed to be.
He smells you in here. 
“It’s too damn late for this,” you huff, rubbing at your face. Ideally, you’d like a bath and a hot meal, but there was no supper here. No food at all, really. 
You plop down into the feather pillow, face nuzzling into the deep scent that you remember smelling from Mr. Riley as he came into your tailor’s shop. This was demented—unholy action. 
If this were a different woman in this bed, she might be praying to her God for some salvation, an angel to come down and whisk her away. But the thought is like a stake in your heart. 
If there were a different woman in this bed…would she even be breathing as you were?
You shiver and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them up to your chin. For whatever reason, Simon Riley, the Ghost, had stayed his fangs from your supple flesh; now you weren’t even sure that when he was leaning over you he had any intention to hurt you at all. He had seemed like he was…waiting for something.
Simon Riley, your neighbor. 
Your neighbor the Werewolf. 
You groan and hold yourself in the candle-light, unsure. You’d heard the tales—the murders. Mr. Lambert. Those countless hunters mutilated. Like a child, you pull sparse memories that bring it all to light.
Mr. Riley was quite the gentleman when you happened to catch him. 
There was never a time when you had to carry in your own fabric shipments—he was always outside to grab them before you could get one hand on the carriage compartment; it all seemed like lifting a feather. You’d speak to him about his day and his trips to the bigger cities that he always frequented. 
He’d told you it was because of his business, and you’d refrained from asking what exactly it was that allowed him to purchase such exquisite clothes—or even how they always ended up ruined. 
As your eyes flutter in this bed full of long black hair, you sigh and listen to the howls from far off in the distance; shivering.
“Where do you need ‘em, then?” The accent was aggressive, yes, but the tone was casual. You smile over at Mr. Riley and see the large trunk in his hands as the carriage leaves outside. 
“I don’t know,” you tease, “But I think you look quite dashing being such a ready and willing neighbor, Sir.” 
“That it?” He raises an eyebrow, but no expression slashes his visible face. To even get that was something to celebrate. 
You raise a hand and wave him behind your counter, chuckling. 
“I jest, Mr. Riley. Right back here the same as always.” He wordlessly ambles forward, feet heavy upon your wooden floors. 
You smell the scent of fresh earth as he passes, and your fingers twitch at your sides. Clearing your throat, you ask easily as the man strangely flinches as he brushes your arm, eyes flicking just a smidge wider. 
“Any more travels this month, then? I am a bit curious to hear about where you’ll be off to this time.” 
“London,” is a swift answer. Brown eyes glance at you as the trunk is set down with a puff of breath in the space below the shelves. “Ever been?”
You shrug. 
“No, unfortunately.” Simon stands to his full height, hands finding the insides of his pockets. You should be hesitant of his stature—his great shoulders—but you find it suits him. He tilts his head at you, his cap off today to let his wisps of hair collect at his temple. “You?”
Mr. Riley grunts, feet shifting. 
“Quite a few.” He blinks slowly. “Not missin’ much. Bloody filthy.” 
You laugh and tilt your head down, staring at the floor for a moment as your cheeks heat up. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” 
Simon puffs a sound of amusement, looking you up and down. He stares at your waist before he hums. 
“That a new one?” You look down at your corset above your blouse, putting a hand above the embroidery and nodding earnestly, touched that he’d seen it. Mr. Riley was far more in tune with his surroundings than others. 
“Yes, had a horrible time with the designs—I’m not quite sure I like it yet.” 
“It’s nice.” The man seems just as surprised about his quick outburst as you do, wide eyes meeting each other to connect with bare emotion. 
It’s a long pause that leaves you stuttering, your heart skipping a beat as your flesh burns with brimming affection. Simon grunts tensely and darts his eyes away to stare hard at the counter behind you.
“Well, I…” you tilt your head, beaming through a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s high praise coming from you.” 
“It’s nothing.” He takes his leave, firmly moving past you and shifting his body to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into you. “Wear whatever you want, won’t make a difference… You’ll still be lovely.” 
Before you can gape into the expanse of his back at the blunt compliment, he’s already out of the door with a whisper. You watch him cross the street from the window and see him climb his steps, sucking down a shaky breath. 
An embarrassing giggle meets air. 
The man far across the street pauses in front of his door, gloved hand outstretched. He stays there for a hint of a moment, and you swear he turns his head to space you a tiny glance over his shoulder. 
Suddenly feeling as if you’d gotten caught, though you don’t know why, you squeak and hurry away into the back room. 
You wake up to the sound of the door opening. 
Drowsy and fatigued, your ears twitch to the sound of low groans and clipped growls—thick curses that would make any mother go shy that slip in and out of your reality. 
You should be afraid.
Footsteps stumble in, the thick closing and bolting of the door eching. Candles flicker through your eyelids, and you make a low noise in your throat as your face scrunches. 
All sound ceases. 
So quiet that death himself would vacate the area, your brain catches the end of a set of surprised footsteps coming to the bed and a sudden low exclamation of, “Bloody fucking hell.”
It all fades in and out, glimmering and glinting. 
A swift cleaning of the objects in his possession, organization, and fixing—moving papers. Feet stop at every other minute, and eyes burn into your face from above the covers. 
His fingers pull back at fabric, seeing the clothes you wear, the ones that he needs as of currently. 
A deep chuckle encircles you; your sleep deepens. Those same fingers, like a plague of slumber, travel up your bandaged arms and twitch along your shoulder—moving up until they come to the pulse at your neck. They add pressure and a breathless grunt is expelled as you tilt your head farther up. 
That touch is moved to your chin, moving it back down to hide your flesh from that brown gaze before a heavy sigh brushes over you. The covers are all at once pulled farther up along your form. 
The shadow disappears, and with it, it takes the extra blanket from the end of the bed, harshly grunting as the fabric is shuffled around and wrapped. A tiny mutter.
“You have a fuckin’ horrible habit of complicating things.” 
You sleep on, and, if you were conscious enough to realize it, you would have felt the gaze on you for the remainder of the night from the table—watching, barely blinking above the heavy press of eyes. 
Silent, if only for the soft breaths taken and no sooner exhaled on long, even, airways. 
As if not but a dog that watches the moon under starlight; the gentle sight of snow falling outside of the den. 
Tumblr media
TAGS:
@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlized, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @l-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast
1K notes · View notes
tarjapearce · 1 month
Note
Ok, ok, ok, hear me out….
Tarzan Miguel…
Ahh, nonny. Casually just saw this scrumptious fanart of him as Tarzan by @Miuworm in X 🫠. And yeah. (Kinda amazed at how you guys manifest these things 🤭)
Tumblr media
Like Me
Tarzan! Miguel O'Hara x Reader.
WARNINGS: nothing too bad. Depictions of violence, a bit of implicit gore and animal death. No proofread.
Summary: Your savior from a certain death is quite touchy-feely.
Another for Miguelverse ❤️✨
The furious waves of the sea clashed over your body, submerging it in the freezing and alive water.
Arms moved, swimming your way back up, gasping for a much needed gulp of air as soon as you reached the surface.
Peeking around you, trying to find something to get a hold of or climb on, exhaustion was crawling up to your limbs, like hypothermia.
Fuck
Mind cursed with every foul word you could've imagine. How did trip ended up like this? In what moment the clouds turned so grey they darkened the sky, announcing a downpour with a loud rumble? It all took minutes to go sour and south.
You were there to do a land recognition, and see if you could get home some new species. Sergei Kravinoff, or Kraven The Hunter, was the lead of your expedition, all financed by a man named Kingpin.
Your name was called, echoed in the distance.
"Over here!!" You flailed your arms in an attempt of being seen, and hopefully the debris wouldn't blear their sight to find you.
You swam in the direction of the voice, teeth clattered, tool belt heavy on your hips, but you knew if you lost them, any possible chance of getting another were impossible. Plus, Kraven hated it when you lost your equipment as they weren't cheap.
Every paddle of your arms felt heavier, like if your wrists had been tied up with iron pounds, dragging you down. Lips turned blue and trembled. Salty and cold water doused you, but you weren't to give up.
You had fought your way to get a spot in this expedition and a pathetic ending like drowning wasn't an option. You spotted a wooden board floating nearby.
C'mon!
Your hands stretched towards it anf finally managed to keep yourself afloat. Panting, groaning and shivering, letting the cold to finally sink in. Feet had started to numb out, ragged breaths turned laborious.
Once more someone called you, this time you recognised the voice. Peter, the other nerd according to Kraven. You two were the ones selected to be the scientist that would lead Kraven to a certain victory in Nueva York.
Ever since Norman Osborn and Otto Octavius had discovered new species of spiders and reptiles, everyone proclaimed them geniuses ahead of their time, leaving the hunting behind.
Kraven was set into getting either a new species or something alike to regain his forlorn glory. He refused to be forgotten.
But everything pointed that the island you were now had a mind of its own. As if preventing anyone to delve in further into it's secrets.
You were pulled out from the board by Peter that immediately covered you up in a raggedy blanket. Despite the fabric being old, it gave you enough warmth to avoid death taking a hold on you.
Kraven cursed in russian, but was hopeful y'all be found soon. The ship's black box was ruined, your luggage at least was minimal, and it was enough to be saved by ether Peter or anyone kind enough.
A powerful and enormous wave had turned the boat upside-down. Knocking everything loose out of the board. The guns and other tools were the only things that survived.
But, you hoped, the whole fiasco was just temporary. Fisk wasn't a careless man, he'd probably send help soon. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting your bones to freeze.
----
You woke up nearby the makeshift fireplace, relishing the heat your body had lacked. Clothes were humid, but no longer soaked and freezing.
Sighing, you stirred awake, letting the tension leave your body with a groan.
"Hey, wake up." Peter approached, concern etched into his features as he helped you on your feet.
"Where's everyone?"
"I... We uh, got lost. One moment Kraven is here and the other he's not. Left us behind. Or, he also got lost."
"Kraven? Lost?" Peter could sense the deadpan in your voice and he sighed, exasperated.
"I'm just trying to light up the mood. He was pissed. So I assume that he just thought he'd do it himself." He shrugged and you sighed, rubbing your neck.
"Great! now we're lost, my luggage is nowhere to be found but at least we have tools, right?"
The faltering in Peter's face made yours to fall as he shook his head.
"God, I swear... Fuck him. If I'm discovering something, Ain't sharing with him!"
"Let's focus on surviving first. The soil is rich, meaning the jungle is nearby."
"And so is the wild life." You sighed and Peter groaned.
"Look, thinking negatively won't take us anywhere. I'm not saying either let's throw a party for being stuck in an unknown place. But we gotta move. It's about to get dark."
"Right... You're right" You rubbed your face, exhausted, at least you weren't freezing anymore. But being at Nature's mercy wasn't pretty either, yet again. You were selected by none other than Sergei. If he trusted your judgement to be valuable enough, why couldn't you?
With a new resolution in mind, you took the raggedy blanket and other little tools Peter managed to salvage and soon ventured yourselves in the thickness of the jungle.
-----
Sun had long disappeared in the sky leaving a faint trail of golden and orange in the clouds, and you were certain that it had been hours since you walked in the jungle. No signs of Kraven or the caravan of people.
No signs of society or at least his stupid russian jokes that you were sure people laughed at by sheer convenience.
The only advantage Kraven possessed in his favor, was him being an avid hunter. You only studied species, animals and flowers to be more precise, and had a little knowledge of mechanics. Enough to fix your own machines and trinkets. Peter was an expert in mechanics and soil. You followed him.
"I think I've seen that rock before" Peter sighed as he slouched against a tree.
"Don't say that, Parker." You wheezed as you followed him, resting your aching back against him. "I'm definitely finding some poison and put it on Kraven's drink."
"Relax. Without us he's going into unknown territory."
"In case you haven't noticed, he's a professional hunter. And I hate with passion skirts."
The distant rumble of a storm approaching echoed through the sky.
"A hunter, not a geologist. He acts like an animal to get animal bodies."
"Still, he knows his way around these places, Pete."
"Shooting things till they're dead isn't knowing about things"
Peter stood and offered his hand.
"Uh-uh I just sat down."
"We gotta at least go upwards. This area is prone to flooding."
With a vexed groan you took Peter's hand and he pulled you up. You were tired of walking, but if he said you needed to advance, you obeyed.
"Fuck..."
----
Despite the soaking rain pouring around you, Peter had found an amalgamation of trees and branches supported by a hollow tree.
Birds chirped and cawed, bugs joined the concert once the rain subsided, the distant flapping of the birds and the rustle of leafs prevented you from lowering your guard. The only comforting thing besides Peter's company was the petrichor smell, pungent in the air.
You'd spend hours inhaling the gift of nature, if it wasn't for your belly grumbling, and Peter had ran out of cashews.
Even crickets sounded tempting to eat. With the right spices, they tasted crunchy. But all you could do was to imagine their taste as it was time to move again.
"Knowing Kraven, he'd go up to the mountains, probably they've sent a camp nearby a river. So let's look for one."
"Yeah, even better so I can drown that fucker in. He better pay us good for this stupid prank."
Peter chuckled and looked around for a minute, his blue eyes narrowed upon setting his sight in a tree trunk. Broken in half, but what truly made his... whatever this unpleasant feeling to rise within was the vicious marks indented on the tree bark.
Powerful scratches filled with bloody chum and crimson liquid, paw like marks painted in the trunk. The source of such gruesome spectacle laid in whatever pieces was left a couple of inches away.  He could make out a tail, and small hind legs. A baby monkey, or rather half of it.
"Uh... We better hurry."
Peter swallowed, and the urgency in his tone only made your worry to shoot heavenwards.
You both walked, speeding up the step. Unaware of the keen eyes, hidden in the bushes that followed your every moves like a hawk. A low growl filled in the space he occupied.
---
You were certainly to die.
Undeniably, and it didn't matter how fast you managed to run, the jaguar quick paced trotting had you pushing your limits. Tears blurred your sight, as a garbled sob escaped your lips.
Scratches adorned your arms, decorating your flesh with fresh oozing wounds, dirt and leafs stuck to your marred flesh.
Chest heaved with deep and ragged pants, wobbly legs menaced to give in under the pressure at any second
You were going to die.
Even though life had been incredibly dull and the only comfort was your investigation, you didn't want it to end so soon. Not whenyou were about to accomplish a promise to yourself.
Peter had gone lost and separated once the chase began. One minute he was before you, and the other, your friend was gone, out of sight and reach. But the relentless giant feline behind you preferred you. An easy prey.
Your wails and cries for help fell upon deaf ears, who would listen to you in the middle of the jungle? For once you wished to have Kraven's gun expertise.
You didn't care if hypocrite defined you right now. You took a thick branch, swinging it with difficulty and pain at the euphoric beast, like a demotivated baseball player. But the jaguar's claws swatted the useless weapon away from your hands, and making you stumble on the ground.
This was it.
Oh God, oh my god, no, no no
The animal pounced and by instinct, you shielded your body with your shaky limbs. But no harm came.
You could feel the beast's warm and bloodthirsty breath on your head, snapping it's maws at you, desperately trying to reach for a bite of your supple flesh.
Eyes wide in horror, and disbelief. The jaguar was held by his tail, earning whoever that was holding it back from devouring you a couple of swings with it's sharp claws. But the animal was set into getting to you. It pounced on your boots, claws sinking on the back of hour ankles, earning a sobbing and painful wail.
A gruesome crack and a roar echoed behind you, and only then you were able to see your savior.
The tallest man you've ever seen, even taller than Kraven, strong and well built physique, a rich tanned skin full of scratches and long healed wounds. Hair long, reaching a bit past his shoulders, muscles that heaved and rippled in every breathing you did. Body hair etched beautifully in his skin.
Covered in nothing but a loincloth.
If it wasn't for you being at the death's gates, you'd take your time to study him.
You gasped as he held the oversized cat with his hands and slammed it on the ground. They circled eachother, shifting between the roles of hunter and prey.
The feline hissed, and the man returned the threat, a cold sweat ran down your spine upon watching two overgrown canines, on his mouth. Fangs. He had fangs. Brown eyes stared at the four legged monster, defying it.
And soon the jaguar took his invitation. The two majestic creatures fought, enraged, proving their prowess to eachother, disputing the role of Alpha within the jungle's hierarchy. They rolled on the ground, biting and clawing at eachother.
With a lurid snap the man cracked the beast's neck, earning an agonizing wail from the mean cat. He staggered before slamming his fist on the animal, forcing the last breaths out of the beast.
His nose flared, proudly, while his hands slammed his chest.
Terror was still taking a hold of you, and there was nothing you could use as a weapon. Your hands braced your shoulder as you tried to carefully stand, but your clumsy feet stepped in a branch, snapping it in half, like the jaguar's neck. Brown eyes were immediately on you.
You swallowed hard.
He approached, hunched and prowling over, his knuckles and toes supported his hulking frame.
"S-Stop!"
He quirked an eyebrow, curious and within seconds he was before you.
Breath hitched on your throat, face so close to yours, he could feel your breath blowing on his chin.
You hissed as he took a hold of your arm, examining the damage. There wasn't rage in his features but nothing more than untampered curiosity.
His hands reached for your hair, sniffing the strands, you couldn't help but giggle when his nose hovered over your head, sniffing you, a bad moment to be ticklish, really.
Breath caught again as his nose nuzzled your neck.
"W-Wai-" His fingers prodded at your lips, rubbing the calloused thumbs on your soft mouth. A satisfied grunt rumbled in his firm and hairy chest
He toyed with your face, examining it with child like wonder. He turned, prodded and licked your cheeks, reminiscing in your taste with a confused look.
"U-uh, sir-"
What is he doing? oh god.
He hunched even closer to rest his ear on your chest. Heart pumping violently inside your ribcage, eyes darted towards the covered mounds, he sank his face in between them, taking a deep inhale. A low growl came from within and your cheeks flared in a deep flush.
Oh shit, shit
His hands cupped your mounds, sending a shiver through your body, but you slapped his hand away. He looked taken aback before baring his teeth to you.
"No!" You covered your chest and backed away, but his nose flared to then grab your head and placed it on his chest a tad forcefully. Warm and plush skin met yours. You gulped again.
Powerful echoes boomed through his chest.
The natural musk of him tickled your senses, his hands roamed your lower back and your alarms flared.
"H-hey, hey!"
He pulled your feet up, sending you tumbling backward, skirt rolling down your thighs, exposing your legs to him.
You tried to cover your skin by gathering your skirt up. His nose again sniffled as your wriggled underneath him. Hands prodding and picking at your toes, earning a clumsy giggle
His touch was like molten lava, it sent a shudder down your spine.
His fingers were having a good feel of your flesh, as if confirming you were real.
With each discovery his interest only grew. He then cupped your face again, smooshing your cheeks together, giving a deliberate lick on your lips.
"T-The polite thing to do is to take me out before that happens!" You mumbled nervously while trying to get yourself free.
His eyes narrowed once more as he lifted up your skirt completely, revealing your panties.
It gave you little to no time to prepare you for his next move. He sunk his face in between your thighs taking a good whiff of your scent, another pleasant growl came from him, by reflex, your hand slapped him. And this made him look at you, confused but clearly upset while holding his cheek.
"No! Stop it!" You warned while gathering your skirt underneath your knees and pointing at him. Cheeks impossibly red
He seemed to understand as he crouched before you. Muscular thighs flexing as he sat, mimicking your actions.
"Uh, uh. No. Don't do that"
"Uh Uh, No. Don't do that"
He repeated with the same authoritarian tone. Voice surprisingly rich and alluring. Your eyes went wide.
"You can speak!"
He repeated like a parrot.
"Can... Can you understand me?"
His brows furrowed then quirked. He was about to come up with a reply when the rustling and your name being called echoed behind the foliage.
"Over here!!!" You shouted, this alarmed the man as he stood, backing up from you with a mistrustful glare.
"Wait! No no! Don't go!" Your hands wriggled, but it was futile.
He left before anyone could see him. Climbing the trees like it was another playground game, until he disappeared out of sight.
None other than Kraven showed up, machete on hand, swinging it the weeds and plants that dared to cross his way.
A shit eating smirk plastered on his face.
"See? I told you, she'd be fine." Kraven patted Peter's shoulder as they kept moving to find a perfect spot for the camp.
Kraven crouched to where the jaguar's body laid and looked at you.
"What happened?"
"I... don't know. I-I panicked. Was running from a snake and I found that there."
Sergei just hummed, as he watched the body, eyes raking the feline's carcass before beckoning two of his men closer.
"Skin him. Don't have this type yet."
Kraven took a deep inhale. Death's stench sparking alive the hunter in him.
"Whatever killed it, needs to be in my personal collection of trophies."
Peter in the meantime cleansed your wounds with water, to then apply some clean bandages on them.
The whole group moved, upwards to the mountains.
"What the heck happened!?" he whispered aggressively
You made sure for Kraven to be within a reasonable distance to speak again.
"You won't believe me if I'd tell you."
Cause in truth, how would you explain a man, taller than Sergei, killed with his bare hands a wild animal and got way too touchy with you but is able to speak?
The road was long. You had time
Peter sensed your discomfort and pressed no further. However, the feeling of being watched never waned. It was the group, against the jungle's secrets.
----
Taglist:
@fayeofthenightingale
620 notes · View notes
Text
(part 2 of November Paramedic; part 1 is here.)
Steve's honey-sweet eyes, gleaming with confidence, ask 'why don't you take a bite?'
His pink mouth, deliciously curved, wonders 'don't you want a taste?'
His dark chest hair, leading a mouthwatering path down his pants, says 'you know you want to'.
And Eddie does. He really does. He would, if Steve was actually here. Alas, all Eddie has is the calendar photo currently staring at him from where it's propped on Eddie's dresser, and he's not biting into it. It's the only one he's got, you see; he won't be ruining it with bite marks and drool due to his intrusive thoughts.
If he had a copy machine close at hand, though? If he could make as many pictures as he'd possibly want? Oho, watch out, Slobbertown!
It's been one week since Steve the sexy paramedic revealed himself to be a real person and not just a dude in a softcore porn calendar. One week since he Florence Nightingale'd Eddie before vanishing in a flurry of bloody gauze and blinking blue lights, leaving both Eddie and Gareth breathless.
(Though in Gareth's case, it was due to laughing so hard he choked on himself.)
The calendar doesn't do it for him anymore. Don't misunderstand – he still uses it when beating the meat. In fact, it has exclusively become his primary masturbatory aid, and it has served him especially well the past few days. The moment those 48 hours were over and Gareth left, Eddie chucked off his sweatpants and went to, well, Slobbertown. But it's not the same anymore. How could it be, when he knows the real Steve's hair smells like a meadow and his aftershave like lemon and spice? When he's felt the pressure of Steve's fingertips on his jaw? When he's seen the faint scar running down Steve's chin from his mouth? When he can still hear Steve's voice use his name, give him orders, call him 'sir'?
It's impossible. Fuck, just whenever Eddie closes his eyes Steve's face appears, as vividly as if it happened yesterday. Of course, that might have something to do with Eddie already having made himself oh so familiar with Steve's face, and chest, and hands, and… everything else, for the past two years. Jesus damn it, if he knew this was where he'd end up he never would've bought the calendar in the first place.
Groaning, he throws himself back on his bed; then he shouts as his head thumps into the wall. Typical. He rubs at the spot to soothe it. No bump, though it hurts like a bitch. Pain (and suspicion he just aggravated the previous head injury) aside, he's comfortable, thus he sprawls out and stares at the ceiling as planned.
He's been distracted. He knows that because literally everyone has been on his case about it. Gareth gives him smug smiles that have turned alarmingly calculated as the week has passed. Jeff and Marv, having been filled in by Gareth, are rather more amused in a benign way. His boss almost sent him home to recuperate after catching him staring into space for the third time. Uncle Wayne noticed something was off through the phone. And Max has been giving him weird looks.
Ah, little Max. The only person in the complex who doesn't steer clear of him. She doesn't actually know what went down – not completely. She knows he got injured, because she caught him and Gareth as they stumbled home while she was exiting her apartment to toss the trash. Her sharp eyes zeroed in on the plaster, and on Eddie's arm that was slung over Gareth's shoulders for support (at Gareth's insistence).
"You got in a fight?" she asked.
With a grin he'd exclaimed, "Battle? You know me better than that! Nay, I did my utmost to escape the violence... but the ruffian got to me regardless."
"Huh. You okay?"
Gareth had rolled his eyes. "He's fine. I mean, listen to him."
"Don't worry about me, Red." Eddie tapped his own head. "This ol' noggin is harder than it looks."
A corner of her mouth twisted up, though if it was in amusement he couldn't tell in the dim hallway. They ought to team up against the super; maybe their combined whining will have him finally fix that broken light bulb.
"Make sure you don't take aspirin or ibuprofen," she said. "It can-"
"Yeah, I know. Paramedic already told me."
"Good. Is our lesson still on?"
"Certainly, m'dear."
And then he'd tipped an imaginary hat, she snorted, and Gareth hauled his ass to bed.
He didn't see Max again until Sunday afternoon, when she came by for their aforementioned weekly guitar lesson. Parking themselves on each end of the couch, his acoustic in her lap, he'd made her play the 'homework' from the previous Sunday. It sounded pretty good. She honestly won't need his help soon – probably doesn't need it now. She understands basic theory and is diligent about practicing. He'd be fine with awarding her temporary custody of the guitar for a while. She insists on coming over, however, claiming she has to be perfect by the time of the next open mic down at Connie's Corner Coffee.
The reason she has to be perfect? Well. Eddie is pretty sure it's to impress her boy. She hasn't confirmed that it's for her boy, or even that she has one, but it totally is and she totally does. He knows this because 1. she becomes flustered and grumpy (grustered? Flumpy?) every time he brings it up, and 2. if she was learning to play for herself he'd be subjected to a lot more Pink Floyd and a lot less Curtis Mayfield.
It's cute, to be honest. Picking up an instrument for a boy you like? That's romantic as fuck. If he hadn't been the Lord of All Losers he would've serenaded tons of boys when he was younger. Hell, he'd do it now, if only there were anyone willing to listen. But he hasn't had as much as a date in ages, and none of his previous attempts at relationships ever reached the 'romantic gestures' stage.
Maybe he should ask Max to set him up with someone. Why not? She probably meets dozens of people every day, at the campus, at the skatepark, wherever else she hangs. If there's anyone who could sort out his disastrous love life, it's Max Mayfield. She's so put together, and she's not even 20 yet. She's got her own place (in a supremely shitty building, but still a place), she's got a man (reluctant as she is to admit it), and she is halfway through her math degree. A fucking math degree, for Christ's sake! Math majors are built for solving problems!
Maybe she could even calculate how many times he'd need to injure himself before he'd meet the one paramedic he wanted to kiss… him better.
It was around that point of his daydreaming that Max shot a hair tie at his forehead and demanded he stop zoning out and correct her hand placement.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing deeper than usual. "Have you been resting?"
"Yes. For the prescribed 48 hours, and then some. I'm fine."
She'd frowned, scrutinizing him with those pale blue eyes. He squared his shoulders and met her gaze like a man. Easier said than done, to be truthful. He likes Max – she's fun, easily the most kickass neighbor he's ever had – but she can be intense. And when she gets her stare on? She's downright creepy.
"I'd prefer to cancel over you fucking up your head more," she at last said, posture stiff and chin jutting. 'Don't lie to me,' is what she meant.
Eddie sighed. "Red… I'm fine. Seriously."
And he was. Physically speaking, at least. Mentally, he'd always been a little off. Part of the patented Munson charm, really.
She must've realized that, because she relaxed, her expression going from 'active bitch face' and back to 'resting'.
"All right. Sorry for being overbearing. It's just." She shrugged a shoulder, gripping the neck of the guitar as it started sliding off her crossed legs. "One of my closest friends is a medical professional. Another one is studying biology. They've been discussing human anatomy and… I guess they've gotten into my head."
Damn his friends for caring. How was he supposed to sell this image of a dark, dangerous, rocker dude if he was constantly misty-eyed from how sweet his buds were to him? He leaned forward to pat her knee.
"I appreciate the concern, unnecessary as it is. But!" He drew himself back and pointed in the air. "We're not postponing! Open mic is less than a month away – you only have so many days left before you'll be on that stage, in front of aaaaall those people… and your beau."
He's certain that if she hadn't still been sorta concerned about his health, she'd have smacked him.
That was Sunday afternoon. Now is Wednesday evening. He is still hung up on Thursday. He doesn't even know why. Yes, he was face-to-face with the hottest guy ever. Sure, that same guy has been the star of his most critically acclaimed fantasies. Indeed, he hasn't gotten laid in eons. Of course, he's pent-up with sexual frustration and yearning for another man's touch.
But still. He's not an animal or a sex-crazed teenager. He's smart enough to know that nothing good will come of this. It's not like he'll ever see Steve again. That'd be so unrealistic.
A knock on his front door reaches his ears. Eddie makes no effort to get up and answer it. He's not expecting anyone – whoever it is will have to return another day.
The knocking turns into a pounding, followed by yelling.
"Eddie! Let me in, asshole, I know you're there!"
Ugh. What does he want? Hasn't he heard of texting?
Eddie drags himself off the bed and toward the door. Yanking it open, he's met by Gareth's self-satisfied visage.
"Good evening," he says, heedless of Eddie’s glare. "I come hither with your solution."
"My solution?" Eddie mutters as he stalks to his couch to crumple into another heap.
Gareth follows him inside. "I have a plan to get your man!"
"What? Who? What?"
"Steve. November-paramedic," Gareth says, like it's obvious, which, what the actual fuck?
"He's not my man?"
"But he could be."
"Gareth, what the fuck-"
He moves to sit up, but Gareth's palm hits him square in the diaphragm and pushes him back down.
"No, listen: you are a terrible patient."
"I'm not-"
"Remember back in high school, when that asshole rear-ended us in the intersection at Hickory and 5th?"
Eddie grimaces. How could he forget? They'd stopped at a red light when a drunken motherfucker plowed into them, sending them careening into the T-junction. One car managed to break before hitting them; another veered only to crash into a fourth car. The result was, for them, whiplash injuries and, for the people who collided, bruises, sprains, and a dislocated joint. It had been the scariest moment of Eddie's life, and the neck pain had been excruciating. That wasted piece of shit was lucky no one died.
He says, "Yeah?"
"You were so snarky with that poor EMT."
"Okay, first off, I was a snot-nosed brat back then-"
"Dude, you were nineteen."
"-and she was rude to me first."
"She was following protocol!" Gareth shakes his head. "The point is that you never follow orders or instructions, not even when a doctor tells you to. But November-Steve? I've never seen you be so pliable."
"I-"
"And after, when I had to babysit you for two fucking days? I expected it to be difficult. But you were so busy sighing and yearning-" he says, ignoring Eddie's indignant sputtering, "-and replaying him tenderly caressing your face with his big, manly hands and holding your gaze with those big, manly eyes-"
"Do you want to fuck him?"
"-that you forgot to complain or be a contrarian about everything." Gareth smiles, sweet as cavities. "It was great. I'd like to recapture that. And if November-Steve is the one to bring it out of you, well!"
Eddie glowers at him. No, really! With the metaphorical thunder clouds swirling over his head and everything! His world has been shook. It is tilted off its axis, and it's his best friend's duty to mock him relentlessly for it. But this? Trying to encourage him? Give him hope? That's going too far.
Gareth notices. Of course he does; curse the heart on Eddie's sleeve. The sickly-sugary smugness evaporates off him, and he takes a seat on the dingy couch seat.
"Eddie," he says with a softness reserved for a select few individuals. "Seriously. You've been all moon-eyed for a week. You've been thinking about him. Really thinking."
Eddie balloons his cheeks and huffs out the air. "Well. If you spend two years jerking it to a guy-"
"Gross."
"-and then he suddenly appears before you, in the flesh? I've been fantasizing about it. He's a fantasy. And when it actually happens, that's…"
He trails off. Gareth knocks their shoulders together.
"He seemed nice."
Eddie scoffs. "I spoke to him for fifteen minutes. Tops."
"Fifteen nice minutes. You haven't dated in ages. Maybe this is a sign?"
Chuckling, Eddie slumps his head onto Gareth's shoulder. They're the wrong heights for it, so it's awkward and strenuous on the neck. He remains.
"You're just looking for another opportunity to embarrass me," he says.
"Embarrass you and improve your life. Like only true friends strive to do."
Eddie hums. "So what's your fucking plan?"
Gareth shifts, turning toward Eddie, but doesn't say anything yet. Glancing up, Eddie is met by a zoomed-in, upside-down view of Gareth's pointy grin, his canines gleaming.
"The university!"
------------------------------
Taglist: @rougenancy, @raisedbylibrarians, @yourebuckingkiddingme, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @emma77645, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @eddielives1986, @stevesbipanic, @the-redthread, @fandemonium-takes-its-toll, @henderdads, @gay-little-bitch, @lordofthepointygerbils, @lenore1232, @imzadidragonfly, @zerokrox-blog, @eddiemunsonswife, @cherrycolas-things, @ediewentmissing, @princess-eddie, @atombombbibunny, @ajamlessbaby, @dogswithforks, @grimmfitzz, @cutiecusp, @cuips-not-cute, @manicallydepressedrobot, @messrs-weasley, @madaboutmunson, @mightbeasleep, @suikatto, @brassreign, @snapshotmaestro, @bea-sayan, @courtjestermunson, @csinnamon-fox, @steveisabicon, @spectrum-spectre, @spinmewriteround , @just-super-fucking-gay, @escapingthereality, @oneweirdcryptid
No longer adding to the tag list, due to numbers and (hopefully temporary) technical difficulties. Please save or memorize the tag #steddie fic: november paramedic instead; all the parts will be there (unless something goes terribly wrong).
Thank you for reading! 🖤 ☺
Part 3
4K notes · View notes
charliemwrites · 3 months
Text
Yes yes, I know. Part 9 for Charmed Slasher is coming out soon, I promise.
BUT! I had this Thought and just had to do it real quick!
(CW for violent imagery and actual violence)
Simon's been watching you for weeks.
You're such a sweet, quiet thing. Shy. Happy to let your coworkers lead conversations, chiming in only when directly addressed. You smile like sun peeking through clouds, slow and beaming, prying through darkness.
And they way you peer up through your eyelashes, the corners of your mouth tipping up. Oh, oh... he wants to ruin you.
Thinks of you while he strokes himself in bed, looking up at him through those thick lashes. Sticking together with unshed tears as you choke on his cock. That quietly pleased smile when he purrs that you're doing so well, almost halfway there...
It's becoming a distraction, this preoccupation with you. So many others just let their eyes slide over you, but not Simon. No, he sees you.
That you shred your bottom lip bloody when you're deep in thought. You wrinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut when you're trying not to sneeze. Always burn your mouth on your first sip of coffee.
He watches you in your home. The way you curl up with your favorite blanket, leaned up against the arm of the couch. A perfect open space for him to share with you. He memorizes your routines and imagines slotting himself into your life.
He shouldn't. That's not going to stop him.
Price has been staring at him hard when he thinks Simon won't notice. Gaz has been jumpier; the recruits whispering more fervently. They can sense him slipping; too many missions. Too much bloodshed. It's soaked past clothes and skin, muscle and marrow. His soul, if he has one, must be drenched crimson.
He needs an anchor to keep him from floating adrift in this sea of blood.
He's found you. So precious. So delicate. He couldn't let himself be too rough with you; you'd break so easily. Oh, his hands itch to break you down piece by piece like his favorite gun. Gut you and clean you out, only to put you back together again with his own hands, his initials stamped into you.
There's no salvation for someone like him, but you're all the Paradise he needs.
And then you go and do such a stupid, silly thing.
You go on a date. Look like something he wants to stain in your clingy jeans and low-cut top. Hair done just so. He wants to see it sweaty and tangled after burying his fingers in it; his vision goes red at the thought of anyone else getting that honor.
But no... no. It's not your fault, really. You don't know any better. But you will. You will very, very soon.
Simon watches your date greet you outside, slip an arm around your waist like it belongs there. Like you belong to anyone but Simon. The only things that saves the man from a bloody end right there is that you gently extricate yourself to go inside.
He seethes on the sidewalk across the street, fingers twitching for his Ka-Bar. The images of his initials on your perfect skin is burned behind his eyelids, and afterimage superimposing itself over his vision.
It's time you knew who you belong to.
--
Your father always said you have a temper like the Devil. Didn’t understand what he meant as a sunshine six-year-old, giggling after butterflies and munching on cheese sticks. Your parents’ pride and joy, their first and only babygirl.
You understood later, though, standing at the broken window and watching a pool of blood spread and spread and spread….. like leaving a marker tip on the page too long.
You’re Old Testament wrathful, fire and brimstone, churning beneath a lake of oil and ink. Pitch black, iridescent rainbow on the surface, too thick to realize what roils beneath until one misstep breaks that molecular tension—
Rage will boil up in your stomach, scorch your chest. Burns acidic in your throat and stains your teeth on venom. You don’t drown in anger, you wade into it until you float.
Not to say that you’re an angry person. You’re not. Not much to bother being angry about, by your estimate. Disappointed, resigned, annoyed, exasperated - sure. But the raw fury that sharpens your teeth and claws? It’s an energy expenditure your mind hardly ever feels the need to spark.
But there are some things…
“C’mon don’t be a fucking prude.” He’s drunk. He’s drunk and pushy and you feel your ribs expand, expand, expand…
“You fuckin’ owe me something.”
You show a little too much canine as you reply. “Because you bought me a couple drinks I didn’t ask for?”
“Fuckin’ spoiled bitch. Wha’ else d’you want, huh? Fuckin’ money?”
He pushes you. Your shoulders bump the alley wall behind you. The sky is so so dark above, no clouds, no moon. Even next to trash, the stink of that awful whiskey burns your nose.
You think of broken windows and blooms of blood.
“Just fuckin’ get on your knees.”
“No.”
“The fuck do you jus’ - it wasn’t a fuckin’—”
“No.”
His face twists, ugly and red (not the right shade of red) puffing up like a particularly loud bird.
“C’mere, you little—“
It’s nothing, nothing at all. A sidestep and a full-body shove. Your timing is perfect. You didn’t touch your second drink when your nail polish turned black.
Your “date” however, is wobbly and uncoordinated, you lean forwards on the balls of your feet in anticipation. Watch him bounce off the brick, stumble over a couple overfilled bags, and crack his temple on the metal corner of the dumpster.
You tilt your head as he collapses in a pathetic heap, barely conscious. Make a point to roll him over onto his back. The last sky he’ll ever see with any luck. You lean your foot into his stomach, watch him turn pale and then green. He’s not going to be able to roll over before all that drink comes up.
Satisfied, you step back as you brush brick dust and dirt from your pants and sleeves. Movement at the head of the alley catches your attention, but by the time you look, the disturbance is gone. Likely someone just passing by. You don’t care if you're wrong.
Below you, the man - you never bothered to actually remember his name - gurgles and starts to rasp wetly. The fury ebbs, a tide dragging out with bloody foam at the edge. You let out a slow, satisfied sigh and navigate to the alley's entrance.
You've barely stepped from the shadows of the buildings when there's a sharp pinch in your neck. The world goes black in seconds.
769 notes · View notes
heavenblvd · 1 month
Text
𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒.
Tumblr media
pairings — fem!reader and rafe cameron.
summary — after rafe takes your life, he tries to move on, and simply pretends he’s the one who didn’t do so. eventually, hauntings and truths will lay themselves out to remind rafe just how sickening he is.
warning tags — adult language. details of gruesome m*rder & m*rder itself. mentions of DV relationship, (brief) child ab*se & awful parents. talks of religion and god. reader’s pov from heaven (?? just stick w the program). rafe actually going more insane than usual. overall dark content.
author’s note — this is based on and inspired by ethel cain’s song ‘strangers’ and while this song has multiple interpretations to go by, i’m taking mine by the main and common one (just without the c*nnibalism!). this also gets super dark and depressing so if you cannot bear any of it, please click off! this also isn’t revised at all so my apologies for grammar mistakes.
likes, shares & reblogs are very much appreciated ⋆୨୧ ₊゚
you had tears in your eyes, body shaking to point you thought you’d convulse. you tried to be obedient by keeping in rafe’s secret of what he had done on that tarmac. he beat you to make sure you kept your mouth shut for good.
he said, “i’ll kill you if you say one word,” and it took enough fear to believe him, but you didn’t think that day would come.
murder is an evil thing, and everyone can attest to it. rafe murdered sheriff peterkin as if she was nothing, as if she was a problem in the way. bad enough, he let john b. routledge — one of your best friends — take the fall for it.
you continued to keep your mouth shut, but after rafe tried to invade the police, ward killing himself, you didn’t see a reason to keep quiet. ward was the only reason why rafe could stay out of prison, and now that he wasn’t around, you could speak.
your father preached every sunday to live by righteousness and good, to never let evil win.
rafe was that evil. he was the devil himself.
the devil that you danced with, let make love to you, kiss you, but also beat you until stars twinkled in your vision, and your breath kept getting caught in your throat.
your mother would be horrified to know that, your father too. but it was their fault in a way that you accepted this cruelty as love; your father, especially to blame.
if love is not meant to be hit at you, does it even exist? your father showed you that when he’d slap or punch you for falling out of line, but go to church the next day, and preach about being a good servant to god.
you wanted all evil out of your life. it was suffocating, it was drowning you.
rafe had to be eliminated first.
“you killed peterkin, and i’m tired of knowing it,” you said, picking up your car keys. “we are done, and i won’t even show up to your trial when you go down for it.”
rafe just stared at you appalled and puzzled, sitting on the edge of his bed. you were close to being far out enough to your car until strong, violent hand seized you.
you screamed and kicked, not being new to this routine, only knowing that he was going to harm you.
you could never predict that his violence would lead him to murdering you.
“let me go, rafe!” you screamed, being pulled inside, your pleas and cries echoing in the empty home.
expecting to be physically berated, you were being led downwards.
to the wine cellar basement.
and for once in a while, you prayed to god, and hoped he would finally listen to you this time. that he would save his child, and perform a miracle.
but a miracle never came as rafe manhandled you, pinning you down on the cement ground of the basement.
“shut the fuck up! stop crying!” he yelled, a solid punch coming to your cheek, and you yelped, an easy gush of blood rushing out of your mouth. “you’re a fuckin’ backstabber. after everything i’ve done for you, gonna treat me like that?”
you cried, shaking your head. “r—rafe, please! i’ll be good, i’ll stop!”
“don’t trust you, little one. can’t let you ruin everything,” rafe said, reaching for something out of his back pocket.
the more you fought back, the more angry he got; the more you fueled the fire that rested in his hands and body.
before you could let out another plead, a sharp pain was made into your abdomen.
rafe stabbed you — and he wasn’t planning on stopping there.
god wasn’t there. you would show up to his gates in this condition, and ask him why he let it happen. if god is real, why did he bear witness instead of saving you?
rafe doesn’t recall killing you.
he remembers grabbing, and dragging you down into wine cellar basement, but couldn’t be able to tell anyone what happened after that. all he knows your blood was quite literally on his hand, knife shaking in his grip.
your babydoll white dress was now stained with violence and scarlet red blood.
the sight should’ve made him sick, but it didn’t. he just stared at you, breathing heavy, and it didn’t strike him until a while later that he had killed you.
rafe cameron had killed the love of his life.
he only panicked when it came to how to dispose your body, take off any evidence that could trace back to him. he was more than willing to dump your body in the woods, let any gators eat at you for supper.
he tossed your body only hours later in the depths of the woods, and it didn’t take long until you were reported missing.
of course, he was questioned first. it was easy for him to play the concerned boyfriend, crying because he also hadn’t heard from you, saying he had been texting and calling you for hours.
your parents sobbed on the news and asking anyone to come forward with any information, that they’ll give up however much money for their child to come home.
rafe just stared numbly at the television screen, a cup of scotch in his hand.
your best friends, the pogues, sobbed for days, and even started a search party for you. rafe made sure to dig you levels down in those woods when the ground was wet enough to dig up, and cover you up.
sarah cameron had a feeling her brother had something to do with your ‘disappearance’ but it was only just a gut intuition, she couldn’t prove it. she always questioned why you got with her brother, always emphasizing how horrible and violent he was, but you would tell her, “you don’t know him like i do; you don’t know how much he loves me, and takes care of me.”
kiara knew how bad rafe was — for god sake, she momentarily went to the academy around the same time he was a senior. she knew he wasn’t destined to be a boyfriend, let alone even in a fucking relationship.
the boys of the group were beyond furious, the three wanting to round up and take ahold of rafe, beat some information out of him. but they knew you wouldn’t want that, and that rafe would easily get the police to arrest them.
however, months passed, and you slowly became a memory to not only the town, but to rafe himself. he went on with his days like nothing occurred, that he didn’t violently take the life of his girlfriend.
you weren’t on his mind anymore, and he didn’t have to worry about you anymore.
or so he thought.
karma and revenge go hand in hand together; they mingle and burst out, they make sure they arrive at the doorstep of the people who deserve it.
rafe always thought getting rid of you would avoid his downfall, but the murder of you was just the beginning of it all.
he slept peacefully like he had done for a while now, with him about to drown into a deep sleep. he rested with his hands laid atop of his stomach, comfortable and at solitude, a female whisper woke him up.
he peeked around, but saw no one. he assumed he was just sleep deprived and imagining things, his eyes closing again for sleep.
“do you feel sick yet?” the voice that sounded like yours came through, more clearer and visible. he shot up, and turned on his bedside lamp.
nothing. no one. not you.
why would he have to feel sick? you were gone, you were no longer a problem.
rafe shook it off, and was able to go back to sleep.
you were angry in the afterlife. you stared at rafe from heaven, trembling with rage and regret. a man you once loved, had acted as if you never existed. you adored him, and he disposed you like garbage.
you just wanted to be his, wanted him to tell you that you were his only; that he loved you as much as you did to him, that he would change and better himself for you.
that the violence would dissipate, and his rough hands would be nurtured with love and softness.
but no. that never came, and never would.
you were taunted by your murder, burning with the need to remind rafe of how sick he was.
your violent lover let you bleed before him, and without tending to your wounds or simply sitting with immediate regret, he soaked in his actions and dismissed it.
why couldn’t he be gentle? was him painting you blue and purple not enough? did he have to go as far as killing his lover to satisfy the disdain and vexation he held for you?
was that enough? was that enough to make you enough?
rafe’s nights slowly turned interrupted and sleepless. your voice was always there, and time to time, he thought he saw you standing in his bedroom, drenched in blood and with tears streaming down your face as you kept asking him, “do you feel sick yet?”
sick. not regretful. fucking sick.
sleep deprivation was catching up to him, making him more mean and angry than usual, more out of control.
the coke wasn’t even helping either, only making everything worse.
he was at barry’s trailer, snorting endless lines of the white powder, trying to shake off the sight of you from last night.
“country club, you good?” barry asked, and rafe didn’t respond. “you don’t seem well, bro.”
“just need this shit, okay?” rafe mumbled, separating another drop of cocaine. “just… just want to sleep, need it.”
barry didn’t want to push him with more questions, minding his own business as the blond haired boy snorted up excessive amounts of lines.
rafe ended falling asleep on his couch, barry mindlessly scrolling on his own phone as he laid down on his bed.
the cold air from the air conditioner ran around in the basement, making it more freezing and chilling than usual.
rafe could smell strawberry perfume, indicating you were around. he looked around, and saw nothing of you.
“where are you!” he screamed. “you can’t scare me, you bitch!”
“i’m not here to scare you,” you talked, rafe spinning around to find you perched in the corner of the basement. you careened closer, the dim light emphasizing on your mangled body.
rafe stared at your stomach, where immense stab wounds laid on it. he swallowed thickly, his breath shaking and jagged.
“do you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe looked up at you. he couldn’t move in this dream, he was paralyzed and a witness to your lacerated body.
nausea and despair washed over rafe, almost consuming him entirely.
you were finally face to face with him, your hair disheveled and bunched, face stained with tears and runny makeup, all for him to look at.
rafe could feel your physical touch, your soft hand grabbing his, and made his palm touch your abdomen. he almost fucking threw up.
you could see it, you could see he was wanting to vomit everywhere. “am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe shivered, forcing his hand to put more pressure on your stomach, blood rushing out onto it. “am i making you feel sick?”
rafe screamed and lurched up, his eyes opening and alarming barry. “woah, what the fuck, rafe!” barry shouted, and rafe breathed rapidly, his heart thumping against his chest, a need to vomit.
rafe brought his face into his hands, trying to shake everything out of his hand.
your face, your touch, your blood — he felt it all. he was being reminded of you, when he didn’t want to.
barry kept asking him what was wrong, why he was crying, if he was okay, but all rafe could focus on was your voice asking, “am i making you feel sick?”
he was no longer immune to his destruction. he was becoming infected by it. you were a disease that he couldn’t treat, a parasite that ate at his brain.
he would never get rid of you — and you would make sure that he never did.
it was month seven without you, and you became a faded name to the outer banks. the only people who lived on to tell your name was your parents, and your best friends. the pogues carved your name into the chateau’s tree, a ceremonial bench placed at the high school.
your body or you weren’t ever discovered, but the police had listed you as deceased. you weren’t a runaway, you were eighteen, and had nothing to runaway for. when you couldn’t be traced anywhere on the grid, the police pronounced you dead, and that was that.
pictures of you and any sort of evidence remained in a cardboard box somewhere in the police station. you were left to rot in every way.
you were tired of being forgotten, but more exhausted that nobody knew that your boyfriend did this, and you probably weren’t going to be the first girl he killed.
rafe cameron needed to know what he did, and you wanted to do everything you could to make him drag himself to the police station, sit down, and say, “i killed her — and i enjoyed every fucking second of it.”
madness was becoming rafe. he was already an insane, depraved fuck before, but the lack of sleep and memories of the murder were catching up to him for good.
dark circles were around his eyes, hair greasy and messy, his body tired. he felt like he was going to snap any second.
he kept drinking, smoking weed and doing coke back to back, surprised that his heart didn’t give out yet.
a random exhaustion toll pushed over him, laying him down on the floor of his bedroom, and his eyes threatened to snap shut.
he didn’t want to sleep, he was afraid to. he was afraid to see you, with your bloody dress and sad face, making him touch your wounds.
rafe didn’t win the fight of sleeping, and he knocked out cold on his bedroom floor.
he wasn’t in the basement, he was in his bedroom, and he could hear your feet padding away to the front of the house, to your car.
oh, he was reliving the night. and he couldn’t stop. he couldn’t get out of the memory — he was facing everything.
he saw you bloody by his doorframe, and you tilted your head. “why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice sounding as if he was trapped in a void.
you only frowned. “so you know.”
like a reflex, rafe hurriedly rushed over to you outside before you could get away, seizing you away, and taking you to the basement.
he pinned you down to the ground, and screamed at you to stop crying, upset and angry you were willing to betray him when he did everything for you.
you were sobbing, but it became echoes and his ears rang, everything around him becoming silent except his own heavy breathing. he grabbed the knife that sat in his pocket, and he could see your eyes widen with fear to the sight of the object.
“rafe!” you screamed in the first stab. he hit you sharp and right in the abdomen.
he held his knife there for a second, like time was freezing him, and he felt a hot breath at the side of his face.
it was you.
“am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe proceeded to stab you as you sobbed. you cried out his name, trying to fight away the knife, promising to be good and for him to stop.
“am i making you feel sick?”
another stab.
“am i making you feel sick?”
another stab.
“am i making you feel sick?”
another stab.
“am i making you feel sick?”
rafe couldn’t stop, he couldn’t control himself. he kept stabbing you as you screamed. he was a monster, with the inability to suppress his anger or violence.
“am i making you feel sick?”
another stab.
“am i making you feel sick?”
another stab.
“am i making you feel sick?”
another stab.
“am i making you feel sick?”
a part you thought you were making him feel sick because of how mutilated your body was; that the body he was once desired, was now filling him with disgust. you wondered if how butchered you looked, was making him uncomfortable and sick. he didn’t deserve your concern, but it happened anyway. was it making him sick?
rafe wanted to cry, but couldn’t. he was revisiting the person he was in this moment, and could see life vanish from your eyes, death taking you away.
he took one last stab, and held it there like the first one. you kneeled in front of him, looking over at your corpse for a moment before your eyes settled into his raging ones.
he held prolonged eye contact with you as you inched your face close to his, but kept a safe distance. you placed your hand on top of his murdering one, and with a blank face, lastly asking him, “am i making you feel sick?”
rafe broke eye contact with you to look at your deceased body, and realized and remembered this murder. your organs could be nearly seen, blood gushed and poured out everywhere, your body cold and still.
he dropped the knife, and eyed you. “i’m sorry.”
you shook your head, and sighed. “you will revisit this everyday as long as you live,” you said, sniffling. “all i wanted was to be yours, and be good enough, rafe. was i no good?”
he didn’t have an answer, and with that, you got up, staring over at your body. “i want you to know,” you chuckled softly to yourself, “i never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. i forgive you, especially since i’m happier where i’m at.”
“heaven?” rafe asked.
you nodded. “you won’t make it here, but i’ll still hope and wait that you do — because i love you too much to let god be angry with you too.”
“he’s an angry man?”
“he’s angry and unfair,” you responded. “like someone i know. i loved god, i loved you; two men who didn’t view me as much, who don’t deserve for me to believe in them.”
rafe went quiet, and enough time went by for you to disappear for good to let rafe cry, and scream. he cried and sobbed, dry heaving as he vomited everywhere to the sight of you.
he killed you, and as long as he kept it to himself, you would drive him mad and insane with the knowing of it.
rafe cameron confessed to your murder only hours later. he drove himself to the police station, and confessed to every detail, telling sheriff shope where your body was.
they found your maimed body in the exact location where rafe told them it was, your body already decomposing into near bones, eaten by critters and bugs.
the earth was consuming you.
he was hated forever, the town wanted him torched or given the death penalty. it would be a while until he got a trial.
your funeral could be proper with your body in a casket, given a rightful way to be down in the ground, protected and secured by a box stuffed with silk fabric.
you could see your mom cry, and you wish she wouldn’t. your father had to give the prayer at your funeral, your best friends sobbing, and hating themselves for not getting you away from rafe sooner.
however, your death was simply inevitable. if rafe didn’t kill you, your love for him would. he was everything to you.
even when he was murdering you — getting a vile satisfaction from it — you were worried about him, if you and your maimed body was making him feel more nauseous and sick than the actual murder was.
rafe would live with the knowing that you truly loved him, and he took your life every single day that he spent in a prison block cell.
and your ghost would continue to linger and haunt him, never letting him know peace and serenity as he never did to you.
535 notes · View notes
railingsofsorrow · 3 months
Text
summary: in which a phone call ruined your day.
... or not, because your boyfriend made sure to be there for you until you were okay again. pairing: s. reid x gn!reader
w.c: 2.1K
warnings/content: reader is reckless and puts themselves in danger (one time); angst; mentions of shutting people out; an argument happens but the fluff comes right after; case-related violence; reader is going through something but it isn't explained; mentions of past bad habits; be aware of spelling errors.
A/N: my finals aren't over but I forced myself to take a break for the night. thus, I'm posting this hurt/comfort blurb. hope you like it.
navi
masterpost
cm masterlist
would you like to enter my taglist?
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
“you're mad.”
the day started good. you even got breakfast at home, which is something it almost never works out. but a case only arrived at around nine, so you had time to eat something before leaving.
spencer made toast, crispy, just the way you liked it. you sipped on your orange juice as he took his coffee, hand resting above yours in the comfortable morning silence you liked to partake in.
the day started good.
until things went south really quick.
it all begun with a phone call. not a work call, you were pretty used to those and when hotch called you up to the briefing room, everybody was already filling out paperwork in the bureau.
your mood went sour in a matter of seconds. you think you were able to desguise it from most of the team, though. except for spencer and maybe emily, because emily noticed every eyelash that was out of place, she couldn't even help it.
the news you got caused you to retract back to old habits, shutting people out and drowning in work to avoid thinking about it. you were numb, doing everything on autopilot, but you didn't let it compromise your professionalism. never. that fucking phone call wouldn't make you a bad profiler for a second. you wouldn't let it.
being numb lead you to be impulsive. and you took advantage of that. you'd jump straight into action just to avoid dealing with your problems. just to forget.
“i'm not mad.”
your boyfriend's tone was clipped, short. almost cold, but it didn't got that far yet. it took a lot to make spencer reid mad. but when it happened, and you were the reason, you were always conflicted on whether to let him cool off for himself, give him space, or beg for forgiveness right after you screwed up.
this time, you decided on the former. you don't think it worked that well.
the unsub had a gun pointing at a seven year old child. he was cornered in every way possible. police cars were still arriving at the scene, although five FBI agents aimed at the man, ready to shoot in case he so much as twitched a finger on that trigger.
anxiety ran along the bystanders as they watched it all happen in their neighborhood. you hadn't plan that, in fact, all of you had planned something else entirely. the profile was solid as well as the location and the unsub's endgame.
but people are unpredictable. no matter how hard you've studied the human brain. in certain circumstances, they would be capable of anything. including threatening children's lives.
your boss advised everyone to stay back. that they had it covered. it was only a matter of talking him down, carefully and with confidence.
but the second you heard the sob of that seven-year-old boy, you stopped focusing on the command reaching your earpiece. bulletproof vest and gun set aside, you marched forward, no ounce of hesitation. you knew what you were doing.
“spencer.” you followed him into your bedroom, a tired sigh leaving your lips as you felt your legs wobble slightly. you were exhausted. the day was hell both physically and mentally and you just wanted to take a good shower and sleep for forty eight hours. you wanted to forget it ever happened. you wanted to forget that phone call.
he didn't spared you a glance as he grabbed a pair of clothes to get into the bathroom. there was it. that coldness you hated. it was finally here. “spencer, please. can we talk?” you begged. if there was one thing that suffocated you was sleeping while upset. and your boyfriend was an elite grudge holder. you just couldn't do that tonight.
“of course.” he leaned back from the door just before entering the bathroom. an impassive expression across his featured as he turned to you. you wanted to scream at him. “you've been avoiding me all day, but you want to talk now? of course.”
okay. you deserved that.
did you though? why couldn't he make your life a little easier?
“sorry I was rude to you,” you said, holding back the petty comment wanting to slip out of your tongue. sorry I'm going through something and you're being an idiot about it. “i didn't mean to. I shouldn't have treated you that way.”
spencer's tongue poked around his cheek and you braced yourself for what was about to happen. an argument. in the middle of the night — morning, it must have been past two am.
“i don't care that you were rude the entire day.” spencer clarified as if that would make things better. “i care that you threw yourself in front of a psychopath with a gun, without a bulletproof vest and only your hands to work as a shield.”
“you had my back.” you insisted, recalling the moment the whole team started to shout at both you and the unsub. they were behind you, you had good coverage. “someone needed to talk him down.”
he didn't seem to be on the verge of snapping anymore. his shoulders were slumped. he was tired too. he was exhausted. it has been a long day and you needed to rest. you needed to sleep. you needed to forget.
it had started as a good day.
“we were doing that.” spencer mumbled, softly. he eyed your bitten cuticules, the bandage in your arm and your far away gaze. spencer wasn't stupid. he noticed things. he noticed you. he knew something was wrong from the moment you excused yourself to take a phone call in the middle of the case briefing. you came back into the room a different person. contained. robotic. strictly professional. “why couldn't you wait?”
“it was a child. he was scared.” you snapped, flinching away from him. “he didn't have time to wait.”
spencer pressed his brows together, deciding to not mention the time you did have to do what you had to do. statistics wouldn't help now. “you could have gotten shot in the chest.”
“it barely grazed my arm.”
“that's not the point!”
“and what is?” you yelled back, turning to him, fuming. “there is no point. the boy was in danger. you decided to wait. I decided to act. he's alive. I'm barely hurt. the case is over.”
spencer faltered, seeking something in you that he wasn't able to find. his gaze travelled accross yours in a desperate attempt to make you realise how stupid that single sentence was. one mistake. one wrong move. and you could have been somewhere else instead of in your shared apartment.
a bodybag.
“who called you?” you blinked at him, taken aback by the question. you expected him to blame you further. you even expected him to ignore you for the rest of the night. you would not back down. “i know something happened. someone happened. you're not... you wouldn't do that if you were thinking.”
“so because I'm impulsive one time, you're questioning my judgement?”
“when your judgement makes me almost lose you, yes. I am.” he crossed his arms, licking his lips as he studied you. profiled you. you fucking hated him right now. you wanted to rip his brains out.
“there was an entire team aiming at the guy, spencer.” you scoffed, pressing a thumb against your forehead, a headache brewing. your will to argue has vanished. you just wanted to sleep.
“you were blocking our aim.”
“can you stop?”
“no.”
you no longer had control of your emotions as your sight begins to be blurred by tears. fuck, I can't do this.
the room became silent. as if hearing your inner turmoils, spencer paused. he thought it through, any possibility that might have caused your sudden mood change. your impulsiveness. he thought he had done something, but by your reaction it wasn't that. it wasn't him.
it all shifted after that phone call.
you didn't retract when he approached. you didn't reject his touch or pushed him away. but you remained frozen, locked up in your own cage.
“do you want to talk about it?”
it had started as a good day.
you stood up, brushing your strands behind your ears and swallowing up the feeling of something permanently lodged in your throat.
you didn't turn to watch his expression faltering in disappointment. you didn't had the guts to see it.
“no.” you said. “i'm fine. I'm going to take a shower. I'm tired.” you left to your shared bedroom without a goodnight, knowing it would be pointless since you'd be sleeping alone tonight.
sleeping was a strong word. you closed your eyes, pressing your eyelids so tight that you're seeing stars. tossing and turning for around one hour in an empty bed was enough to leave you upset. the weight of the day and the argument you had with your boyfriend taking a toll on you.
maybe you hadn't been fair to spencer. it's not like he did anything to force your sudden mood change; he had absolutely nothing to do with it, actually. he wasn't responsible for that phone call, he wasn't the person at the other line whose voice you didn't want to hear ever again. he was just the one at the receiving end of your irritability.
your boyfriend, he wasn't one to pry. to force you to speak of things that made you uncomfortable. things you weren't ready to discuss yet. he was the kind of person who would ask if everything was alright and he would make sure you knew you had a shoulder to cry on and a ear to vent if necessary.
spencer was caring and respectful. he knew you needed space just as he did at some moments. so much so that he wasn't sleeping on the couch because he was mad at you — though you had been rude for that to be case — but because being around him, or anyone for that matter, would only set you off.
his curled up frame on the couch, half covered by the blanket and half uncovered to the night air. curls splattered around the pillow he stole from your bedroom when you were still in the bathroom. you wanted to bury yourself into his arms and never leave him again. you wanted his warmth all over you.
standing on the entrance of the living room, you watched his eyelids move incessantly. it was what told you he wasn't in a deep sleep.
he was pretending to be sleeping and you knew he was aware of your watchful eyes.
“i'm sorry.”
you mumbled into the uncomfortable silence, scratching your arm beneath the bandage in nervousness. shifting into your feet, you contemplated approaching him, but remained in the spot.
he peaked at you as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the room. he moved to a sitting position, outstretching a hand in your direction. an invitation.
“c'me here.”
you didn't need to be told twice.
“i'm sorry I was rude to you, I didn't mean it. you were just there and I—” he shushed your ramble with a kiss to your temple, arms squeezing you against him the way you craved in bed a few minutes ago. “i'm sorry, spencer. please don't be mad at me.” the last part you let out in a soft whisper but it only made him pull you closer as a form of comfort, to erase the pain you were feeling.
spencer cupped your cheeks so you would look at him “i'm not mad.” he promised, thumb grazing your face lovingly. “i just thought you needed space, but I promise I'm not mad, okay?”
you nodded with your lips trembling slightly. you were fairly certain that if you were to speak anything right now you'd burst into tears immediately.
you did manage to let out i don't want space, I want you. because it was all that you needed right now. always.
he kissed every teardrop that slipped out after that, bringing you closer to lay on his chest as he rested his back against the arm of the couch.
“i'm here, baby.” he whispered, fingers dancing across your arms. “always.”
you turned on his hold to be face to face with him, lifting one hand to touch the side of his face, caressing his jaw where you felt the growing stubble on his chin.
“thank you.” you said, smiling faintly when he pecked the tip of your nose.
he ended up covering the both of you with the spare blanket.
he breathed out as if pretty satisfacted with your current position, even though you both will most certainly be complaining of backache as soon as you wake up tomorrow. “i love you.” he let out, not minding about the pain in his joints in the morning. the only thing that mattered was you in his arms, safe and sound.
the day started good, until a phone call ruined it completely.
or not. because spencer was there and he kind of made things bearable. and if he could just make you feel better for a little while, that's what he would do.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
taglist: @lilyviolets
479 notes · View notes
devilmademewriteit · 10 months
Text
Dark Paradise
part 3 of Salvatore
Tumblr media
read part 1, Salvatore, here
read part 2, Playing Dangerous, here
pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader
summary: left alone in javi’s bed, you go looking for distractions. finding them only leads you further into his world: a world of danger and violence, where no one can protect anyone.
warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, super SUPER light choking) so 18+ only content; pet names (cariño, hermosa, querida, sweetheart, baby) afab fem reader; reader is American; mentions of hair pulling; allusions to SA; attempted SA against reader (not by javi); violence against reader (hitting, slapping, manhandling); smoking; dubcon (power imbalance, trauma sex??).
word count: 7k+
no use of y/n in this fic
u guys. it is here. and the most exciting part is I can already promise u a part 4!! pls be mindful that this part is darker than the rest. it has many triggering themes, so many sure u read the warnings & stay on the safe side of things.
as always, love u all so effing much. feedback, reblogs, comments & asks are always appreciated, & don’t forget to join the taglist in my pinned post !
-em<3
No one compares to you. I’m scared that you won’t be waiting on the other side.
- Dark Paradise
“Girl, where did you go?”
You’re on the landline with Carrie, one of the few half-friends you'd made living in Medellín, thighs sore and bruised from the backseat-loving you’d received the night before. While Javi’s at work, you’re on (his words) 'house arrest,' and lounging alone in his apartment feels eerily quiet. The occasional car drives by—you try not to listen for the sound of scraping tires.
So, around 9:30, you’d decided to fill the silent space with a bit of vapid conversation, realizing that last night's antics (and your unexplained disappearance) may have caused a bit of confusion.
You start by filling Carrie in on the generalities: the guns, the car, and the rescue, at first planning to leave out the more… personal details.
Like the one you'd filed away under 'Riding a Cop to High Heaven in the Backseat of his Jeep.'
You also leave out the part where, afterwards, you’d kicked off your heels by his front door, let down your hair in a sloppy, half-drunk movement, made a beeline to the familiar crinkles and folds of his unmade bed, and swiftly passed out in his embrace.
Oh, to fall asleep between those arms for the rest of eternity.
Given your more cynical—okay, borderline self-denying—approach to life, you felt downright ashamed of how much you’d enjoyed it. How much you’d enjoyed him and all of his lasting touches.
And in the morning… Javi’s hardness biting into your hip was a more efficient wake-up-call than the trial nuke sirens back home; the soft kisses laid down the length of your neck and the long, lazy fingers creeping down your abdomen had you surging to consciousness with embarrassing speed. You’d shivered into wakefulness, flattened against his chest.
“Good morning, cariño.” His words were molasses, melted caramel, thick and damp with sleep.  
“Hmmmh,” was your only reply, sloping into your highest octaves as his hand sank to push aside your already-ruined underwear, dipping lower to toy with the switch only he knew how to turn on best. Arching into his spine, last night’s dress crumpled up above your waist, leaving him to feel more, more, more of you.  
“Thought it would take more convincing,” he breathed against your shoulder, a breeze of late august air.
“Wh’time z’it?”  
“We have time, cariño, we have time.”
When his digits pulled a moan from your lips, no other answers really mattered. He’d loosed that deep, guttural rumble of approval that made your chest swell with pride, your legs part in service and need.  
“Can you hold this leg up for me, baby? S’all you need to do.” He’d helped fold up your knee, and you’d turned to meet him with pleading, drooping eyes, dutifully contorting to mold into the shape of his body. “Perfect, baby, good job,” a rough kiss to your temple, “n’I can do the rest, hermosa—I’ll do the rest.”  
He slid in effortlessly, harmonizing to your sigh of relief with a “shit, s’wet,” and sheathing his cock between the folds of your morning slick. Brows furrowing, mouth falling open, you had every detail of your bliss etched on your expression, all for the beautiful man looming over you. “Always fuckin’ askin’ for it, huh, sweetheart?” He'd mused. “Woke me up moanin’ in your sleep, cariño—dreamin’ about last night?”  
An “mhmm,” was all you could muster. Javi’s hips rolled against your ass, and the resulting feeling of overwhelming fullness had you swearing you were still in reverie. When he paused, snaked his arms under your neck and around your waist, and pulled you flush against his chest, you remember it feeling like a dirty, desperate hug.  
“M’sore, Javi,” you’d whined at the stretch of your opening, the continued drag of Javi’s fingers against your aching, weary clit.  
“S’no excuse, baby,” he’d grumbled into the shell of your ear, pressing hard into that tender bundle of nerves. “Gotta get you used to it.”
A harrumph as he’d turned up the intensity, punishing you for your protests. “Y-you’re a mean-mean man, Javier Peña.”
Soft, gravelly laughter danced, twirled, traveled along the dip of your neck. “‘N you’re gonna come so hard for this mean, mean man.”  
He was right, bringing you to the brink of orgasm with the thick, rough pads of his fingertips, the tip of his cock sliding up and down, over and over, in and out of your guts.  
“Yeah—yes—m’gonna come for you, Javi,” you’d admitted.  
But he’d stolen his magical digits away, used them to turn your jaw, to square your face off with his own concentrated, lust-filled expression. “Show me cariño, yes—gonna be picturin’ that pretty lil’ face aaaaall fuckin’ day,” and you’d tumbled over the edge the moment he’d slid back down to the apex of your thighs, drowning in the darkness of his cinnamon-brown irises and the tantalizing circles—drawn from memory—against your clit.  
“J-javi—it feels—feels s-so good—”  
“I know, hermosa, s’just what you needed, fuck—”
He was already close enough, but your climaxing trembles and your whining, choked gasps had him wrapping his hand around your throat, pushing you further and further down the length of his tensing shaft.  
“Shit—you feel like heaven, baby, so good for me—”  
His release came fast and hard, leaking his hot spend into you, painting your insides like brushstrokes on canvas with his final thrust.  
He seemed to lay there for forever, softening between your walls as sweet slumber carried you off once more. “Go back to sleep, baby,” he’d advised against your shoulder (as if you’d needed any kind of encouragement), “Did such a good job; go back to sleep.”  
It was easy to accede to his command.  
You’d come to for a half-second as he’d placed, fully dressed, the clink of his belt and the crisp waft of his cologne rousing you to near-consciousness, a deliberate, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Don’t answer the door for anyone else, okay, hermosa?”
“Huh? Oh—mhm.”
And you’d vaguely registered a low laugh. “Good to know you’re so well behaved when you’re half-asleep.” His finger traced your cheekbone, dragged down to pull teasingly at your bottom lip. “Means I’ll have to keep fuckin’ you to the point of exhaustion.”
“Mhm—please." Squished and mumbled, guttural and breathless.  
Another soft laugh, and then echoes of receding footsteps.  
Waking up a few hours later, you’d peeled your sticky thighs apart, confused at first by the mysterious pool of wetness between your legs.
You didn’t bother cleaning it up, already feeling the loss of your DEA officer. You somehow chose to dial Carrie's number to kill some time on your day off (or else, you feared, you’d have quickly found another use for your bored fingers).
Being alone in his room leaves you feeling very young. Lying in his bed, thinking about the past night’s events… you feel giddy, like a highschool girl after her first time, and anxious, on edge without Javier’s protection.
You just want to gush about it.
“Do you remember that DEA agent? The Texan?”
You barely have time to finish your thought before Carrie’s cutting your question short.
“Sexy Javi?”
She giggles. You snort indelicately into the receiver.
“I never called him that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she returns. “I deduced it from the amount of times you ranted to me about his… callers.”
You fiddle with the telephone chord, smiling artfully to yourself. “I’m in his bed right now.”
There’s a slap. No doubt the sound of a hand clapping over a set of slack lips. And then—
“I thought he lived outside the city?!”
It’s a strange reaction. You’d expected something a bit more on-topic, confused at your friend’s preoccupation with Peña’s living quarters when you’d just divulged such an out-of-character, personal detail.
Well, at least the enthusiasm is there.
“No, he lives right by the embassy.” You respond, rolling lazily onto your side. Opening the top drawer of his bedside table, you grimace to yourself, taking in (on top of the empty bottle of men’s cologne and an old, broken watch) a box of tissue paper, a pair of handcuffs (not regulation), a smatter of sex toys, and a few scattered, unopened condoms. “That new… fancy building on the corner,” you continue, swiping a few tissues between your legs, trying not to giggle at the teasing Javi was in for tonight, “Carrie—are you seriously not gonna ask how it was?”
There’s a pause. You hear a rustle in the background; the sound reminds you of students in class, whipping out pens and notebooks.
Is she taking notes?
“Tell. Me. Everything.”
That reaction felt more appropriate.
It all comes bursting out of you—the night out, Javi’s rescue, your backseat escapade. Carrie’s an ideal audience, gasping and ‘oooh’-ing and ‘girl!’-ing at all the right moments.
When you get to the end of your tale, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Carrie pries for more and more specifics, keeping you on the phone for close to an hour. You don't give her everything (did she really need an approximation of his size?) but you do make sure to remind her, often, that Javier Peña was an excellent fuck.
Finally, the conversation dies down. Sitting up, you realize just how desperately you’re in need of a shower. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, the smell of sex, tequila, and Javi’s day-old cologne clinging to your skin, but his place gets hot, and you hadn't anticipated the need to pack deodorant in your purse during last night's going-out prep.
Either way, Carrie's become distracted, the length between your words and her responses growing with every passing minute. You notice a Spanish conversation taking place in the background, no doubt the reason for her decreasing attentiveness.
You’re about to hang up, launching into a polite, “alright girl, I’ll let you go” when she goes back in for more.
“Is he home now?”
She blurts it out, and you're a bit taken aback. Frankly, the urgency of her tone feels a little jarring.
“Um, no,” you answer, uncertain, stretching out your vowels, “I think he went in early today.”
“Good.”
Her clipped tone continues to confuse you. It’s… not playful anymore. It’s administrative.
Commercial.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh,” a flutter of shrill laughter, “Just wanted to make sure he’s not listening in on our—”
There’s a knock at the door before she can finish. You call out just a sec! automatically, pulling on your rumpled clothes from the night before as the receiver tumbles onto the unmade bed.
It’s only once you’ve lumbered over, wiped the grogginess from your eyes, once you’ve unlocked the door and twisted the handle—it’s only once your head is covered with a thick, scratchy fabric, once the world’s gone dark and a cry of surprise is wrenched from your throat—that you recall Javi’s warning:
Don’t open the door for anyone else.  
Something else takes over. Something primal. Fight, fight, fight. Find the flesh and punish it, scramble for purchase into any detectable, softer areas. Squirm until your legs give out, 'till your knees hit the floor and the beginnings of bruises scatter across your burning skin in a plethora of vulnerable places.
But when you thrash around like that, make sure your head doesn’t hit the doorframe.
Because then? It’s lights out.
The first thing you notice is the smell.  
Weed and tobacco. Wet weed and tobacco. It’s not a smell you’re accustomed to (you worked for the DEA, for crying out loud). It makes your already-pounding head spin, so it takes a second before you remember that you’re not safe—you’re not at home, you’re not at Javi’s, and you’re not with Javi.
Instincts kick in. Your stomach aches with fear, lighting you up from the inside, energizing every inch of your body. You wrench, pull, struggle against the restraints suffocating your wrists, binding your hands around the back of a rickety, wooden chair. You can’t kick at anything, either. Your ankles are crossed, squished on top of each other and secured by a firm length of (what you assume to be) rope.
And then the canvas is unceremoniously yanked off of your head, taking a few hairs from your scalp along with it.
You squint, blinking into the dim light, slowly adjusting to your surroundings: some sort of musty basement with concrete walls and floors, decorated by nothing except a couple of small, rectangular windows near the too-high ceilings. It’s completely empty—save for your company.
One, two, three strangers. All men. All Cartel, by the looks of them.
And all positively leering.  
The one nearest you, holding the bag in his hands, speaks down to you. It’s quick and harsh, mocking and cruel. Spanish and unintelligible.
Your hatred towards the captor blinds you; it coaxes the animal out of its cage. You spit: “I don’t speak Spanish, motherfucker.”
(Even if you did, the adrenaline coursing through your veins wouldn’t allow you much room for comprehension).
From the shadows, another man appears. He lumbers over to you, and you notice the peculiarity of his European-looking hat as he squats down to level with you.
He clicks his tongue, dousing you with a look of disapproval. “That’s not very nice, hermosa.”
You shiver. Javi had called you that before, many times. And even though it sounded totally different coming from this foul man’s mouth, shrouded under the veil of a thick, Spanish accent, it sticks.
You hold your tongue, biting it to keep from sobbing. The glint in his eye, visible behind his glasses, moves from playfulness to exasperated ire.
He sighs, stands, and grabs your hair, tilting your head back harshly to look down at you. “You’re very hard to catch, you know that?” He muses, darkness trickling across his features. “But you’re alone now, Americana. No DEA—no Javier Peña to protect you.”
He makes a mockery of his name, oozing cockiness as it comes spitting out of his smirk. You glare up at him, simmering anger and bubbling fear claiming you. Would they go after Javi?
No. They wouldn’t dare.
Only an American like yourself—low-value, replaceable, unnoticeable—was expendable.
“What do you want from me?”
He smiles, releasing your head and taking a step back.
“You’re the assistant, aren’t you?” And that deceptively sweet tone is back, frightening you more than his rage. “We need directions, hermosa. You’ve been in all the government buildings—we know, we watched you. Why don’t you give us some assistance,” he pauses, leaning down towards you, “And tell us where your evidence against Pablo Escobar is filed.”
You snort, unimpressed, shocked, and a little humoured by his little monologue. This was what they were after?
This was why you'd been fearing for your life?
A fucking… map?
“Find someone else. I don’t know shit.”
It’s honestly true. The bastards could not be barking up a more wrong tree. For all their criminal genius, they hadn’t managed to catch the fact that you really, truly didn’t give a flying fuck about the particulars of your job.
But if this was about Escobar—the Pablo Escobar—then these were men from the Medellín cartel. The same Medellín cartel that left scores of expendable bodies in its wake, that bombed, assassinated, and tortured government workers like they were no more than rats in a science lab.
You weren’t the end-all, be-all of this operation.
No, you were just another lead.
A lead that (only you knew) led to jack-all. Unless they were scrambling to learn about the best places to go out dancing or the worst brands of moisturizer, you had very little to offer the thugs.
The one with the strange hat—the ringleader, you decide—shares a smile with his co-conspirators, and you begin to regret the arrogance of your statement.
“There are many ways we can do this,” he warns, voice sloping down to a dangerous hum. “It can be easy…” and he lowers a hand to his belt buckle, setting every cell in your body on fire, “Or hard.”
It‘s a plea to God more than a question for your captor, your desperate, self-pitying: “Why me?” It can't be above a whisper, but the asshole responds anyway.
“It’s more enjoyable when we get to work with something pretty.” A dark laugh. “Who’s going to come looking for you, hermosa? Your family? Your friends? Your… government?” He clicks his tongue again, looking down at you in mock concern. “Like I said, we’ve been watching. You have a habit of disappearing. Running away.”
Figures.
Figures that the reason you’d wound up with your life on the line, your body in danger, was because of you. Once again, it boiled down to the lack of attachments you’d curated over the years, passing from one thing to another, quick on your feet the second they hit solid ground. For God’s sake, the only reason you’d made it this long in Medellín was because it hadn’t managed to bore you yet.
Figures that the closest thing to stability you’d been able to find was in the crime capital of the world. It was poetically honest, laughably ironic.
Of course, the American government would assume you’d fucked off—just another ditzy contractor swept up in the thrill of a south-American life.
The other part held water, too—no one would come looking for you. Your boss might huff about ‘these flighty secretaries, can’t hold ‘em down for anything,’ but beyond that, your disappearance would cause less than a stir.  
Somehow, that thought comforted you. The lack of collateral, the lack of another’s suffering… very little harm would befall the world in the wake of your absence. Peace was beginning to crest upon your settling soul. And, either way, you’d worked in this line of work for long enough to know that your death warrant had been signed the very second they’d seen you as a target.
You give the bastards what they want? You die.
You hold off? You die.
All things considered, you resign yourself, making up your mind.
Still, your defiant voice quivers as you say it.
“Fuck you.”
The ringleader smiles, like a predator cornering its prey, taking that first bite into hard-earned flesh. Your brain responds, screaming warnings in big letters, in flashing red ink. He barks an order to his underlings in Spanish, and the other two men come forward, roughly undoing the holds along your ankles, your wrists.
“Get the fuck off of me!”  
But they don’t listen, yanking you upright and shoving you onto the ground. Your vision becomes hazy. Something takes over, a protective instinct, perhaps, barring you from your own body. Distantly, you observe yourself fighting, but really all you feel is beyond. The words ‘I am not here, this is not happening’ wash over you over and over again, like a cleansing, salt-water wave.
Hands on cement. Clothes torn, destroyed—the cold barrel of a gun to your head, a man barking orders, hitting, slapping—and right as the worst is about to happen, everything just…
Stops.
It’s like they’re spellbound, bugs frozen in amber.
You hear the cause of it well after your torturers do. Footsteps upstairs, and gunshots, screams followed by the definite sounds of a creeping squadron.
The men get messy. Scrambling around, they gather their options. In your dazed periphery, you watch their eyes latch onto one of those open windows, 8 or 9 feet up from the ground.
A hushed conversation ensues. You're familiar enough with the more violent side of the Spanish vocabulary to string together their meaning.
“Shoot her? — no, the noise, they’ll find us faster — kill her? — too long — take her? — too messy — we have to go, we have to go, we have to go.”
Your ruined shirt is shoved down your throat, and then you’re gagging on it, ankles bound once more, shaking and naked on the freezing concrete. The trio uses the little wooden chair to frantically sneak out of the window.
It would be downright comical if you weren’t so terrified.
Soon, you’re alone, choking on cotton and wriggling to flatten your back against the wall. Centuries pass before the movement upstairs graduates to the basement below.
Relief doesn’t grace you. Any man—DEA, cartel, or Colombian police—would likely perform the same violence as your previous captors had planned to. A naked girl, roughed up and completely unprotected, in a dark, hidden basement, totally at their mercy… Shit. You were basically an invitation. A free meal, offered up to a different, hungry crowd.
You just pray that this one might be gentler.
The stairs creak under the certain weight of bodies in motion.
Tears run down the side of your face, dripping down from your temple onto the ground below. You compress into a ball, making yourself as small as possible.
The echoes grow louder, closer and closer. At this point, you just hope they’ll assume you’re an enemy or get trigger-happy and give you a quick taste of lead. Put you out of your misery.
Giving up was well within your comfort zone.
Someone gasps when they see you, and a single name hurtles through the space.
An out-of-commission part of your mind recognizes it—the name—knows it as a comfort. Still, you only tremble, trying to disconnect yourself from what must be a wishful, crafted, deceitful version of reality.
Then someone else comes forward. Your eyes, weary of keeping you in the dark, fling open just in time to watch a tall, dark-haired man push through the crowd of soldiers. You watch his expression—shock to rage, rage to relief, and then rage all over again.
He rushes you, falling to his knees before your wrecked form.
His first move is to wrench the fabric from your mouth. You croak out the most desperate sob of relief, all those stifled, unvoiced expressions of terror tumbling out in great-big-heaves.
“Are you hurt?” He asks.
“No.” You respond.
“Did they…?”
“No.”
Javi tears his big doe-eyes, filled with worry, away from yours, twisting to impatiently address the frozen crowd of four or five behind him. “Can somebody take these fuckin’ ties off?”
Switchblades slice through twine. Someone brings you a blanket, and Javi bundles you up in it, gathering you and lifting you in his arms. You don’t resist, clinging around his neck and hiding in the comfort of his shoulder.
“Hermosa—”
You regret the way you flinch. “Please—please don’t call me that anymore.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t ask questions, sounding a little softer, a little more unsure when he presses on, muffling the desperate edge to his tone. “Did you see where they went?”
“The window. Out the window.”
Most of the rest take to that almost immediately, scattering to start on their chase. Javi delivers a set of orders in his native tongue.
Then, he grows silent, carrying you through the house with two soldiers in the lead. “Close your eyes, okay? You don’t wanna see this.” But now that they’re open, you can’t seem to shut them. You only glimpse flashes of the upstairs area. Tables covered in paper, glass contraptions and coke, so much coke, which is almost more impressive than the quantity of blood splattered against the peeling walls.
And Carrie.
Carrie with half her brains hanging out, long, dark, red-soaked hair fanning around her crown like a rotten halo, lounging on the couch, fingers splayed and palms to the sky as if she were ready to wrap them around a glass of white wine—as if she were ready to catch up on girl-talk.
What’s Carrie doing here?
Should I ask her?
She’s dead.  
No, she’s not. She’s right there. She was waiting for me to be done so we could catch up. That’s just how she always sits—it’s just the scoliosis.
That’s why she always showed up so late to the club. She… she couldn’t dance too long because of the scoliosis.
You’re still debating whether or not Carrie would be up for a bit of gossip, another debrief, when big, strong arms lower you into the passenger seat of a Jeep Cherokee.
Javier buckles you in.
“We can’t go to your place—that’s…” and you trail off weakly, throat burning with effort. “That’s where they took me.”
He nods, his face a complete mask of concentration.
But you know him.
He’s holding everything back. You appreciate him for that, never wanting to hear a man shout for the rest of your cursed time on Earth.
“Steve’s, then.”
It’s your turn to nod.
Javier drives in complete and total silence, only speaking the occasional clipped sentence into his radio. Despite your vulnerability, despite your overwhelming gratitude, you feel guilty for taking him away from his work, from his team. For forcing him to rescue you once again.
For sure, he’s angry. Would he have to move? Find a new place? Leave all his stuff at the old one? Would a better captive have paid better attention, taken note of the exact direction her kidnappers had taken off in after clearing the window?
Soon, you’re settled against a couch, the light from the opposing window breaking in and dancing across Javi’s face. A blonde woman—fiery, familiar, concerned—hands you a glass of water.
Javi watches you, eyebrows notched together, lips drawn into a thin line as you take a slow sip in silence. The liquid slides down your throat, cooling and soothing the rips and tears there.
And they both won’t stop staring. Truly, their joint study makes you self-conscious, watching on with unapologetic intent as you shiver under the scratchy blanket.
Finally (thankfully), Steve's wife—Connie, you recall—speaks.
“You can go, Javi. I'll take it from here.”
“No.”
She looks borderline offended at his line in the sand.
“I don’t think she’s in any shape to talk, Peña.” It’s authoritative, protective, clearly marked with harboured resentment.
She'd make a good mom.
He scoffs. “I’m not gonna make her talk, Connie. Just don’t wanna leave her like... this.”
Connie looks confused. They share a glance, and an eventual understanding passes over her expression. In fact, even in your distressed state, you’re almost certain you catch a hint of a smile.
“Well if you’re both staying, we’ll need food.”
Javi nods absentmindedly, lighting up a smoke. You look away, still feeling the weight of his eyes boring into your ducked head.
She clears her throat. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Remember to lock the door, Javi.”
Then, swinging her coat on, she traces an awkward line out of the apartment.
Silence flits across the room. The agent continues to study you from his seat at the counter across the room.
“Are you okay?”
You pick at your nails, internally asking yourself the same question.
“I’m just glad you were there,” you muster up, looking up at his softened, warm gaze. Concern etches a couple of fresh lines on his face.
Javi nods, taking a long drag. “Always, sweetheart. I’m glad I was there, too.”
You shiver at the thought of what could have happened if he and his team had showed up just a few minutes later. What shape he would have found you in, or if you’d ever permit yourself to feel the touch of a man again. Of anyone again.
“Why were you there?”
The question comes out of nowhere, bursting out the moment you realize that you hadn’t yet bothered to ask him how he’d pulled off yet another well-timed rescue.
It couldn’t have been in answer to your prayers—those had never worked for you before.
“Carillo’s been following Escobar’s cousin for a while. Zeroed in on the neighbourhood, but we spent all morning doing searches. Honestly,” he breaks off for a moment, rubbing at his temples, “It was just damn luck that we found you when we did. Wish I could say it wasn't, but it was. We were gettin’ ready to call it off. I had… no idea you weren’t at home.”
He blames himself for it. You can tell. In turn, you blame yourself for that—for his misguided, self-inflicted anger.
There’s more left unsaid.
“My friend—I called her this morning. From your place. She was there. She was… dead. I think.”
Javi doesn’t react, evidence of the years of gore, wreckage, and betrayal he'd witnessed.
You swallow, soldiering on.
“I told her. I told her where I was. Could she… could she have told them?”
Is she the reason this happened to me?
Slowly, lips pressed around his cigarette, Javi nods. “I’m sorry,” he barely mumbles.
Strangely enough, you’re not. That’s what you say: “I’m not.” And it’s true. “She was upstairs when it was all happening. I’m glad she’s dead.”
Now, he looks at you with a consideration that swells into a kind of respect. Not a respect, no not respect. A knowing. A new kind of understanding, of equal footing.
You meet him head-on with it, basking in your retribution, revelling in the immediate justice she'd been served. You’d mourn the person you thought she was when your wounds weren’t so open, so fresh.
"They wanted directions, Javi," you suddenly blurt out, voice hoarse, "Isn't that insane? They were gonna... they were gonna do that for directions. Not even the evidence, just fucking directions-"
Javi lifts his hands in the air, signalling for you to slow down. Normally, it would make you want to tear his arrogant head off. Now, however, you just do, although the silence isn't very comforting. After a moment, you can tell there's something Javi’s been avoiding, something he’s holding in. The agent clears his throat, finally calling it quits on his tiptoe-ing around the subject.
“Cariño," he begins, "I know you told me earlier, but I... I gotta be sure. Did they hurt you in… any way?”
God, he sounds so deeply wary, unable even to speak his fear into existence. You shake your head no, prompting his shoulders to relax.
“Okay. Good,” he breathes, crossing his arms and looking down at the rug. “Don’t think I could…”
Panic ripples through your frame.
'Doesn’t think he could' what? Bear to look at me, knowing the enemy had been where he’d been, done what he’d done? Touch me in the same grooves they'd left on my skin? Javi’s not that kind of man—is he?
“Don’t think I could forgive myself if anything were to happen to you under my watch.”
The rush of anxiety quickly dissipates, replaced by a stifling bloom of admiration and adoration across your chest. Like soft tendrils, warming your shivering body from within.
You smile self-consciously, scoff, and meet his eyes. “I wasn’t ‘under your watch,’ Javi. I opened the door. It was my fault.”
He raises his eyebrows, huffing a breath before ashing his dart, rising, carving a path towards the couch-cushion next to you and taking your glass of water from between your hands. It clinks as he sets it on the table. Taking your unsteady hands between his hardened palms, he coaxes you into meeting his golden eyes.
“It’s not your fault, herm—” a pause as he corrects himself, noticing your flinch, “—cariño. It’s not your fault.”
He waits for your nod of acknowledgement before pulling you into his arms. You let yourself go limp, dragged into the plushness of the couch and the firmness of his chest.
He lays a kiss to your forehead. He fidgets with your hair. He traces long, lazy lines up and down your spine.
How had you gone from that youthful giddiness this morning to this dark, anxious wreck in a matter of hours? It wasn’t even two o’clock yet.
The comfort your agent provides is good—will always be good—but you want more. Every inch of attention he gives you is just another step away from that cold basement, a foot towards freedom.
Time heals all wounds, and you want a distraction while you face those excruciating seconds. Something to move it along. Something to keep you busy, to keep the harrowing images at bay.
So you tilt your head up. Finding his lips, you press into him, shuddering when the rough hairs of his mustache tickle your top lip. When your body asks for more, when your tongue meets his and your hand drops to his thigh, Javi tenses, pulling back and breaking off the kiss.
“Sweetheart—you’re not in a good place,” he whispers, lovingly running his fingers through your hair.
You look up at him with eyes full of need, wordlessly begging him to give in. “I am now,” you assure him, tossing a leg over his hips and straddling his body. His expression darkens as you slowly chip away at his resolve, one touch at a time. “I’m with you.”
He smiles, plucking your hands from his chest. Every kiss he lays to your knuckles sends a ripple of electricity up and down your spine. “That right?” He muses between embraces. “That all you need?”
You nod, the pace of your shallow breaths picking up in anticipation. “When you touch me, Javi, it’s like you’re cleaning them off me,” you croon, leaning forward to brush your lips against his jaw.
“You’re in shock, baby,” but his hands defy his words, slipping down to circle your waist, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Slowly, deliberately, you lean back to stare directly into his heavy-lidded eyes. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
You feel him tense at that, his body hardening alongside the weight building underneath your thigh. He lets you go on, deft hands pooling onto your hips.
“Get rid of them for me,” you plead, grinding down onto his bulge.
“Make me all yours again.”  
That does it.
His hands shoot up to your face, firmly cupping your cheeks between their heat. Then, Javi’s kissing you harder than before, warming your desire up to a feverish level. You moan into him, turning to putty in his grasp.
He peppers kisses down your jaw and up your neck, allowing you to clumsily untuck his shirt and undo his belt. It’s frantic and needy—it’s pure business. You free his length from the confines of his clothes, heavy breaths mingling when you look down in tandem, hungrily watching your small, delicate hand pumping up and down his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, his dark crown of cropped curls falling back against the couch, “You make it fuckin’ hard to be a good guy.”
You smile, spreading the slick dribbling at his tip around the head of his cock.
God, the sight of him never gets old.
“Good guys listen, Javi,” you tease, managing to pull off an air of sultriness, “Not just to no—also to yes.”
A lazy, roguish grin spreads across his face. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?” and he knocks a squeal out of you when he cages you in his arms, flipping you over ‘till your back’s digging shapes into the worn-in cushions below. “Gettin’ mouthy already.”
You giggle up at him, but all of your noises dwindle when a few rough fingers push your torn, ruined underwear to the side. You grow especially wordless when one separates your folds and makes its way inside you.
Javi gives you his signature look of condescension, of mock pity.
“What happened, sweetheart?” He taunts, thumbing that aching bundle of nerves. “All the ways I’ve had my dick in you, just this—” he makes a point to curl his fingers towards himself, pressing against the most desire-stricken spot, “—‘n you can’t find your words?”
Your throat won’t open, choking around your own pleasure. Instead, you nod with enthusiasm, desperately clinging onto his forearm. “More.”
He quickly accedes, pushing another long and thick finger inside you. You shudder at the perfect sting—the stretch—as your opening hugs his knuckles. Javi mutters curses to himself, angry and lustful, supervising your writhing form.
“No one else gets to see you like this.” He speaks low, sitting up to work you with both hands. Your body responds without your permission; Javi clicks his tongue and shoves you back down when your hips buck up. “Don’t deserve it,” he continues voicing his thought as if no interruption had occurred, “I’d have to track ‘em down and kill ‘em.”
His tone goes beyond protectiveness, easily veering into the realm of the possessive. “I-I wouldn’t be good f-for them, Javi,” you manage, wanting to comfort him, to calm him, “Wouldn’t—wouldn’t listen.”
“Oh,” he smirks down at you, finally pulling his fingers from your soaked, ready cunt. “Like you listen to me?”
You spread your legs for him, shimmying down until he’s hovering right above you. He strokes himself, taking you in with hunger, playfulness and… something else.
Something like devotion.
A smile. You stroke his jaw. “You come harder when I misbehave.”
He shrugs and nods, a silent, ‘you got me there,' before lining himself up at your entrance.
You whimper, a pathetic, pleading sound, when the head of his cock finds your opening. “Then make sure to misbehave.”  
He rocks inside you, taking note of the way your jaw goes slack, hanging open, and the way your brow furrows, grateful eyes glazing over, showing high praise for that feeling of fullness.  
And he laughs to himself.
“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he coos, settling into a comfortable rhythm. “Beggin’ for cock after bein’ kidnapped. I shouldn’t be feedin' into your crazy, cariño.”
It is crazy. But you don’t care, giggling along to his taunt.
“Just makes me feel so-so good, Javi,” you breathe.
“Yeah?” He coaxes, sitting back to tower over you, pressing your thighs to your calves; the new angle has bliss rippling through your centre, your back arching involuntarily. “What feels good?”
He shoves your hips down, lowering a finger back to your clit.
“Oh—God—y-yourcock—” he nods approvingly at you, beckoning you to go on, “your—your fingers, too.”
He slows his pace, pulling out fully before slamming back inside you.
“Look at it, cariño,” Javi instructs, steadying your hips once more. “Watch me fuck your pretty lil’ pussy.”
You struggle onto your elbows and obey, mouth slack and perpetually open. Pressure builds at your core as you watch every inch of his hard, dark length disappear, over and over, inside the shelter of your body. It’s so dirty, and somehow the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“M-made for you, Javi.”
And he moans, an animalistic sound you’d never heard from him before.
“S’right, baby, made just for me.” He flattens his fingers against your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Can you come for me now?”
You nod, grateful for his permission as soon as you start to feel your thighs shake. The tension snaps within you, and you tumble over the edge of your climax with a high pitched whine.
“Good girl,” he praises, low, deep, and bristling with pleasure, “Good fuckin’ girl.”
You ride it out. Javi shows no mercy, squeezing your waist and bouncing your lower half against him. His biceps and shoulders strain against his shirt, the sight making your eyes roll to the back of your head.
After having him a few times, you were well aware of his impressive stamina—Javi wasn’t going to finish without giving you another one. Nonetheless, the overwhelming pleasure has you squirming away from his unrelenting grasp.
He pulls you back against him, steadying you between two forceful hands.
And he fucks you harder.  
“Still remember them, querida? ” He breathes.
You find your voice, using great effort to stammer out a “y-yes."
It's not the correct answer.
Javi growls, “Then I’m not fuckin’ done with you.”
His shirt grazes the insides of your thighs, and you're certain that every part of his form is working to set your skin on fire. A skilled hand wraps around your jaw, and Javi leans over you, lowering his lips to latch around a hard, peaked nipple.
Your whimpers do nothing to stop him. He just keeps rhythmically rocking into you, the head of his cock reaching impossible, beckoning depths.
An almost-sob wracks your lungs. “S’a lot, huh? Takin’ all this cock inside you…” Javi shushes you with feigned sympathy, nipping and suckling at the softest spots at his disposal. “S’okay, baby, s’okay.”
Then he makes his way to your lips, forces you to kiss him—deeply—as your lungs scream for oxygen. He locks your hands above your head in just one of his own, the pressure of his weight the only thing keeping your squirming limbs in place.
And then his mouth is sliding down your jaw, his breaths hot and heavy next to your ear.
“Fuck—can feel you gettin’ close, sweetheart, gonna come again?”
All you can do is nod.
He rolls into you—hard and deep—forcing tears to pull from the outer corners of your eyes.
“S-so good to me,” you manage, seeing pure white as your third orgasm of the day blooms from between your seizing legs.
He groans, freeing your hands (which immediately find stability in the firmness of his shoulders) to clumsily wipe the tears from under one dazed eye. Above you, he resembles a hungry, lustful angel, eyes darkened with unbridled need, affection, approval.  
“‘M’good to what’s mine, baby,” he whispers, pulling you into the crook of his neck as he chases both your highs. “Come, cariño—s’right, come for me.”
And you do, aching, ruined cunt squeezing and releasing, fluttering around Javi. He moans a downright sinful ‘fuck’ at the sensation, reaching his own peak almost in tandem with yours.
Only once his every last drop is spent, once his groan and your whines have stopped echoing around the unfamiliar, open space, does he pull back from your neck.
And when he looks at you… God. There’s something you’re both not saying.
“Only wanna see you cry like this, baby,” he tells you, laying a long, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Never gonna let them—let anyone—lay a finger on you again.”
Your breath hitches, the words thick and sticky in your throat. The both of you are dazed, breathless, and completely wrecked. “I’m… I’m glad we met. That you—that we’re doing this.”
He raises his eyebrows, crooning a soft ‘yeah?’ as he pushes your hair from your face.
You nod. “You make all of it worth it.”
He’s appreciative when leaning in for a kiss, slipping out of you and groaning against your lips. You tangle your fingers in his damp hair, leaning up into him with every aching muscle in your body, wanting nothing more than to become a part of his whole. When he pulls away, it's only to tuck his softening length back into his briefs. He focusses on you again, leaning over to affectionately stroke your knee.
“Is it just sex for you?”
His question comes as a bit of a surprise—you’d never heard him speak so openly, so innocent and vulnerable.
You cup his face. Despite the fact that he looks like the men from earlier, carries the same guns and ammo, knows what they know, even speaks their language, he’s never seemed so separate from them, an entirely different species.
“No—at first, maybe, but now… No. Not for me.”
He eases into a soft smile, wrapping you back into your blanket before laying back, manhandling you to rest against his still-unsteady chest.
Those masterful hands comfort you in a million different ways. He plays with your hair and traces the highest points of your cheekbone. He massages your knuckles, pulls you in for little kisses, dips into the curve of your waist.
“How about you?” The question is small, even though you anticipate the answer.
He takes a second before answering. When he does, his voice is low, quiet.
“Not at all, sweetheart.” He tilts your head up, his soft, caring gaze probing into every corner of your own. “Honestly, I think it’s been more than that since the first time you said ‘go fuck yourself, Peña.’” He whistles under his breath, exaggerating his approval. “Shit was hot.”
It makes you laugh, but it's also enough to make your heart soar. Settling in to the nook of his neck, you breathe in his familiar, earthly scent, until the exhaustion of the day eventually weighs on you.
You fall asleep with a smile on your face, entertained by the fact that while you really should be a wreck, you feel perfectly at ease, wrapped in the arms of your favourite DEA agent. In fact, you can hardly remember what your kidnappers looked like—or sounded like, for that matter—succumbing to slumber, you only think of him.
Less than three hectic, hazy days later, you’re pulling a suitcase through the Medellín international airport. There was no sense risking it anymore—you'd have to be transferred to the States until the assholes were caught. Ambassador's orders.
Javi flanks your side, eyes peeled for any abnormalities in your surroundings.
Your heart breaks with every step you take. He comes all the way to the gate without saying a word, merely holding onto one of your bags (that he'd insisted he carry) in a white-knuckled fist.
You’re running behind. There’s not much time.
He doesn’t say he’ll call—knows he’s not that kind of man. You don’t say you’ll visit. You don’t say you’ll write.
No, all you do is lean up on your tippy toes to plant a tender, lingering kiss to his cheek. He returns the favour by cupping your face, leaning down and kissing you intently.
Too intently—as if he were memorizing the grooves in your lips.
Well, that’s what you’re doing, anyways.
Over the loudspeaker, your name is called.
“They’re paging you,” Javi translates, his breath hitting your top lip.
You pull away, doing your best not to cry.
“Thank you.”
It’s all you say—it’s all that needs to be said, really.
Thank you for showing me I matter. Thank you for teaching me patience. Thank you for saving my life three times. Thank you for wanting me. Thank you for making me wait for it. Thank you for giving me a reason to miss this place.  
Thank you for loving me. I think that's what this is.
He hears it all, stuffed and contained, overflowing from the two uttered words.
Then he smiles, that well-trained, protective cockiness spreading across his face.
“You’re welcome, cariño.”
You scoff a laugh, slowly dropping his hand and turning towards your gate.
“If I ever visit home…” he calls after you.
You pause, smiling down at the glistening floor, shaking your head. “You’ll never catch me in Texas, Peña,” you call across the traffic of rushing families and over-packed suitcases. He smiles knowingly, hands in his pockets, watching you leave. “Just lock the fuckers up so I can visit. The weather sucks back home.”
You slowly walk backwards towards the exit, ignoring a few flight-attendant-glares, not daring to break off the playful eye contact linking you to your agent.
“I’ll do it just for you, baby,” he calls, grinning like a fool.
Strange. You’d never noticed how the teasing, that snarky back and forth you’d developed together seemed to put him at ease—to relax him. All that time he'd spent, driving you to the brink of insanity... it comforted him.
And that realization was enough to make you beam.
You commit that final glimpse to memory. Javi—smiling, calm, alive, yours. It was rare enough that you felt sure it would stick.
When you finally turn to face the gate, to face your future, you don’t feel like crying anymore.
It was enough just to have met him.
Maybe—just maybe—he felt the same.
All my friends tell me I should move on
I'm lying in the ocean, singing your song
Ahh
That's how you sang it
Loving you forever can't be wrong
Even though you're not here, won't move on
Ahh
That's how we played it
And there's no remedy for memory, your face is like a melody
It won't leave my head
Your soul is haunting me and telling me that everything is fine
But I wish I was dead (dead, like you)
Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise
No one compares to you
I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side
Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise
No one compares to you
I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side
All my friends ask me why I stay strong
Tell 'em when you find true love, it lives on
Ahh
That's why I stay here
And there's no remedy for memory, your face is like a melody
It won't leave my head
Your soul is haunting me and telling me that everything is fine
But I wish I was dead (dead, like you)
Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise
No one compares to you
I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side
Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise
No one compares to you
But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight
I don't want to wake up from this tonight
There's no relief, I see you in my sleep
And everybody's rushing me, but I can feel you touching me
There's no release, I feel you in my dreams
Telling me I'm fine
Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise
No one compares to you
I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side
Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise
No one compares to you
But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight
I don't want to wake up from this tonight
TAGLIST WILL BE CONTINUED IN REBLOG.
Strike-through means I cannot tag.
TAGLIST:
@millllenniawrites @theicypiscean @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbees @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @caravelofthesun @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @buckysmainhxe @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @queer-poncho @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @expir3dl0v3 @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @dzaga890 @killerrxger @ayehomo @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @Eggnox07 @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @stxrgvsm @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @ophealiadrowning @kamcrazy123 @milly-louise @djarinsgirl @cowboychickenlittle
1K notes · View notes
diejager · 3 months
Note
if you don't mind can i ask for your take on civilian s/o and yandere makarov? i wonder how he behave around an s/o who's like the opposite of him (like they're kind, gentle and has not known violence ever). hcs or short scenario or anything depends on you i don't mind (there's a drought of makarov content tbh 😮‍💨).
thanks for considering this and please take your time. have a good day 😚.
”Love” Cw: manipulation, obsessive behaviour, delusions of love, humain training, forceful taking, verbal abuse, tell me if I missed any.
Makarov doesn’t love. He knew how to, but he never truly did. He couldn’t with the heart and mind he grew up cultivating, to build his empire and strength, dwindling his heart’s empathy. Ironically, such ignorance towards love only increased his obsession, the amount of it that would only climb higher and higher, because in a sense, the loss of such emotions lead to a loss of a limit, driving him to insane lengths to achieve what he had his mind on.
He only knew death and bloodshed, the destruction of the mundane and corruption of the innocent, being the source of the rot and decay in the cells of a flower, to make it wilt and dust. Perhaps that’s where his interest in the normal stemmed, that curiosity that would someday bloom into obsession. He searched for an object of obsession, something - someone - to put all this attention on, something tangible, solid under his hands and malleable to his intentions. Despite his lack of time to dawdle, to spend on meaningless affairs, he found the perfect subject, someone so starkly different from him and his world.
There was a dichotomy in Makarov’s world, the harshness of war, battle and conquering of countries, and the deceptive softness in his eyes, the gentle touch of his scarred and calloused hands, and the coo with his sly tongue. You were the only softness in his life, a civilian he -one day - decided to pick up from the streets, bright-eyed and innocent to the horror he saw and spear-headed. Your tired eyes untouched by his mind and your scarless body free of any conflict that he could start with a simple wave of his hand.
There’s a need in his mind to see this innocence wilt away, to pry your mind of any autonomy and freedom you’ve lived with. Makarov wanted a doll, something soft and precious he could corrupt with words and ruin with his hands, deceptively gentle and loving, a poem spilling from a cruel smirk and eyes gleaming darkly. He has his ways to turn you into a thing of his imagination, to make you into his willing Russian doll, layer over layer of maliciousness and subservience.
He’s a man of culture, letting the people under him do all the dirty work. Despite all the viciousness and madness in his being, he doesn’t hit, he doesn’t abuse the object of his obsession, that was reserved for men lower than him, poor and mindless men. Rather, he preferred manipulation, well-thought words used in right situation to have you crawling back to him for safety, protection and comfort. He wanted you to come to him on your own, to make your pliant and uncaring of the wider view. He, after all, took you for himself, to endure himself in a second source of power.
Makarov has a silver tongue, whispering words into your ears that take root, your doubts and fears growing in the depth of your heart, bringing you closer to the man who promised to protect you. His fingers wiping away your tearful cheeks, pearly gems rolling down your cheek as he teases you about being worried. You shouldn’t be so fearful with him beside you, he’s your warden, your all-powerful and dependable lover.
He won’t let a shred of suspicion towards him fester, it’ll be dealt with swiftly with the call of your name, breaking down your vulnerable mind and building it back up in his image, his opinions were yours, his thoughts were yours, his goals were yours. So much so that you were his, knowing fundamentally that whatever he said goes.
”мой маленький цветок,” he mumbled, pressing his lips against yours, hands soft but wandering, laying down chains over your waist, around your dainty wrists and tightening the collar around your neck, keeping the hold on your mind, “You did so well, I’m proud of you.”
Positive reinforcement. He often used positive reinforcement to deepen his hold, to sink his teeth into your clean soul. Sweetened words with a voice he taught you to crave and possessive touches of bloody hands with intentions that he blinded you of, finding a way to make you want them.
“What do you say?” His hand traveled up your jaw, featherlight fingers cradling your ear and cheek until it stopped under your chin, tilting your head to look at his narrowed eyes, proud and dark.
“Thank you, Vladimir.”
He smiled, a thin-lipped grin.
Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia
405 notes · View notes
mochatsin · 7 months
Text
WHEN THE BROTHERS SAVE MC
A scenario where you find yourself in the middle of trouble against demons who would either want to eat you, ruin the exchange program, and the list goes on. Sometimes, they don’t even need a reason to hurt you. Thankfully, one of the brothers arrives in time before it could get worse. Or tldr, the brothers SNAP as they save you
TW: implied torture and violence note: It’s funny because by the time I finished Satan’s part, there’s a chat on my Obey Me about MC getting full marks on their Curses and Hexes subject because of him and I think it’s a funny coincidence it's like the game can hear me. ------------
Lucifer
In his meeting with Diavolo, they both speculated that a faction must be growing against him, and the best way to sabotage the royal prince is to destroy the exchange program after all. 
Lucifer knows that Solomon can handle himself, but you? He’s not so confident. Sure, you can wield magic and form pacts, but there’s a long way to go and stronger enemies to face. You still didn't have the ability to summon them when you needed it without borrowing magic from the sorcerer. 
So when he heard that you haven’t been home and they couldn’t find you anywhere? His heart was banging in his ears. 
You were in charge of dinner for tonight and went out to buy some food to cater to everyone’s requests. But it’s been how many hours since you’ve left and no one can seem to contact you. Mammon went to fetch you from the grocery where you usually buy what you need, only to find your cracked D.D.D. on the ground along with some blood stains.
Lucifer immediately notifies Lord Diavolo and summons all his brothers. The aura around him is intense and his presence is demanding, rightfully so when the human under his protection suddenly went missing. 
“I want EVERYONE to find them. We are not stopping until they are safe and sound in the House. Even if our hands get dirty. Understood?” He demands, and the brothers are happy to obey with that last part.
They were willing to tear apart the entirety of Devildom just to find you. 
Lucifer ends up finding a lead first, after torturing the poor rebel he found in the dark woods to locate the hideout. He heads straight in while his brothers take care of the rest of the demons. 
You were chained by two guards in a cell. The leader wanted to have you killed in front of the royal prince, to see the horrified look on Diavolo’s face, so he kept you alive long enough.
However, Lucifer barges in the cell, with the head of the leader at his hand before tossing it aside. There is no shred of mercy in his eyes. 
“Let them go. That is an order.” 
In a blink of an eye, the demons are nothing but a puddle of red, and Lucifer is already next to you trying to undo your chains.
“Just look at me, MC. Look into my eyes.” he didn’t want you to see the leftover gore. 
With the injuries and bruises on your skin, he can tell you tried to put up a fight when you were being taken. 
“MC… I’m sorry, I couldn’t get to you sooner. But I’m here now. You’re safe in my arms, so rest…”
All the stress and tension he was feeling was gone the moment you sank into his arms, and he embraced you for as long as he could. As if you’d disappear again if he lets go. 
You don’t care about the blood staining his clothes, or the screams coming from the demons outside the cell you were in. You are safe now. 
One of the largest enemy forces against Diavolo disappeared in a single night.
Mammon
A couple weeks ago, he suffered a really bad losing streak during his gambling nights. And he pissed off the big guys more since he tried to cheat his way out of it, before running away from the illegal casino with the money. 
He spent the next few days suffering from Lucifer’s punishments when he was caught, and hiding from those demons he owed money to. 
One night he receives a letter, with a very familiar stamp on it. He wanted to throw it away until he saw red stains on the envelope, so he opened it. 
“I’ll take away your greatest treasure if you don’t give me back my money.” Was written in blood. Your blood. 
He panics when he realizes that he hasn’t seen you since you both left RAD. You went home ahead since he still had to do cleaning duties in the classroom as part of Lucifer’s punishment, but he found it odd that you weren’t in your room. Now he knows why. 
He desperately tries to contact you, calls are left unanswered and text messages are filling up the inbox you haven’t opened. 
There was only one place he knew they’d take you, so he quickly runs to the casino where he last gambled.
Maybe it wasn’t wise of him to run off on his own, since he found himself surrounded by demons and that you were nothing but bait to lure him in their trap. 
But he is the Avatar of Greed, and if they thought that a bunch of lesser demons could get in his way then they are about to be reminded of how wrong they are. 
Mammon doesn’t seem so intimidating given his reputation, but that doesn’t mean he won't drive his fist through the demon’s skulls when they threaten your life as payment for measly debts. You’re priceless to him, and those threats are nothing but insulting. 
The demons that took you held you in a vault so you wouldn’t escape, and you watched as Mammon practically pulled the iron door apart to open it. 
He was panting, already in his demon form. He was drenched in blood and a bit bruised, though some wounds were already healing and while others had completely vanished. He didn’t care about those though when he saw you.
“MC! Y-your arm is bleeding!” He rushed as if you were gravely injured. Humans are fragile after all. He won’t listen to you even if you said you were fine as he checks you for any other injuries. 
He doesn’t admit that he worried, but you saw the fear from his eyes that was washed over with relief when he finally found you. 
He stopped making risky gambles and bets out of fear that more demons would target you as compensation. He also became more protective, if that was even possible in the first place. As long as he’s alive, he’ll make sure your safety is now his priority.
Levi
The only way you could bring Levi outside was if you offered to play that new AR Game. Mononoke Land was all the hype right now, so asking him to go out so you can catch spirits was perfect. 
You both had a blast going around town, at least this way you get to explore some parts of Devildom with Levi and enjoy his company.
You both stopped by a lake, since your human stamina can’t catch up to Levi who hasn’t sat down for a single second just so he could catch spirits that appeared on his phone. 
“MC look! I’ve never had this one before!” He was so excited to show you what he caught but when he turned around, you weren’t there on the spot he left you “MC?” 
Surely you wouldn’t ditch him here right? He did feel bad that he spent more time focusing on the game than paying attention to you, since you were the one who invited him out after all. 
He could hear the splashing of water and finds you walking in the middle of the lake, lured in by a siren’s song. Those kinds of things don't work on Levi, but he forgot how effective it was on human ears that you were immediately put under its spell. 
Quickly, Levi transformed and jumped into the lake. He never knew that these waters were infested with sea dwelling demons and sirens until he saw them trying to drag you into the lake. He regrets not paying more attention to where the game brought you both to. 
Luckily he’s the best among the brothers when it comes to the waters, so he was quick to save you when the siren started dragging you deeper in the water to drown you. 
It wouldn’t want to let you go and it intended to bring Levi down with it, so with a quick flick of his tail, the water started staining red. Not exactly a good idea when it started attracting more demons towards you both. 
You were unconscious from the siren’s song, and Levi doesn’t want to expose you to more harm than necessary. He brings you to shore to keep you safe, before diving back in to slaughter the rest of the fish.
These sea dwellers are nothing but shrimp compared to Levi, the Grand Admiral of Hell's Navy. Water is his element and he is quick to tear them to shreds when any of them tried to get to you. 
You wake up to Levi shaking you, both of you drenched from head to toe. You don’t remember what happened, the last thing you recall was hearing someone sing and it all blacked out. 
He wraps his arms and tail around you tightly “D-dont scare me like that MC! Jeez… this is why we should shut ourselves indoors…” 
He doesn’t want to tell you what happened. But the blood red lake is all you need to know what transpired. 
Satan
You both decided to have a small study session together in the library. You were struggling a bit with the subject of Curses and Hexes, and Satan is more than happy enough to teach you the basics. 
Satan always talks about his pranks with Lucifer that revolve around curses, plus he’s the most knowledgeable out of the brothers so he was the perfect fit for a tutor. 
It was unlike you to be late for your study sessions though. Satan has been waiting for a while now in the library, long enough for him to stand up and search for you. He memorized your schedule, so he knew which classrooms to search in.  
Before he could even enter the room, he could hear a lot of mockery and laughter. But the voice he could recognize was from you, and you sounded hurt. He wasted no time barging in. 
You were just on your way to the library to meet up with Satan, until two demons from your class cornered you. They poked fun of your grades, despite the fact you’ve only been learning for a few months. They said awful things, and called you insulting names to the point tears threatened to fall. 
“Pathetic human, can’t even master something as basic as this. You’re nothing without the demon lords. Why don’t we give you a hands-on learning experience about curses?”
Before they could even chant a single phrase, Satan barged in his full demon form, the impact from slamming the door was enough to crack the walls around it.
“Say one more word from your mouth, and I’ll rip that jaw of yours off your head and fill up your throat with your teeth.” He threatened as he made a beeline towards you, kneeling down to face you.
“Mc… oh kitten, please know that nothing they’ve said is true. You don’t have to be perfect in everything, even in grades, to impress me.” He was so gentle with you, wiping the tears from your eyes with his thumb. 
“I’ll have one of my brothers pick you up, okay? I just need to teach a certain demon a hands-on lesson.” he escorts you out of the classroom before he closes the door behind him. You hear the click of the lock, and just as you reached the end of the hallway you heard a lot of screaming. 
He may be the secretary of the student council, but his wrath knows no patience. He’s not waiting for an order from Lucifer or Diavolo, not when he can show these demons what to expect when they mess with his precious human.
When he gets home, he checks you for any wounds. Claw marks and scratches ran across your skin, and it took all his self control not to go back to RAD and finish what he started. But he tends to you first, kissing each wound and tears as he comforts you. 
Satan spent the next few days reminding you that you’re special to him. He would whisper sweet nothings to you when you two are alone. “If you need my help, please never hesitate to reach out to me. It brings me joy whenever I can offer you my assistance.”
Whenever you ask him why the demons are constantly coughing out frogs if they try to approach you, Satan would just smile and deny it. 
“Maybe they got cursed? Who knows.” 
Asmo
Asmo wanted to take you shopping for make-up today. He insisted on giving you a makeover and after you finally said yes, he wanted to take you to several stores to see which kinds would suit your complexion best.  
You were in charge of carrying all the products that Asmo bought for you as he dragged you to another store. Most of the time though, you would sit down waiting for him to finish retouching his makeup. Every time he makes eye contact with himself in the mirror, he would take out his powder, lipstick, or comb to make sure he stays perfect.
Both of you were unaware of a succubi that’s been following you ever since you got to the mall. She has been boiling with jealousy because ever since you showed up, you were the point of all of Asmo’s attention. But now you’re all alone, a perfect time to see for herself who her rival is. 
You feel sharp nails grab the hair from the back of your head, and instinctively you drop all the bags at hand to try to pry off whoever was holding you. She yanks and pulls your head back as she hissed.
“I can’t believe that the Avatar of Lust fell for such an ugly human like you. Even laying my eyes on you makes me sick! I don’t see what he loves so much about you.”
“Then maybe you don’t need those eyes after all darling.” You hear Asmo from behind, but you can’t turn your head to his direction. Not while the succubi still has a grip on your hair.
It didn’t last though, you felt the grip loosened and heard a blood curdling scream. You wanted to turn to look at what’s happening behind you but Asmo stopped you “Sweetie, please don’t turn around. I don’t want you to see me all… messy.” 
You focus on picking up the bags that you dropped, trying to ignore the screaming and growing puddle of red that’s bleeding through the tiles. 
Asmo wraps an arm around you after you grab everything, taking you away from the scene. He still has that cheerful smile on his face and was somehow spotless from head to toe, as if nothing happened. The only evidence is the blood if he must’ve forgotten to remove under his nail polished fingernails. 
Remembering all those words, you insisted that you both go home now and Asmo agreed. He’s a little pouty seeing your frown, it’s not a good look on you. He’s tired of seeing that look on your face whenever you look at yourself in the mirror, which is why he wanted to bring you here today. If only that demon didn’t have to come and ruin it. 
“Darling… You know that you’re beautiful right? And I’m not saying that just because. I have exquisite taste after all! and I’ve seen a lot of pretty things and pretty faces. But you’re the best by far” He reminds you, and it makes you smile. He starts making a habit of telling you everyday.  
You didn’t ask about the succubi, Asmo wouldn’t tell you anyways. But you saw everything up in Devilgram though. Someone was able to record the whole thing where Asmo has stirred quite the scene when he claws out that poor succubi’s eyes behind you. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want you to look. 
It’s a miracle you didn’t get any blood on your clothes. Though you remembered how Asmo offered to wash your jacket for you so maybe you weren’t so lucky.
“Gosh! I’m so glad that video got my good side, but I do NOT pair well with blood.” He whines. Eventually, Lucifer had Barbatos take the video down quickly for damage control.
Beel
Ever since Diavolo took over Devildom, he made laws that banned humans off the menu for demons. Even if it’s been centuries since then, with new delectable food alternatives, there are still those who crave for the blood of humans.
You and Beel promised to go out on a small food trip, a reward for him after he won his recent Fangol game. You’re willing to accompany Beel anywhere he wanted to go, so he took you to dessert shops you’re both unfamiliar with. 
He seems to be having a time of his life getting to try out these new stalls! And you’re in charge of making sure he doesn’t eat the entire stock every single time.
Beel made a promise to save some sweets for Belphie, so he made a quick stop to that shop that sells Devil Honey Cookies while you wanted to check the shop across the street. Though when he came back, he couldn’t seem to find you anywhere. He entered each shop to find you but to no avail,
He never thought to search some of these shady stalls, the kinds that would hang fresh butchered bats and hog heads on the window display. He knew this stuff made you uncomfortable, so he was considerate enough not to bring you here.
That was until he overheard some demons whisper to each other “the chef said there’s a new item on the menu tonight. Something we haven’t had in a long time. A fresh human.” 
Beel dropped the honey cookies and ran straight to the kitchen, where he found the butcher sharpening his knife with you strapped to the table. You were taken away to the butcher’s shop while he was away, since the demons have been craving the meat of human flesh for centuries now. 
The blood in his veins is boiling, the air around the kitchen is suddenly heavy to breathe as he transforms. 
“Y-you’re not supposed to be here!” The chef demands, pointing the sharpened blade at Beel. He never spared the demon a glance, using his two fingers to bend the knife like a toothpick. The chef couldn’t dare to move and simply watched as Beel untied you from the table. 
The low growls from him when he saw how the restraints bruised your skin, you can tell that nothing you’d say will help sooth his nerves. Then you heard his stomach roar. 
“MC… I need you to go out of the kitchen first. I’ll meet you out front okay?” 
Once you leave, Beel turns to the chef. The last thing that poor soul saw was all the hunger in his eyes. “Bon appetit.” 
From outside, you heard this sickening CRUNCH that sent shivers down your spine. After a few minutes, Beel walks out the store as he licks his lips clean. 
“Why don’t we call it a day MC? I’m feeling kind of full now.” 
Belphie
Belphie doesn’t like looking back at his old self. Back when he hated all humans. The one that manipulated and lied to you, then rewarded your help by killing you with his bare hands. 
It took a lot of apologizing and making up for it to get him to how you both are like right now. But he knows that sometimes the pain lingers. When you shiver if his hands get too close, the times he finds you rubbing your neck, or how you stopped running down the stairs since you’re afraid of falling; those were all your tells.
He knows that he’s not the only demon out there who was against having human exchange students. Those demons are far less patient and more ruthless than he is, and he’s afraid that they might do something worse if they get their hands on you. 
Belphie has been trying to look everywhere for you, but you’re nowhere in your classrooms. Confused, he calls up Beel trying to ask for your whereabouts.
“What do you mean? MC said they’ve been looking for you after you sent them a letter.”
“... what letter? I never sent them one though”
“That’s odd. MC said you were asking to meet them at the rooftop.”
Belphie hightailed it to the roof, knowing that a demon must’ve forged his name and handwriting just to trick you. When he got to the rooftop, he found the doorknob jammed locked. 
He tried to kick the door open, but doors built in RAD were built to be so sturdy and he wasn’t as strong as his twin. He thought about calling Beel over to help, but all sense of reason jumped out of the window the moment he smelled something oh so familiar. 
The smell of your blood. He can never forget the scent, especially when it lingered in his fingertips for so long after the incident. He quickly shifts into his demon form to finally kick down the door, yelling for your name. 
A demon was dragging you by the hair, trying to take you to the edge to ‘throw out the trash’ while you begged for it to let you go. 
You felt its grip on you loosened, enough for you to get up and see Belphie holding onto the demon’s wrist. 
“MC… I need you to go out and call Beel over.” He says, unable to look at you. He was afraid that he might see that fear in your eyes again if he did. So he waited until you left and closed the broken door behind you. 
The grip he has on the demon tightens up until the point it’s wrist snaps, but he looks unfazed even with all the screaming. 
“You know… I used to be just like you. I used to tell myself that I would tear apart those humans to shreds. All the things I did. They didn’t deserve that… but I know who does.”
It’s late at night in the House of Lamentation. After managing to calm down the brothers from the fuss, you try to find Belphie and see him in the bathroom trying to wash his hands. You both lock eyes and before you can say a word, you break the silence. 
“… Thank you, Belphie. I wouldn’t know what would’ve happened if you weren’t there.” 
He looks surprised, assuming that you might’ve been afraid of him after his earlier behavior. But his lips formed a smile “anything for you, MC”
659 notes · View notes
imyourbratzdoll · 3 months
Note
Hi firstly I love your work secondly I have a request about something like Lee cheating on reader hurting her bad eventually she moves on with Steve Kemp and one day Lee sees reader again he tries to win her back troubling a bit and Steve comes to comfort protect her and he scares Lee in unique way (we know what Kemp does for a living 😉)
hello, thank you! and I hope you like this!
summary - lee cheats on you which causes you to spend time finding yourself, leading you toward your new love steve kemp. what happens when the one who broke your heart finds you again?
warning - angst, cheating, violence, mentions of cannibalism.
18+ only please, the gif I use isn't mine, divider by a deactivated again:(
Tumblr media Tumblr media
No one ever prepared you for the pain of being cheated on, you thought that Lee was the one, having been together for five years. You had dreamt of the two of you getting married, being the perfect little housewife for him. You never expected to walk in on him balls deep inside his secretary, the very one he told you not to worry about. Everything was blurry after that, you could barely remember you storming out of his office, or that he didn’t even chase after you. You didn’t wait for him to come home, you immediately packed your things and left the house, letting him come home to an empty house. 
It had been two years since you had your heart broken and through those years you had managed to love yourself and find love again, even though your trust issues would spike at times. From time to time, you would get flashbacks of walking in on Lee, getting stabbing pains in your chest when you remember each painful detail of that day. You stare blankly ahead, lost in your thoughts with a coffee in your hand, you couldn’t hear as Steve calls for you.
“Sweetheart.” 
You remember walking in, dropping the freshly baked biscuits to the ground as you watched the love of your life fuck into his very young and pretty secretary that’s bent over the desk. You remember how his head turned and he just smirked at you, it felt as though your heart was being ripped out.
“Y/n!” You blink, feeling a burning sensation on your hand and your eyes move down, causing you to notice your recently bought coffee has now crumbled into your hand as the liquid flows out of it, burning your flesh. “Fuck, Honey. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Steve gently removes the ruined coffee from your hold and into the trash before he pulls you over to a bathroom and carefully cleans your hands. “Flashbacks again?” You nod, “I’m sorry, I forgot that, that particular pet name was what he used.” 
“It’s okay… It’s my fault.” You stare at him with wide eyes as he glares at you. 
“No it’s not, it’s never your fault!” He gently takes your face in his hands and places a soft kiss on your lips. 
Steve Kemp, what a dream he was. You had met him during a time where you were between loving yourself and finding love again. You had been walking past your local hospital and ran into him as he was coming out, gobsmacked as to how they hired such handsome doctors. You even blurted out asking if his looks distracted the other doctors from their job. He laughed, causing your mind to become fuzzy as you stared up at him dazedly. For the first time in a long time, you felt happy and through that happiness, you asked him out. Thankfully, he accepted and here you are, staring at the godlike man as he cleans the hot coffee from your hands.
“I love you…” He looks at you and smiles, bringing your hands up to his lips and kissing them softly.
“I love you, honey. Now, there won’t be any scars or damage. So are you ready to go? I can reorder a drink, maybe a cold one this time.” You smile, nodding and letting him help you down from the sink. Steve wraps his arm around you gently, leading you back out into the coffee shop and lines up to reorder an iced coffee. 
As you leave the coffee shop, waiting for Steve, your world begins to crash as you hear a familiar voice. “Well if it isn’t my little ol’ sweetheart!” Your eyes widen as you turn and stare at the chubby man making his way over to you. How the hell was this possible? He made it clear that he would never leave his hometown. “You’re a hard woman to find.” He stands in front of you, a smirk on his face. “Now, what do you say, baby. You come back home, this little spat of yours has gone on long enough.” Lee’s grubby hands reach forward and grip your arm, you didn’t know how you ever fell in love with him. 
“Get your hands off of me! We are over! Did that not go through your head when I left after I caught you fucking someone else?!” You struggle against his hold, looking behind you in hopes that Steve comes out soon. 
“Pfft, please. That wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last, so now, Sweetheart. You are gonna shut your pretty mouth and come with me, and then, you will turn a blind eye whenever I go out with another woman. You hear?” 
“Well that isn’t happening.” Steve steps out, your iced coffee in his hand. He stares down the man, not flinching as Lee tries to intimidate him. “I suggest you let go of my girl.” He speaks slowly, but clearly. When Lee doesn’t let go, only tightening his hold on your arms, causing you to let out a whimper. With quick movement, Steve steps forward and grabs ahold of Lee’s wrist, gripping it and beginning to twist. His glare sharpens as Lee lets out grunts of pain. Steve leans forward and whispers, “If you touch, look, speak or even think of my girl again. I will cut you up into little pieces and serve you to your town.” Lee’s eyes widen and he immediately lets go and backs up, usually nothing would scare Lee, but the seriousness in Steve’s voice and eyes made him rethink everything. 
Steve’s arm wraps around you and he hands you your drink, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Right, well. You aren’t worth this much trouble.” Lee clears his throat and quickly walks away, and you look up at Steve.
“Did you threaten to cut him up?” Steve looks down at you and smiles.
“Of course, and also you are worth it.” He winks at you and you shake your head with a smile.
“I mean… I wouldn’t stop you if you went through with it.”
And with those words, a plan began to form inside of Steve’s head. 
Tumblr media
thank you for reading!
feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.
391 notes · View notes
follows-the-bees · 5 months
Text
Izzy taking the blame for Stede's painting being ruined is leading to some deep character study.
Let's look at the painting first.
Tumblr media
Not only are the eyes crossed out, but the dark marks around the eyes and mouth are exactly the greasepaint makeup that Blackbeard and the whole crew use.
There is a bloody handprint over Stede's hand holding a sword and there is a knife stabbed into the left side of Stede's abdomen - the side without the important bits.
All three of these suggest that it was Blackbeard who mutilated the painting. He used the makeup to bring Stede down to his level of darkness, the bloody handprint to show the violence happening, and while the knife is violent, it is on the left side. It shows the warring emotions Ed is feeling about Stede right now, no matter how much he's drowning, trying to become a flightless bird, he ultimately can't truly stop loving Stede.
Now let's move on to Izzy.
Stede asks about the painting (oh, Stede I love your insecure yet vain ass) and Izzy responds right away.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
He automatically steps in to say it's him with that smarmy smile he uses around Stede. Izzy choosing to say this can be due to two things. 1) He is taking the blame for/ covering up for Blackbeard, or 2) He is trying to protect the crew from getting caught from mutiny. Which still means that he is taking the blame off of Blackbeard, so there isn't any evidence of why they would mutiny. (There is the third option that Izzy DID do it, but I think that is highly unlikely and you can tell in Con's performance.)
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Stede reacts to this response by rolling his eyes, sighing, and then walking away. Izzy looks surprised by this, he was clearly expecting to be yelled at. Or be called an asshole like Stede has done in the past. But instead he is met by quiet despondence, which happens once again this episode.
When the crew are jailed for mutiny and Stede comes to the jail, Izzy tries to provoke him once again. "Go on, Bonnet. Give me your worst."
Tumblr media
But once again, Stede is quiet, shakes the bars, and walks away. We see Izzy make the same face as last time: he has tears in his eyes, visibly upset and slightly confused. He isn't getting yelled at, he is getting disappointment and silence.
Besides showing exactly how Stede responds when he is completely heartbroken, we see how Izzy responds when he expects violence and gets the opposite.
It is heartbreaking and Con's performance is superb.
Gif source!! Give them the love.
476 notes · View notes
soonknight · 7 months
Text
[ Right Here ]
marc spector x f!reader
Tumblr media
about this fic: marc's been hunting a criminal all week. now, that his work is done, he can spend some well-deserved time with his wife.
content/warnings: NSFW, mentions of crime/violence, moon knight suit, marc and reader are married, daddy!marc and sub!reader, marc talks you through it, lingerie, eye contact, praise kink, PIV sex, fingering, needy reader, multiple orgasms, creampie (& breeding kink if you squint), aftercare and vague mention of sub-drop
words: 2.4k
Tumblr media
Marc’s had a stressful week. Well, more stressful than usual.
A serial killer with a talent for disappearing just in the knick of time had been wreaking havoc on the city. He usually struck in the early hours of the morning, and Marc has spent most of the last few days running on fumes, trying to stay up and catch the killer before he strikes again. 
In times like these, he’ll usually pass the body off to Steven or Jake during the day so he can at least get some mental rest. For this particular criminal, Marc’s had to spend his off-hours pouring over police reports and discreetly interviewing bystanders. It’s not his favorite part of the job.
It’s made him grumpier than usual, but you don’t mind. You make sure he eats and gets a bit of rest in the afternoons. The anxiety’s been getting to him. He’s tense constantly, even when you try to rub it from his shoulders or kiss it away. Marc needs space and silence to work, which hasn’t left much time for you to be together this week. To be honest, it’s driving you a bit mad.
You love your husband. His work is important and you’ll support him however you can- even if that means he needs some space. That doesn’t mean you don’t have needs though…
You’ve tried to take care of things yourself, but it only douses the fire to a spark. You don’t push. You’ve reminded yourself all week that Marc will take care of you soon.
And it’ll all be over tonight; Marc found him.
A lead brought him to a possible location, so he staked it out last night. Sure enough, it was the killer’s flat. With a quick scan of the building, Marc found an easy way in and out. He’d catch him tonight.
Marc said it wouldn’t take long, and he’d be home before sunrise. Even though he’d probably just want a shower and a hot meal, you planned a little surprise for him.
It’s been awhile since you’ve worn his favorite lingerie: a black babydoll with a cut-out between your breasts and hips that hugs your body perfectly. You reserve it for special occasions, and you’ve determined this is one of them. 
You get ready for bed around 11, but leave your hair down and done as it was all day. You take off your makeup and use your favorite skincare products, stopping to admire the fresh-faced, sexy woman in the mirror. 
You’re usually a bit more verbal in your requests, but you’ve been far too worried you’ll interrupt Marc this week. Besides, this is as good a method as any. You feel beautiful, and you’re damn sure you look beautiful too.
It’ll still be awhile before Marc is home, so you climb into bed with a book to pass the time. A couple hours pass and your eyelids get heavy, so you stand and walk over to the window to open it. 
Marc can’t exactly walk through the front door to the flat in the suit, but he does like to make sure everything is in order when he gets home. He usually just drops onto the fire escape and sneaks in that way. It was way too hot to open the window earlier, but the night air is much more pleasant than when the sun was out.
You yawn, climbing back into bed. He can’t be long now. Maybe you could just… rest your eyes for a little bit. The sheets feel so soft against the lace, and it’s nice to relax in next to nothing. You sprawl out on the bed, yawning again as you close your eyes to enjoy the feeling.
A clang on the fire escape stirs you awake. Marc’s back. 
Your eyes shoot open, then the drowsiness of a short nap hits you. How long have you been asleep? Oh, it’s all ruined… You were supposed to be awake in your lingerie. Now you just feel silly.
You’d rolled over in your sleep, but you can hear Marc closing the window behind you. Your breath quivers; you were supposed to be the one with the surprise!
There’s a heavy silence for a moment, only broken by the shifting of thick fabric as a gloved hand begins to caress your thigh. 
“Oh, honey…” comes a muffled voice from above you. “You look beautiful.”
You roll onto your back slowly and Marc’s glowing eyes meet yours. “Hi, sweetheart.” It comes out more sheepish than sexy. You stretch, bending your body in a way that has Marc’s eyes drifting. “Did you… Did you get him?” you ask.
“Yes,” Marc says quietly. His mask recedes and he smiles at you with a furrowed brow. “But don’t worry about that, okay?”
You nod, but his tight expression makes you second guess him. You give him a once over. There’s a bit of blood on the suit, but he doesn’t look like he’s in any pain.
“Are you hurt?” you ask anyway. It’s routine at this point.
“I’m alright. I swear,” Marc says. Sometimes he lies and you find injuries the next day, but you can tell he’s being genuine when he lets the rest of the suit unravel and tuck itself away for the next adventure. 
He climbs on top of you, slotting your legs together and pressing his lips to yours. It turns heated quickly. You’ve kissed in passing, but it’s been days since you’ve properly made out. When you gasp against his lips, Marc pulls back and brings a hand to the side of your face. 
“I’ve neglected you,” he says, taking the chance to kiss your neck. He finds your pulse point in a practiced dance with his tongue, arousing you much quicker than you’d anticipated.
“I-It’s okay,” you say, trying and failing not to roll your hips up any more. “You had to work.”
Marc’s teeth scrape along the shell of your ear. “But I have neglected you,” he whispers, sending a shiver across your whole body. He chuckles lowly. “Look at you… So worked up.”
You whimper at that, and Marc pulls back to look at you. He takes two fingers and traces them down the lace babydoll, stopping to hold your hips and run his thumbs across your skin where the cut-outs expose it. “You’re so good to me, baby,” he says quietly, leaning down to kiss you again. 
You’re acutely aware of his hand placement with how bad you need him, so you don’t miss how Marc gently snaps the thin elastic at the crease of your thigh. 
“Please,” spills out of you before you can stop yourself. 
Marc smiles, dipping his hand a bit lower to run his fingers across the soaked lace. He groans, pleased. “All for me?”
“Yes,” you say, biting your lip. You decide to be extra sweet and throw in his favorite title. “Yes, daddy.”
He inhales, pressing as close as he can without crushing you. You feel his hard cock press against your thigh as he goes back to kiss your neck as a reward. “You need it so bad, don’t you?” 
“Mhm,” you whine, trying to get a little friction while his fingers are still resting on your pussy. He lets you have a moment of fun before he moves back and settles between your legs. “Please,” you whine again, already missing the stimulation.
“It’s okay, babygirl,” Marc says, pulling the lace to the side. It’s his favorite feature. “I’ll give it to you. I just want to make sure you’re nice and ready for me, okay?”
You start to nod again before Marc’s fingers push into you, making you throw your head back instead. You’re loose enough for two to fit without any trouble.
“Did you touch yourself while I was gone this week, hm?” Marc says. You let out a little uh-huh, not able to say much else in the way of affirmation. Marc presses his thumb to your clit, loving the way you try not to writhe when he circles it slowly. “Such a good girl, taking care of herself when daddy wasn’t there…”
Usually, he’d degrade you a bit for not asking for his help. In some strange way, it makes you proud of yourself. Recognizing you’ve got Marc in a corner now, you decide to push your luck.
“Need your cock,” you say, pushing against his fingers for emphasis. “Please,” you add, bringing out your best doe-eyes.
Marc lets out a low moan, withdrawing his fingers and shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Fuck, you’re too sweet when you beg,” he says, climbing on top of you and lining up at your entrance. “Can’t say no to you, honey…”
Marc pushes inside and your hands come up, tangling in his hair. He moans when you tug at his curls, using them to ground yourself as you adjust to the stretch. 
“So tight,” he groans. “You okay?” You nod, reassuring him you can still take it after a week off. He lets you set the pace even with the confirmation.
You’d imagined him fucking you hard and deep, pent up and high on adrenaline. You’d wanted it that way when you fantasized about this the night before. But now, neither of you can seem to pick up the pace, content to hold each other close and feel as much as you can. 
Still, Marc’s hitting all the right spots. With a few days of just your hands and vibrator, the way his dick stretches you out is perfect. It’s sending you toward the edge, and Marc can tell.
He finds your clit again, rubbing it gently so he doesn’t overwhelm you too quickly. “Look at me, baby,” Marc says, and you obey without question. “I want to see those pretty eyes when you come for me.”
You blush when he says it. He’s so close, and the desire in his eyes makes your core tighten even more. Your nails dig into his back.
Marc feels you clench around him. “I’ve got you, babygirl. Let go for me.”
The way your legs shake sends a wave of embarrassment through you as the first wave of your orgasm hits you. You bite your lip and your eyes squeeze shut, trying to relax as much as you can under the intensity of it all. You knew you were a bit frustrated, but this was a lot.
You take a shaky breath and open your eyes again. Marc is smiling at you.
“Good girl, baby…” he praises, not slowing his steady pace. His lips form a teasing pout before he smirks at you. “But you weren’t looking at me. You’ll have to come again, okay?”
Your mouth hangs open as you try to pull yourself together. Your body starts to tremble as the overstimulation starts to set in.
“Daddy,” you sob, unable to stop tears from collecting in your eyes. You hold onto Marc for dear life while he continues against your squirming. 
He stares into your glassy eyes. “I know, sweetie, you can do it… You just come one more time for me and I’ll fill you up,” Marc promises, not easing up on your clit.  
“Can’t…” You’re too whiny for your own good, but Marc’s not in a punishing mood. He gives you the space to squirm and struggle. In fact, he actually seems to enjoy it. He doesn’t make you beg tonight.
“It’s okay. I know you can, alright?” Marc whispers, giving you a break from the intense eye contact by kissing across your collarbones. “You want my cum, don’t you? Want me to fill you up?”
You nod, and Marc comes back up to look at you. “Atta girl.”
The praise is always too much. Now he’s got you in a corner. 
“M’gonna come,” you whimper, reaching for any part of Marc you can. You’re sure his back is littered with scratches and half-moon marks by now. 
“There you go,” Marc encourages. “Come on, keep those eyes here, babygirl…”
Your bottom lip quivers as you gear up for the second orgasm. This time, you need the eye contact from Marc. It feels like he’s holding you from the inside out, and you need that tether with how much your head is spinning.
Marc’s thumb runs across your bottom lip as he holds the side of your face. “Daddy’s got you, honey. You can let go.”
That’s all you need to finish. You stay locked on Marc’s beautiful brown eyes, fighting not to throw your head back with all the squirming you’re doing from the neck down. He talks you through it, even though you can barely hear him. 
“I’m gonna come inside you now, baby,” Marc groans, his own body shaking a bit as he releases inside you, painting your walls with his come. 
He stays there for a minute, catching his breath before pulling out and rolling you onto your side. You feel his spend leak onto your thighs as you try not to let your eyes close again. 
Your sleepy, spaced-out brain doesn’t comprehend that Marc left until you realize he’s gone. You hear water running, which breaks the panic in you, but you still feel a strange separation anxiety until he comes back into the bedroom. 
“Let’s get you comfy,” Marc says, guiding you to sit up. He undoes the clasps on the back of your lingerie and helps slide it down your arms and legs. He brings a warm cloth between your thighs, working quickly to clean up the mess he left. You have new panties and a t-shirt on soon, and Marc helps you lie down again.
He’s coming into bed too, but you pull on his wrist gently in hopes that he’ll get next to you quicker. 
“I’m here, I’m here,” Marc whispers, pulling you to his chest and kissing the top of your head. “Do you feel okay?”
“Mhm,” you mumble against his skin. “Just need you here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Marc says, rubbing ovals up and down your back. “Feel a little floaty?” he asks. You nod, and he tangles your legs together. “That’s okay. You’re safe with me, baby. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Tumblr media
this was stuck in my head for a couple days and I had a ton of fun writing it! it was a nice break from the longer wips. classes start tomorrow so I'm not sure when they'll be done, but you can join the moon knight tag list while you wait!
[ MARC MASTERLIST ]
tag list: @volatile-voice @soft-girl-musings @howaboutcastiel @wyldeflower @banana-cheese-cake @steven-grants-world @patchesofwork @darlinglittledevil @jayden-killer @the-fox-den @hotmessmageereads @drinkingwithkhonshu @melodygatesauthor @summonthesoups @whatthefishh @iggee-rose @romanarose @charnelhouse
737 notes · View notes
joelismiller · 7 months
Text
misunderstanding
Tumblr media
joel miller x fem!reader
Word Count: 5.0k
Summary: you liked joel and you really thought he liked you back.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap (joel is in his fifties and reader is in her late twenties), angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, fingering, oral (fem!receiving), jealousy, protective!joel, violence if you squint, no use of y/n
A/N: hi everyone my name is ariel and this is my first post ! I have never written for joel before and i have never written smut so please go easy on me and enjoy ! <3 (oh also i completely made up the currency idk how that works😭)
It hurts, you think. 
Having an attachment to a man who has seemed to lose the ability to comprehend on an emotional level how to form one.
An exception of course made for one goofy teenager named Ellie Williams, which you can’t blame him for—she is an easy kid to love. 
You however still can’t help but feel a little envious of the fourteen-year-old even if it is a silly kind of jealousy. You just wish you could be close to him—know him like no one else does or has. 
It started 6 months ago: you had been living in Jackson for a whole year after braving the world overtaken by Cordyceps alone.
Tommy and a group of other people on patrol found you near the edge of town looking right about to just give up and keel over and allow fate to take over and decide if you should live or die from that point.
After making sure you were not infected, Tommy scooped you up and managed to get you back to town where Maria agreed to help nurse you back to health and eventually make you an official resident of Jackson. 
You were given a house close to Tommy and Maria’s and they gave you a job at the local clothing shop of sorts; really just a place to trade or purchase clothing, bootlaces, etc. You began to not just live, but enjoy living—a fate you never thought you would be able to see for yourself after the events of the last twenty years.
It was more or less a life of routine and monotony, but it was more of a life you had before which is what made it special. 
Then Joel Miller came in and ruined all of that.
 Six months ago he rode into town with his little brunette companion for a second time after briefly visiting a while before. He walked up to Tommy and gave him a firm hug while confirming your hope that he indeed would be making himself a permanent member of the Jackson community.
His house with Ellie was only a few blocks away which allowed for you to wake up a little early to see him leave on his way to patrol. 
Now the interaction that started your infatuation with the grumpy old man was nothing too special; at least probably to the man himself. However, to you, it made a very old and foreign feeling form in your gut.
Butterflies erupted just at the sight of Joel Miller’s beautiful brown eyes that, depending on the light, either shined a light honey-brown, or dark and rich, like the coffee beans you used to brew your coffee that morning.
His hair reflected his age—a fluffy mess of brown with graying streaks and a patchy beard to match.
And his broad shoulders and strong looking arms made it so you wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up by him—consumed by him.  
He looked awkward, you think, as he stood inside your shop looking around wordlessly. You decided to step out from behind the counter where you were going over some previous numbers for inventory to help the handsome man get what he came for. 
“Hi there, can I help you look for anything specific?” you asked as you approached him slowly from across the room. 
“Hi, um, I was just lookin' for a thicker coat than the one I already have—‘just got my first pay from patrolling.” He muttered, continuing to search the many tables and walls littered with all sorts of clothing items.
 “Oh okay, for sure! If you just follow me they’re right over here.”
 You began to lead him to a rack near the register which had a small assortment of heavy winter jackets. You were constantly selling out of them since Jackson was always cold no matter the season which is why there wasn’t a lot to choose from. 
He took a look at the jackets and gave you a nod, “Thank you, um…” Joel trailed off as you breathlessly laughed and told him your name.
He repeated your name trying it out on his tongue; making you wish for nothing more than to hear him say it in his Southern drawl over and over and over-
“I’m Joel,” he stated simply and you gave him a smile and nod of your head, pretending like you hadn’t already done a bit of digging to find out the handsome newcomer’s name a couple months ago when he first visited. 
“Well Joel, if you need anything I'll be back behind the register.”
You pointed over to the table with a broken old register that worked just well enough to store the currency the town came up with so there was an extra curtain of civilization despite the events that were anything but that.
You thought it was kind of stupid, but it worked and made people happy so who were you to say otherwise? 
He nodded to let you know he heard you as you went back to your previous position: pretending the whole time you weren’t shamelessly ogling the rugged, big, Southern man mindlessly looking through the jackets.
He eventually settled on a nice tan one with flannel material on the inside lining with white fleece on the collar and cuffs.
You quickly looked back down to the inventory papers so you wouldn’t be caught staring when you heard his heavy footsteps approach the counter. 
“I’ll take this one,” he grunted as he began to gather up some coins to give you in exchange for the warm, heavy jacket.
You quickly pushed his hand away to alert him that it wasn’t necessary, “You're new here right Joel?” You asked as he raised an inquisitive eyebrow and shook his head in agreement.
 “Right, then consider it a welcoming gift—free of charge.” 
You gave him a bright smile as he furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head causing you to see the honey sparkle in his brown eyes under the bright store light. 
“Ya sure? Jacket doesn’t look cheap,” Joel muttered, his gaze flickering to his boots. 
“A hundred percent! You’re new and patrolling isn’t an easy job, accept it as a thank you for keeping us safe if anything,” you told him shyly, the smile never leaving your face. 
He chuckled softly and nodded his head. 
“Okay darlin’, well, thank you—much appreciated.” 
You whispered a soft ‘yeah’ as his eyes looked over you, causing a burning feeling to spread throughout your whole body as if you were being branded. He gave you one last nod of his head as he began to turn around and leave the store.
Not to your surprise, an empty feeling immediately filled you in the presence of his absence.
You whispered to yourself to pull yourself together—that you’ve only met him once and that his effect on you should not be this intense.
It didn’t help however as every interaction after that caused your feelings for the large stand-offish man to only grow. 
Whether it was a quick acknowledgement of each other when you happened to eat in the dining hall at the same time, or a wave of a hand when you left your houses at the same time in the morning as he headed to patrol and you headed to the store.
But your favorite interactions were when he would come into the store to maybe get a couple of new shirts for Ellie, or some new socks for himself.
Over time you felt him grow more comfortable around you as you did him. He would tell you about Ellie’s latest antics; swearing that the teen girl was trying to ‘send an old man to an early grave.’
You would giggle and tell him that he wasn’t that old and that Ellie was just a teen girl finally in a safe somewhat normal place where she can go to school and make actual friends. 
“About that, I think I might needa talk with her teacher soon—she’s been missin too much school and heading off god knows where,” Joel confessed to you, a frown overtaking his aged features as his worry about his adopted daughter showed clear all over his face.
You shyly grabbed his hand across the register and gave it a small squeeze.
“Try not to worry about her too much Joel. She’s young and she didn’t get to have a normal childhood—It's only normal that school probably doesn’t matter too much to her after everything,” you explained hoping that your words may ease him a bit. 
He didn’t respond right away, instead looking at where your much softer hand overlapped his bigger, calloused ones. An unreadable look came over his face before he gently took his hand away from yours and looked to the ground. 
“Yeah you’re probably right,” he responded in that low tone of his as he slowly began to back up. 
“I gotta go check and see if she made it home okay. It was nice seein ya.” 
You barely were able to say another word, maybe apologize for touching his hand in such a careless way before his heavy boots were already heading out the door; the little bell ringing a hollow sound in your ears.
After that, you began to see less and less of Joel and it hurt to admit that it slowly felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest.
You hated yourself for thinking that all your interactions meant something to him; that when he started to come to the store, not even leaving with anything but a conversation with you, that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way you felt for him.
Every time you even attempted waving at him in the morning when you both left—he just grunted and looked the other way—pretending like you weren’t even there. 
The store was for some reason busier than usual today and you closed up feeling drained and ready to sleep. The long shift accompanied by the hollow feeling in your heart Joel had left caused you to want nothing more than to curl up and forget all the pain in nicer dreams where things were better between you, things were different.
Joel would hold your hand in your dream and walk you to work, leaving a kiss on your cheek and a whisper of having a good day as you giggled and kissed him right back—whispering the same sentiments. 
You were shaken out of your daydream on your walk home when you spotted the very man at the center of all your thoughts on the porch of someone's house, a woman’s house.
She was gorgeous with long, blonde hair framing her face perfectly, while she looked up at Joel with gorgeous, crystal, blue eyes. She looked older than you too, maybe even closer to Joel’s age.
They laughed about something before she was leading him inside her house as he followed suit; the door shutting in a finality behind them. 
You felt a mix of jealousy and an even greater sadness than before filling your belly as you continued what felt like the longest walk home in your life.
As soon as the door closed you slid down the old wood as tears and sobs that you couldn’t stop wracked your body.
You just didn’t understand; what changed, what did you do to make him start avoiding you?
And you knew how hard it was for Joel to come out of his shell, so why did it seem so easy for him to talk and laugh with that woman? 
After what seemed like hours, you finally picked yourself off of the ground and trudged slowly to your bed where you collapsed immediately upon impact with the old tattered sheets.
Instead of the usual happy dreams about Joel, tonight you were plagued with endless nightmares of him and the mysterious blonde woman; standing in the place you usually would in your dreams about Joel.
You woke up in the morning with a feeling of restlessness as you readied yourself for another long day of work.
Tumblr media
After work that night you decided to go to the Tipsy Bison which was Jackson’s bar that you would usually frequent when your nightmares from the time you were on your own came back to haunt you.
Mindless images of a group of clicker’s taking from you the only person you had left in your life since the virus took over: your best friend.
After she was gone it was just you, and that period never seemed to completely leave your mind even after a year in Jackson. 
After last night’s sleep, you definitely needed a drink you thought to yourself as you made your way over. When you entered you saw that it was a pretty busy night for the Tipsy Bison as you did your best to find a seat towards the end of the bar. 
Once you took a seat, you gave the bartender your drink order and surveyed the area to see who else was here as you waited for him to deliver your alcohol of choice. Your breathing stopped and your eyes widened when you noticed a familiar group of people at a table closer to the front of the bar. 
There in all his ruggish, handsome glory was Joel Miller, smiling widely as he talked with Tommy, Maria, and her.
You quickly swung back around to face where your drink was just set in front of you as you begged the burn in the back of your eyes to go away.
Fuck this, you thought as you downed most of the drink in one go, using your hand to wipe away the bit that escaped at the corner of your lips.
You did your best to ignore the person that was at the center of all your sadness; drinking and drinking until you felt a familiar buzz kick in and begin to cloud your thoughts. 
Right when you were about to order another drink, a skinny, tall, blonde boy walked over to where you were seated and said it was on him as he handed over a couple of coins. 
“You didn’t have to do that but thanks, I guess,” you muttered, hoping your disinterest was a sign that you wanted to be left alone.
He smiled wide in a way that caused you to shiver, and not in a pleasurable way like when Joel would grace you with the corner of his lip twitching up, releasing a breathless laugh; but in a bad, unnerving way. 
“Anything for a girl as pretty as you.” 
He winked which caused you to roll your eyes and once again look away from him. “I’m not interested but again, thank you,” you told him with a finality in your voice that the man—no—boy, didn’t take very seriously. 
“Aw come on don’t be like that I just wanna have some fun with you,” he said in a sleazy manner as he reached out to grip your shoulder. 
You quickly shook him off but in your drunken haze, you accidentally fell off your chair onto the ground—single-handedly causing the whole bar’s eyes to turn onto you. 
“Godammit, now you're just causing a fucking scene,” the man snarled at you, causing tears to form behind your eyes as this man's actions as well as having the entire bar watching the now-forming scene. 
And if the night couldn’t get any worse, you hear the familiar sound of boots coming up behind the man and it takes just one glance to confirm your suspicions. 
“What did you just say to her?” 
You heard a deep voice growl out, a look of pure rage overtaking Joel’s features as he stood right in front of the blonde boy’s face. 
“Look man I didn’t know she was taken, I was just tryna have a good time, you know?” 
An animalistic sound leaves Joel’s mouth before he takes the boy’s arm and forcefully grabs it until he's facing the bar counter and his arm is pressed deep into his back. 
“It don’t matter whether she’s taken or not, you never treat a woman like that,” he snarls into the shaking boy’s ear. 
“I never wanna see you come near her again, you hear me?” 
He shakes his head wildly until Joel finally releases him and he scatters out of the bar. The anger on Joel’s face morphs into one of concern as he gently stretches out a hand to help you up. 
“You okay, sweetheart?” He questions softly as you bat his hand away and attempt to stand on your own. 
“M’ fine,” you mutter as you stand on shaky legs—about to fall over when Joel rests his big hands on your shoulders to steady you. He chuckles and curls an arm around your waist as he begins to slowly lead you out the door. 
“You sure darlin’? Cause’ you seem a lil drunk to me,” Joel says amused at your hindered state while you frown up at him. 
“Don’t you have to go back to your girlfriend,” you huff out, avoiding looking at the grumpy man’s features. 
“Girlfriend?” He responds confused, not understanding what you were talking about until he catches your eyes drifting to Veronica’s face—Ellie’s teacher. 
After the day he left abruptly from your store, he sought out Ellie’s teacher Veronica. They have been having weekly meetings about how Ellie was doing in school as well as her continuous efforts to ditch class.
There was absolutely nothing romantic about it, the whole ordeal gave him a headache—a subject he was too old to be stressing about.
Besides, how could he dare think about anyone else when you had him wrapped around your little finger? 
When he first saw you at your clothing store and you gave him his jacket for free, he knew you would be trouble.
And trouble you were as he couldn’t stop himself from continuing to visit you just to see you and hear your comforting voice promise him that all his worries about his adopted daughter were normal.
It was actually your idea that maybe he should at some point meet with Ellie’s teacher. But when your small hand wrapped around his he got scared— scared this could become something real.
Everyone he has ever gotten attached to he’s lost and he already accidentally went and got attached to Ellie, he didn't know if he had it in him to do it to another person. 
And on top of that, he was a bad man, he had done horrible things. You were also so much younger and prettier than him—a sweet, soft thing Joel didn’t feel he deserved.
But looking at your heartbroken face now as you looked back at him and then at Veronica, he knew he messed up. He should have never started avoiding you.
It was never the answer, but Joel had never been good at feelings, this much is evident. 
“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you home.”
Tumblr media
The walk back from the Tipsy Bison to your house was a pretty close one, your hose only being about five minutes away.
Once you were at your door with a Joel who did not take “leave me alone” as an answer, you struggled to get the key in the lock in your drunken stupor which the large man beside you thankfully helped with. 
“Let me do that, sweetheart,” he muttered as his big warm hands covered yours and twisted the key, letting the both of you inside. 
“Joel, I don't feel so good…” you said shakily as Joel uttered a “shit” and quickly hurried you to the bathroom which he found pretty quickly—his hands quickly opening the toilet seat and finding purchase in your hair as he held it back, allowing you to empty the contents of your stomach. 
“Joel I’m so sorry,” you groaned as a tear fell down your cheek; your sadness, tiredness, and embarrassment flooded in all at once with help from the lingering alcohol in your system.
He shushed you softly and cradled you to his chest taking a second to rock you until your tears stopped and you felt well enough to stand. 
“How bout’ you brush your teeth and get your pajamas on—I’ll make you some tea then we’ll talk, yeah?” 
You nodded as he gently brushed your cheek with his thumb causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach as he made his way to your kitchen to attempt to find the ingredients and mug he needed.
You cleaned yourself up: showered, brushed your teeth, and put on sleepwear which helped you come back to a clearer state of mind allowing confusion to overtake you. 
Why was Joel here taking care of you, wouldn’t his girlfriend begin to ask questions? 
You weren’t allowed to keep worrying yourself with your thoughts as a knock on your bedroom door brought you back to reality. 
“May I come in? Made ya tea,” Joel’s voice rang out into your room softly as you muttered a quiet, “Sure.” 
Joel stepped into the room and handed you the mug which you took a generous sip of—the honeyed flavor soothing your throat and stomach. 
“Thank you so much, Joel, for walking me home and taking care of me. I’m so sorry-” 
“Don’t go apologizing darlin’ you have done nothin’ to have to apologize for,” Joel interrupted sending you a soft smile as he went to pick up your hand laying on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into the smooth skin.
In a reversal of roles, it was your turn to pull your hand away as Joel frowned and you looked to the floor; he should have expected that after everything that’s happened. 
“I guess I deserve that,” he chuckles sadly as your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. 
“Well you have a girlfriend and I bet it would make her uncomfortable if she knew you were holding my hand, Joel.” 
Joel couldn’t help the loud laugh that escaped him at your words which completely stopped when he saw your features form into one of anger. 
“Why is that so funny? That’s why you stopped visiting and talking to me right? Because you found someone else.” 
You didn’t mean for it to come out as bitterly or as venomously as you said it but you couldn’t help it. You have spent weeks suffering over his actions towards you and now he helps you home, takes care of you, holds your hand like nothing happened? 
“M’ sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was laughing at you. It’s just that…” He trails off collecting himself. Joel sighs out your name and begins to tell you that Veronica is not his girlfriend and that she was just Ellie’s teacher.
He explains to you all about their meetings and that tonight was just him getting her a drink to thank her for all her help. 
“I promise you darlin’ it wasn’t anythin’ more than that—don’t feel that way about her at all.” 
You process all the information Joel just unloaded on you; and though you do feel relief, you still feel irritation and sadness as his complete throwing away of your friendship—abandoning you without a word. You tell him as much as he releases another sigh and looks down toward the wooden floor. 
“Look, m’ not really good at this…” Joel starts, eyes flickering up to your face as he continues. 
“But coming into the shop and talkin’ to you started becoming the best parts of my day, sweetheart,” he pauses to give you a look of sincerity and to try holding your hand again—and this time— you let him.
“And I was just downright a coward and instead of facing my feelings I shut you out completely and I feel so fucking awful darlin’ I’m so sorry.” He whispers, tightening his grip on your hand.  
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but I'm hoping you can forgive me and that maybe we can try to be somethin. I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it and I’m so much older than you, but-” 
You cut Joel’s rambling off by pressing your lips to his in a soft kiss. You begin to pull away when you don’t feel him kissing back, but he doesn’t give you a chance as he cups your head in a big hand and begins to kiss back with more fervor. 
“Joel,” you whimper as he begins to lay you back on your bed, his tongue licking the seam of your bottom lip asking for entrance into your soft, warm mouth—which you immediately allow. 
“Shhh, darlin’ will you lemme take care of ya? Wanna make you feel so good baby, make up for how bad I've been actin’.” 
You let out a moan when you feel the rough denim of his jeans buck up into your soft sleep shorts making contact with your clothed cunt. 
“Please Joel, need you so bad,” you whine as he starts to place kisses from your jaw down to your neck—slightly nipping and leaving a trail of small red spots in their wake, which he soothes with his tongue causing a high pitched whimper to leave your lips; beads of frustration beginning to gather at the corner of your lashes. 
“I got you sweetheart, I’m right here, can I take this off?” Joel questions as he lifts the hem of your tank top.
You nodded quickly as he borderline rips it over your head, quickly latching a mouth onto one of your nipples as he massages the neglected one with his hand. 
“Ohmygod-” you cry as he expertly flicks the bud with his tongue, soon moving over to the other nipple to give it the same treatment.
Arousal pools in your gut as Joel groans, beginning to leave kisses from your sternum, down to the soft skin of your belly, and right to the hem of your sleep shorts.
He leaves a soft kiss there and looks up to you to ask for permission to take them off. You nod vigorously but he shakes his head and leans down more to press a kiss to your clothed core, emitting a loud gasp from your mouth. 
“I need words darlin',” he states, glancing back up to you as you vocalize your permission. Joel wastes no time in taking your shorts down in one quick motion once you say yes—leaving you in your white lacy panties.
He runs a finger over the damp spot in your panties and then brings his arched nose close to the spot to breathe you in as well as to lick your folds through the cotton, his nose perfectly bumping your clit in this position causing you to squirm and moan his name. 
“Joel please,” you begged as he pulled away and began to run soothing circles into the soft skin of your thighs. 
“Please what baby, tell me what you need,” he demands as you try to buck your hips up to his mouth, but he won't let you, strong hands keeping you in place. 
“Your tongue Joel I need your tongue,” you whimper but he shakes his head. 
“Where do you need my tongue, baby? Gotta tell me if you wanna cum, sweet girl.” 
You whine in embarrassment and look down to see Joel Miller with the smuggest smirk you have ever seen. 
“I need your tongue on my pussy Joel, please take off my panties and use your tongue,” you beg as he chuckles and gently removes the white lace—quickly stuffing it in his back pocket before you can see. 
“Good girl baby, that s’all I needed,” he murmurs as his tongue comes into contact with the bare skin of your folds causing you to gasp his name and grab his salt and pepper hair to hold him against your cunt.
 “Oh my god Joel that feels so good!” You cry as his tongue moves from licking solid stripes against your folds to suckling gently on your clit, as your legs threaten to squeeze around his head. 
“Fucking Christ sweetheart, you taste so good, can’t get enough of you,” he groans as he continues to lick into you—the coil in your tummy beginning to tighten but you need more to get you to your high. 
“Mmm your fingers Joel, please I need your fingers,” you groan, causing Joel to growl against your pussy, the vibrations only heightening your pleasure. 
“Okay baby, think you can take two, huh?” he murmurs as he presses several small kisses to the inside of your thigh.
You whimper a small “yes” as he gathers your slick on his middle and ring finger—the burn you feel from the sheer girth of his fingers stretching you open fades into a dull bliss. 
“J-Joel I’m close,” you alert him as you buck into his face and fuck yourself on his fingers. 
“Yeah, baby? C’mon then cum for me sweetheart, let go,” Joel coos gently and that’s all it takes for the coil in your stomach to snap—a stream of your slick gushing out all over his face and onto the scruff of his beard. 
He continues to lick you through it until you're shuttering and mewling from the overstimulation. He pulls away with a large grin on his face as he reaches down to kiss you passionately, the sweetness of your fluids on his tongue making the kiss that much sweeter.
He wiped the rest of you off of his beard before giving you small pecks all over your face until you were giggling and he was chuckling. 
“I am sorry y’know,” he whispered in that silky smooth voice of his. You cupped his cheek with your hand, rubbing circles into the scratchy skin. 
“I know.” 
Joel got up to get a wet cloth to clean you up. He then took his time putting your sleepwear back on—leaving gentle kisses and massaging every inch of your body he could see.
He ended up spending the night as you curled into his strong arms as he stroked your hair until he felt your breathing even out as slumber took over you. 
He stayed up and watched you for a while until he soon fell victim to sleep; the thought of him finally being able to be completely happy despite everything was a comfortable thought, and it was all because of you. 
935 notes · View notes