#Gathering Club Golf | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itneverendshere · 3 months ago

Note

Perhaps Rafe x Shy!Bartender reader at the country club. Maybe she was driven there and was supposed to get picked up, but shit got in the way. And she is far from home. Rafe is there that day for golfing or something and it’s her first day. He is instantly smitten and waits until her shift is over to properly ask her out, and notices she has no car to get home and gets protective

i looooved this and in my head this is EXACTLY how rafe and pogue!reader from this request met. this is the same universe, im making it canon rn

it could be you and me - rafe cameron

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) word count: 3.5k

Rafe slid through the crowd, heading toward the golf course. He had plans to join Topper for a round or two.

Like usual, his presence drew glances—partially because of the rumors that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. Being the epitome of privilege, born into the wealth that afforded him everything, made sure that all eyes were on him, everywhere he went on that stupid fucking town. But that day, he’d been off his game from the moment he woke up.

He felt out of place, restless and mostly, bored. Every day in this place felt the same to him. The pleasures he used to get from being a kook were slowly burning out. The days had started blending together, the endless cycle of parties, and drinks had begun to lose its allure. Doing the same thing, over and over again.

Nothing was new. Nothing was exciting anymore.

He was bored out of his mind. Golf wasn’t exactly his passion, but it was a way to pass the time, to pretend like he shouldn’t be in the office finishing whatever paperwork his father had shoved down his throat the night before.

He needed a drink if he wanted to get through the rest of the day without breaking something.

He approached the clubhouse and noticed a small crowd gathered at the bar. It wasn’t an unusual sight—it was one of the most popular spots in the club—but something, or rather someone, caught his attention.

Behind the counter, there was someone he’d never seen before.

You wore the standard uniform of the club's staff—white blouse, black slacks, hair pulled back into a neat ponytail—but there was something about you that made him stop in his tracks. You weren’t a kook, that much was clear. And you were new. Way too new by the looks of the growing line.

You were busy, pouring drinks, smiling politely at the members, but he could tell you were nervous from the way you overdid it. It was like you were trying to make yourself small for those people. It didn’t help that they treated you like you were invisible, snapping their fingers or raising their voices to get your attention.

Fucking assholes.

He didn’t know why he felt so irritated all of the sudden. He’d done the same thing times and times again, he was no better than any of them, on a good day. But he hated watching it happen to you. He couldn’t stop staring, he felt creepy as he listed all the little things he noticed about you. Your hands moved quickly, but delicately, as if you took great care in everything you did.

You turned to reach for a bottle on a high shelf and he finally caught a good glimpse of your face—a glimpse that nearly made him drop his golf club on the spot. There was something striking about you. It was in the way your eyes narrowed as you focused on pouring the right amount of alcohol on a drink, and the way your lips pursed ever so slightly as you kept concentrating.

You were beautiful, yes, but it was more than that. He’d seen pretty girls all his life, he made sure he surrounded himself with them. But you? You were something else.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a genuine curiosity, to know more about someone. He didn’t think about hooking up, about asking for your number. You didn’t belong here and maybe that’s what made you so good.

The shift seemed never-ending, even though it was your first day.

Most of the club members hadn’t even bothered to learn your name —either way, you were having a hard time keeping up.

You hadn’t wanted to take the job, but you didn’t have much of a choice. The country club was the only place hiring that summer, and you needed the money. Your friend had driven you there earlier that morning, promising to pick you up after your shift. But earlier, when you had glanced at your phone during a ten-second break, you saw a text from her saying she’d been held up—something about the car breaking down.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, shoving your phone back into your pocket as you handed a gin and tonic to a bald asshole who didn’t even bother to thank you. You were stuck here, away from home, and the last thing you wanted to do was ask one of these people for help.

Your nerves had already skyrocketed. Between the constant drink orders, the lack of polite smiles, and trying your best not to spill anything or offend any of these spoiled kooks, you were losing your mind. Being the center of attention wasn’t your forte, and being behind the bar was giving you a migraine as the members kept barking their orders, complaining when their drinks weren’t perfect, and barely acknowledging your existence.

You could feel their judgmental stupid eyes on you, like you were some sort of animal—a pogue.

The buzz in your stomach kept getting stronger with every minute.

You wished you could just disappear, but you needed the job and so, you had no option but to take it like a big girl and get used to it. By the end of the day, your hands trembled slightly as you reached for another bottle, your muscles aching from trying to keep up with the endless demands.

As you handed yet another whiskey on the rocks to an ungrateful rich asshole, you noticed someone approaching the bar from the corner of your eye. Unlike the others, he didn’t immediately shout his order or snap his fingers. He just stood there, watching you, a slight smirk on his face.

It was hard not to recognize him—Rafe Cameron. You’d heard stories about him, of course. Everyone in the Outer Banks had. He was practically royalty, the golden boy of one of the wealthiest families around.

You hated being stared at, it made you feel even more out of place than you already did. You could feel your cheeks turning red just from that alone.

“Can I get you something?” you asked, politely yet barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

Rafe leaned against the counter, his eyes never leaving your face, “What do you recommend?”

He sounded amused. Like he was genuinely enjoying himself. Like he didn’t know this was your first day on the job. You knew he did because everything about him screamed Country Club boy. You hadn’t exactly had time to memorize the menu. But you didn’t want to look like a stupid in front of a kook, let alone kook royalty.

“Uh, well, the mojitos are pretty popular,” you offered, hoping that was true.

He raised a brow, his smirk widening. “Mojitos, huh? Alright, I’ll take one.”

You nodded and quickly got to work, trying to ignore the way your hands were shaking. As you muddled the mint leaves and squeezed the lime, you could feel his eyes on you.

Jesus, what was his problem with the staring? Was there something on your face? Were you doing this whole thing wrong? It was unnerving. When you finally handed him the drink, he took it with a nod, but instead of walking away, he stayed there, sipping it slowly in front of you, like some kind of test.

“You’re new here,” he remarked, more as a statement than a question.

You swallowed nervously and nodded. “Yeah, first day.”

He took another sip, “Not a bad start,” he said, his tone almost teasing.

Was he trying to be funny? You gave him a small, tight-lipped smile, not entirely sure if he was mocking you or being genuine. Before he could say anything else, another customer called for your attention, and you turned away to help them.

Rafe didn’t move. Even as you worked, he stayed rooted to his seat. Every time you glanced in his direction, he was still there, watching you, not looking the least bit shameful about it. He left eventually.

By six thirty, the club was mostly empty, save for a few stragglers lingering at the bar and some late-night golfers finishing their rounds. You wiped down the counter one last time, wondering how the hell you were going to get home. You’d almost forgotten about the earlier text from your friend, but now your anxiety was back.

You didn’t have anyone else to call and walking home alone, at night was terrifying, small town or not. You pulled out your phone and stared at it, praying for another solution to pop into your head, but nothing came.

“Come on, think…” you muttered to yourself, running a hand through your hair. It was a mess after being up in a ponytail the entire day but it was starting to give you a headache, so you took it down, hoping it would help you think clearer. It didn't.

Taking a taxi would cost more than you could afford, especially on your shitty bartender’s salary. You were pacing back and forth behind the bar, wondering how your luck had already gone down the drain on your first day working.

In your panic, you didn’t notice someone else standing outside the glass doors of the clubhouse, watching you with a keen eye. Rafe had finished his round of golf earlier and had been hanging around, talking to a few of his father’s friends. He almost laughed at how stressed you looked but took pity on you when you almost broke down into tears right there and then.

He couldn’t have that.

You didn’t even see him walk up to the door and push it open. The sound of it swinging shut behind him startled you, and you looked up, your eyes widening as he approached you.

“Hey, you okay?” He didn’t move closer, just stood there by the door, giving you space.

You stared at him, still trying to catch your breath, not exactly hiding how freaked out you were. “I— I’m fine,” you stammered out. You clutched your phone tightly, as if it could somehow find you a safe way home.

Rafe bit his lip, clearly not convinced, “Y’sure about that? Cause you look like you’re two seconds away from a meltdown.”

His words, though blunt, weren’t meant to be harsh. At least you didn’t think they were, but hearing them out loud made you realize just how close you were to losing it publicly, in your workplace. You exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to your forehead.

“It’s nothing, I just…uh, I don’t have a ride home,” you admitted reluctantly,. “My friend was supposed to pick me up, but her car broke down, and now I’m stuck here.” The last part came out in a rush, as if saying it faster would somehow make it less true.

This felt like the luckiest day in his life.

“That’s it?” he asked, sounding almost relieved. “I can take you home, no problem.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “What? No, I— I don’t want to impose, it’s late, and—”

You were so cute it almost made it impossible to scold you.

“You’re not imposing,” Rafe cut you off, “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone, especially at this hour. Just lemme give you a ride, okay?”

You hadn’t imagined him like this. Speaking to you, a pogue so…normally. There was something in his voice, in the way he spoke to you, that made you pause. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding. He was just offering help. He sounded nothing like the Rafe you’d heard about.

You hesitated, glancing back at your phone again as if you might find a better solution, but you knew deep down you weren’t finding shit. There was no one else you could call, no other option that made sense. And as much as you hated the idea of relying on someone you barely knew, on a kook of all people, you didn’t feel like sleeping on the streets.

“Okay,” you finally agreed, your voice quiet as you looked up at him. You hadn’t expected him to be so tall, “But just this once.”

Rafe’s lips twitched, “Just this once,” he echoed as he gestured toward the door. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

He led you to his car, a sleek, black SUV that practically screamed money. He opened the passenger door for you, and you slid inside, feeling a bit out of place. You’d never been inside such a luxurious vehicle. The plush leather seats were…something. You sat quietly, too scared to break something as he got in on the driver’s side, starting the engine with a quiet hum.

The drive started off in silence. You kept your eyes focused on the road, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you were in Rafe Cameron’s car, being driven home by him. It sounded almost delusional.

After a few minutes, Rafe spoke up “So, where do you live?” he asked, glancing over at you.

He knew you were a pogue, that was a given. But he’d never seen you around before.

You quickly gave him your address, and he nodded, adjusting the GPS on his dashboard. As he did, you couldn’t help but admire how calm and collected he seemed. It was almost unsettling how comfortable he was in situations like this—small talk with strangers, a situation that always has you squirming.

“Thanks, by the way, I really appreciate it.”

He quickly glanced over at you, “Don’t mention it. It’s no big deal.”

Except it was. You were even prettier up close, and your perfume scent was messing with his head, if it wasn’t for the GPS's stupid robotic voice he’d be lost by now.

It was a big deal to you too. It wasn’t every day that someone like Rafe went out of their way to help someone like you. And the fact that he’d done it without a second thought, without expecting anything in return was very, very confusing.

“First day at the club, huh?” Was he trying to make small talk with you? Oh wow. His tone was so casual, like this was the most normal conversation in the world, like you two had known each other for years, and weirdly enough, you didn’t mind. “How’d it go?”

You hesitated, not sure how much you should say. Your instinct was to lie and avoid making things awkward. “Oh, it was great,” your voice raised an octave as it always did when you tried to lie your way out of conversations, “Everyone was really nice!”

Rafe’s eyes didn’t leave the road as he let out a low chuckle. “Bullshit.”

Your smile faltered. “W-What?”

“Come on,” he said, still grinning like an idiot, “I watched you get run ragged by those assholes all day. You looked like you wanted to set the bar on fire.”

You opened your mouth to lie again, but before you could stop yourself, the self righteous girl in you decided to take charge.

“Okay, fine, it was awful. Those people are the worst. They treat everyone like shit and act like they’re God’s gift to the world just because they’ve got money.” Your voice grew louder as you vented, all the frustration from the day spitting out, “I mean, who the fuck do they think they are? Just because they can afford to spend their summers at a country club doesn’t make them better than everyone else.”

Rafe’s laughter broke through your rant, and you stopped short, suddenly realizing who you were talking to. You turned to look at him, wide-eyed, your heart sinking.

“Oh my God,” you whispered horrified, hand covering your mouth, “You’re a kook.”

He was laughing so hard that his shoulders shook, his hand gripping the steering wheel as he tried to catch his breath. “Holy shit,” he managed to wheeze out between laughs, “You really hate us, don’t you?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I didn’t mean you specifically,” you mumbled, your face burning, “I just...I don’t know what came over me.”

Rafe shook his head, still chuckling as he pulled up to a stoplight. “Nah, it’s fine. You’re not wrong about most of them. But, y’know, not all kooks are complete assholes.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, still mortified. “So you’re not an asshole?”

“Oh no, I am,” He snorted, “Just not to you.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, lowering your hands to your lap, “Good.”

You couldn’t stop staring at him. He was different than you’d imagined—more down-to-earth, less of a caricature of the wealthy villain you’d built up in your mind.

“So,” he said after a while, his tone still light, like he was holding back, trying not to scare you off, “What made you take the job at the club? Guessing it wasn’t for the stellar company.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I just needed a job for the summer, and they were the only place hiring.”

“Lucky us,” he said, and when you looked at him, he was giving you that same playful smirk. “You might be the only decent person in that place.”

Your cheeks warmed again, and you had to look away, fiddling with a loose thread on your shirt. “I don’t know about that,” you murmured.

He glanced over, noticing the shy way you avoided his gaze, and his smirk softened. “I do.”

You must’ve hit your head earlier.

Was he flirting with you of all people? He was going to send you into cardiac arrest. You didn’t know how to answer, so you stayed quiet, the silence only broken by the quiet hum of the car’s engine and the GPS’s occasional directions.

When Rafe finally pulled up in front of your house, you hesitated before unbuckling your seatbelt. It felt like you had something more to say, but you weren’t sure what. He seemed to sense it too because he didn’t rush you, just turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, waiting.

You finally turned to him, “Thanks again, Rafe. For everything. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded, his eyes locking onto yours in a way that made it hard to look away.

“Anytime. Seriously. If you ever need anything, just let me know.”

The offer seemed so sincere, so out of character for the guy you’d heard about, that it left you momentarily speechless. He kept proving you wrong.

“I will.”

With a final nod, you pushed open the door and stepped out, the cool night air hitting you as you closed the door behind you. You took a few steps toward your house before turning back, catching one last glimpse of him sitting there.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened involuntarily when you looked back. He'd offered to drive girls home before—plenty of times, in fact—but this was different. When you waved, he felt like a schoolboy who only got to see his crush at school and spent the entire weekends daydreaming about her.

Once you walked inside, he leaned back in his seat, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you sitting in his passenger seat, looking so out of place yet so perfect at the same time. Like you belonged right there, next to him. There was something so refreshingly genuine about you. You weren’t like the girls he knew—the ones who flaunted their wealth, who expected the world to bend over backward for them. You were different, unpretentious, and honest in a way that made him feel like he could drop the act for once.

Like he didn’t have to be Rafe Cameron, the reckless, arrogant kook.

No, with you, he could just be Rafe. And that was something he hadn’t realized he was missing until tonight.

He was done for. He knew he wasn’t going to stop until you were his.

The thought of anyone else having you, of you smiling at someone else the way you had at him tonight—it made him want to break someone’s teeth. He had a reputation, and he knew that if you heard even half of the stories about him, you’d probably want nothing to do with him after tonight. But he didn’t care. Because there was something about you that made him want to be better, to be the kind of guy you deserved.

He could already see it—the two of you, together. He’d give you the world, everything you deserved, and more. He’d make sure you never had to worry about a thing. You were perfect, too perfect for this world, and now that he’d found you, he wasn’t going to let you slip away.

He’d make sure of it—you were going to be his girl. And nothing was going to stop him.

#rafe cameron #requested #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe fluff #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron one shot #rafe one shot #rafe fic #rafe #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe cameron au

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ladykailitha · 4 months ago

Text

Sir Steve, Knight Protectorate Part 2

I am absolutely thrilled with how well the first chapter did. Thank you everyone for your support. If you requested to be on the tag list and aren't that means I ran out of room and so so sorry.

You can follow me or the tag #knight protectorate au, as that is the tag I will be using for the series I do with this verse. I hope that helps!

Here we get Steve to the rescue and Eddie instantly heart-eyes. Poor Jeff.

Part 1

Steve was getting more push back then he thought he would, but at the same time it was from the people he was expecting.

“Admit it,” Carol said, “you know I’m right. The only reason Tammy is involved in any thing music related is because Mummy Dearest is paying for it all. Her singing is horrible.”

Steve tried to hide his smile, but he really couldn’t.

“See?” she shrieked in glee. “I just don’t know why you won’t let me tell her. Someone needs to before she gets into her head she’s going to be famous or some shit.”

“Because it wouldn’t do anything but make her mad,” he reasoned. “Then she’d tell her mom, and her mom would tell your mom and your mom would ground your ass because they are in the same golfing club or some shit.”

Carol blinked at him for a moment or two and then shrugged. “Yeah, all right. You have a point. But I can still mock her behind her back, right?”

Steve threw back his head and laughed.

“Just keep it between us, yeah?”

She tilted her head to the side and then shrugged. “I guess I could do that.”

He heaved a sigh of relief and was just grateful for the smallest concession she was willing to make.

Everyone knew Carol was still saying shit, but at least she was only saying it to Steve.

“God, Abby,” Nicole whined, “where did you get that dress the trash bin behind Melvand’s?” She laughed as Abby tugged on her the hem of her denim dress. It was wrinkled in that way denim will some times get when it’s put into shapes it wasn’t meant for.

“Fuck off, Nicole,” Steve barked. “You have a dress just like it, it’s just Levi instead of some off brand.”

Nicole’s jaw dropped and whirled on Steve. “Is this the thanks I get for finding that little creep for you?”

Steve raised his eyebrow in disdain. “Helping a guy out doesn’t mean you get to shit on everyone else. She isn’t hurting you. She’s just walking in the hall. And for fuck’s sake, she’s a freshman. We’re all gross at that age. Give it up.”

Nicole’s jaw clicked shut and she turned on her heel, running away. The gathered crowd laughed at her retreating form.

“It’s not funny, assholes,” he huffed. “Laughing at Abby being bullied is the same as laughing at Nicole getting told off for it. It’s still rude.”

The hall went deathly quiet.

Tommy came bounding up to Steve and Carol. “Larry Wiggins just got laid out by Munson trying to hassle him out of some dope.”

Steve grimaced. “Everyone knows that Munson doesn’t sell anything hard on school property. He likes avoiding felony charges.”

Tommy grinned, bouncing on the pads of his toes. “That’s what makes it so hilarious. Munson doesn’t even deal on Tuesdays so he didn’t even have weed to offer him to back off.”

“So Larry takes a swing at Munson and gets flattened for it?” Steve guessed with a heavy sigh.

“Yup!”

Carol giggled as Steve sighed again.

“One of these days a football player is going to knock that guy’s pearly whites out,” he said, shaking his head.

“Oohhh...” Tommy said wincing, pulling his arms up to his chest. “That would be ug-lee!”

Steve hummed his agreement.

Look, despite what Eddie’s teachers thought, he wasn’t stupid. After the incident with Wiggins on the basketball team, he had refused to do deals alone.

But then meathead jocks barely used their brains to drool, like alone think.

Eddie was on his way to his picnic table where Doug had been waiting for him when this football player came out of literal nowhere to slam him against a tree.

Eddie’s head swam as he tried to squeeze away his sudden double vision. “What the fuck, man?”

When he could see the captain of the football team, Bobby Vincent, was grabbing him by the collar and shoving him up against the tree.

Bobby pulled out a nearly empty baggie of weed. “You shorted me, asshole. You call this a gram?”

“It was when I sold it to you,” Eddie insisted, hands coming up to grab Bobby’s hand at his throat. “I don’t short. It’s bad for business.” He certainly didn’t short people who throw him around like a rag doll for crying out loud. He didn’t have a death wish.

“You’re going to give me a replacement for free,” Bobby sneered, “aren’t you, pretty boy?”

Eddie tried to yank on the football player’s hand to get him to release him, but the white knuckle grip refused to budge. “I can’t give you shit, man. My supplier would kill me. I’ve got more to think about then just one customer.”

He could see the punch coming and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He closed his eyes against the pain he knew was coming.

But the pain never came. He peeked out of one eye and was shocked to see Steve Harrington holding meathead’s wrist. They were both stock still. Which Eddie couldn’t figure it out, he had to open his other eye to see the full tableau in front of him.

Steve had a grip on Bobby’s wrist, that was certainly true, but that wasn’t what had the football player by the short and curlies. Oh no. In Steve’s other hand was a small but very deadly pocket knife. A knife that was current pressed to the ribs on the side of the raised arm. Suddenly Eddie was feeling weak in the knees for a very different reason.

“Hey, Bobby,” Steve said cheerfully, “you weren’t going to hit someone because you’re too shit poor to buy your own weed, were you?”

Bobby looked down at the knife in Steve’s hands and then back up at his face. Bobby snarled and moved to wrench his hand out of Steve’s grasp, but the blade dug deeper. He stopped again and looked over at Eddie who was just as shocked he was at the whole thing.

Like where the fuck did Steve get that knife and why was he carrying it in the first place?

“You going to stick up for this trash, Harrington?” Bobby hissed. “Wheeler made you soft.”

Eddie and Steve both look down at the knife in Steve’s hand and then back up at the football player.

“Just because I’ve been putting my foot down more on the bullying lately,” Steve said, pressing the knife a little further causing Bobby to wince, “doesn’t mean that this is new. I’ve always called you assholes out on it, but now I’m doing something about it. So why don’t you run along and tell all your friends that the king has returned.”

Bobby’s eyes went wide and he nodded. Steve released the wrist first and then stepped back. He waved the knife, indicating Bobby should get a move on and he did. He ran like hell.

“Marry me!” Eddie squeaked as his knees buckled in relief.

Steve dropped the knife and surged forward to catch him before he hit the ground. Just then Jeff showed up and stared at them for a moment.

“Uhh...” he muttered. “Did I miss something?” His tongue worried one of the brackets on his braces as both Eddie and Steve turned to him.

Steve turned a bright shade of red when he realized how this might look to someone else. He helped Eddie get his feet under him and then took a step back. He ran his fingers through his hair and side-eyed Eddie.

“Maybe ask a guy on a date first, yeah?” he murmured before taking off, scooping up the knife up on his way out. Leaving behind two very confused metalheads in his wake.

Well, one confused metalhead and one confused and horny metalhead.

Jeff turned to Eddie. “You want to tell me what the fuck that was about?” He jutted his thumb at the space in the trees that Steve had vanished into.

So Eddie told him.

“And um... I didn’t get my ass beat so...our King is some flavor of queer?” He meant that as a statement, but it came out as more of a question, because holy fuck that was crazy to think about.

Jeff looked at him for a long moment. “I understand you are currently having a gay panic right now, but um...shouldn’t you be more concerned with the fact that he had that knife on him in the first place? Because seriously, does Steve Harrington seem the type to be carrying around any kind of weapon?”

Eddie blinked a couple of times before he turned to look down the path both jocks had taken with a tinge more fear then he had before.

“That is a fair question, Sir Jeffrey,” he agreed. “But as it has saved this lowly jester’s ass, let’s give our king a pass, shall we?”

Jeff licked his lips slowly and then nodded. Because whatever happened to Steve that frightened him enough to start carrying a knife to school with him, he would much rather not know.

News spread fast. Steve Harrington was not to be trifled with and if you were caught bullying, he would make it his problem.

The faculty noticed, because how could they not. When someone makes it their one man mission to make the school safe for everyone, it wasn’t hard to see the changes wrought.

Only soon it wasn’t just Steve. The group that had included Nicole, Tina, Carol, and Tommy H. who were once the worst of the worst would patrol the halls between classes.

Eddie and his band of Freaks and Nerds were more than a little shocked when they were included in the protection. Because let’s face it, even other marginalized groups tended to push him and his friends around.

Well they tried. A couple of well aimed punches and threats of not selling to them or their friends usually got them to back off. But this was real protection, not just a cat puffing up his fur to look bigger and meaner than he was.

Hawkins High had an honest to Satan knight protectorate. Fuck.

Eddie thought those were only existed in fantasy novels and D&D campaigns. And if there was a gang of knights errant in Eddie’s next campaign with the names, Thom, Stephan, Nicolette, Caroline, and Christina, that was between him and the members of the Hellfire Club and no one else.

He thought he was going to catch shit for that from his friends, but apparently Sir Steve had won over their hearts as well.

However it was only a matter of time before the bullies got creative. Because some people just like to torture they find inferior.

They would hip check their targets into the lockers, always with a “Whoops!” and a sneer. They would knock their shoulders into them with a “Watch it!” and a smirk. They would whack books and lunch trays out their hands with a “Sorry...” and a grin.

Steve’s merry band would always check on the victim, but they really couldn’t say shit, because it could have been an accident. Though really, they weren’t fooling anyone but the teachers.

Eddie could see it coming to a head sooner rather than later and god, he hoped he got to witness it first hand.

Part 3

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7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @gringa-rae-jepsen @bluelightsinthevoid @mamafaithful @allmyworldsendwithtears @xxbottlecapx

10- @sadisticaltarts @yeahhhh-suga @ohimamarigold @imamixofeverthing @samsoble

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #knight protectorate au #season 1 au

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russellsppttemplates · 7 months ago

Note

For blurb night, carlos and lando taking the kids golfing together

Note: I don't know that much about golf, so please excuse if some term is correct or some technicality isn't quite right!

"You requested to karts, is that correct?", the lady at the front desk checked, "they've been packed like you asked, here are the keys", she smiled as Carlos accepted them, heading outside to see Lando just about containing all six kids into the safe perimeter.

"Sainz little ones, you go with your papa! Norris little ones, follow me!", Lando said after catching the key for his kart, helping Charlotte to the seat next to him so he had more control over his youngest.

"Off we go!", Carlos cheered as she started driving to the first spot.

The idea came from Carlos' wife, suggesting you and her should have a spa day to enjoy yourselves, so your husband's decided to take the kids from you and play golf with them.

"Daddy, do I get to swing?", Matilda asked once they stopped and Lando gave each of them a smaller club.

"Yes, Tilly, after uncle Carlos lets Benjamín have a go first", he said, "let's all take a picture so we can show mummy!", he suggested, setting the phone on the kart and gathering your children. Lando managed to find little matching golf kits for the kids and one of his own that looked nice along with theirs, "looks great guys!", he said after he checked the photo, not helping his smile when he noticed how much the kids looked like him - his little clones, you would say.

"It's my turn!", Matilda yelled, going up to her spot and looking at her father, "I need your help, daddy!", she waved him over.

"You do it like this, careful - yes!", Lando clapped, "Good job princess, that was a very good one", he offered her a smile.

"Clara, amor, you can't be so harsh with it because the club will hit the sand and that's no good", Carlos stated, helping his daughter with it.

"Daddy, am I winning?", Fraser asked as they drove off to the next spot of the course.

"I think you're third, buddy", Lando mused, "the last one you did wasn't so good, but I bet you'll be able to get this one really well! It's very similar to that one we did at the beggining".

"Papa! I got it, I got it!", Mateo clapped as the ball he hit fell on the hole, "I did it! Take a photo so I can show mama!", he asked.

By the time they finished, Carlos and Lando decided to stay in the course for a little longer, the rest of the people playing already beyond that spot which allowed them to get the kids to have some snacks, juice and water before they made their way back.

"We were a daycare for an afternoon, two of us for six kids", Lando stated as he zipped the kids' backpack.

"We did a good enough job, but at least this will tire them out", Carlos reasoned.

"My little rocketship does not look like she has a low battery", Lando argued as they watched Charlotte run around in the grass, giggling and squealing loudly.

"What is it they say? What goes around comes around", the spaniard patted his friend's back.

(Thank you for sending this in ✨️)

#lando norris blurb #carlos sainz blurb #inês writes blurbs #f1 blurb #f1 x reader

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topguncortez · 1 year ago

Text

For Her Hand | Jake x Shy!Reader

Opposites Attract Masterlist | Main Masterlist

synopsis: Jake has a very important dinner with a very important man, even though he's already ask a very important question.

word count: 1.4k

warnings: none, fluff:)

Jake was sweating.

He probably had sweat stains on the underarms of his dress shirt, and he was now worried that he was going to have to use the bathroom before James got here. Tonight was the night that Jake was going to ask for Y/N’s hand in marriage. . . even though he already proposed.

Jake knew it was soon, hell they had only been dating for four months and living together for one, but she was his one and only. Y/N was the only person Jake saw himself with for the rest of his life. Every night he dreamt of the life they would have together, the names of their children, what they would look like, the big house he would build her, and the garden that she would spend hours out in.

Jake hadn’t always had a good reputation when it came to women, and it was pretty well known. Throughout the academy and flight school, it wasn’t uncommon to see Jake leave with a new woman. There was a part of him who had spent years searching for the person to fill the void in his heart that had been festering from years of striving for his father’s attention and love. And Y/N was the person who filled it in a very healthy way.

When James first heard about Jake’s and Y/N’s relationship, he was not thrilled. He had seen flyboys like Jake before. He knew what they got up to on postings and detachments, and didn’t want his daughter to join the club of broken hearts. He had also seen and heard the broken cries of their partners when an officer walks off the ship and hands them a neatly folded flag. James felt ill every time he thought about his daughter being in that position.

But then he saw how they interacted with each other at the Naval ball, and Vice Admiral James “Hercules” Parker was proven wrong. He could see the love that Jake had for his daughter. And even though nothing was promised in their line of work, James knew he couldn’t stand in the way of true love.

Jake wiped his hands on his pants for what seemed like the thousandth time that hour as he looked around the restaurant for James. He felt like dinner was a more professional way to ask to marry his daughter than doing it over drinks at the Hard Deck or a round of golf, or blurting out in the middle of a meeting (like Coyote had done with Warlock). What made his nerves stay somewhat at bay was that Jake was kind of doing this all backward. He had already proposed to Y/N when he came home from his last deployment and she had said yes. Blame it on the heat of the moment and being a hairsbreadth away from death, but Jake couldn’t wait any longer without making her his forever.

“Jacob,” James said as he walked to the table. Jake stood up and greeted James with a handshake, “Missing Thursday night football for this.”

“I’m sorry sir,” Jake said and took another drink of his water. James eyed him suspiciously, seeing the young man's hands shake, as a waiter walked to the table.

“Anything to drink for you two, tonight?” The waiter asked.

“Top-shelf whiskey,” James nodded, “Make that two, neat.”

“Oh, I’m good with water,” Jake said. The waiter nodded and went to go get their drinks, “Sorry, I’m just a bit nervous.”

“I can see that,” James said, “Didn’t think that the ‘Hangman’ could get nervous,” Jake cringed at the way James said his callsign as if it were some sort of dig. Some sort of pass to let Jake know that he wasn’t good enough for his daughter, “What’s on your mind son?”

“I uh,” Jake scratched the back of his neck, trying to gather his thoughts, “I love you, daughter,” James nodded, “A-and I did this whole thing backward and I apologize for it. My dad drilled into my head that you always ask for permission first before you do anything with another man’s daughter. But sir-”

“James,”

Jake nodded, “James, I don’t ever want to see a day where your daughter is not by my side. When I thought I wasn’t going to make it back to her. . . well, it was the worst thing ever. I had to make a promise to her when I got back on solid ground, and I did. And now, I gotta make it right. If you would please grant me the blessing, I would love to marry your daughter.”

James looked at him for a moment, the silence becoming so thick between the two men. Jake felt a cold sweat go down his spine, but then he saw a smile break out across James’ face, “I knew this would come sooner or later. I was hoping for later, but,” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black ring box, “She used to wear this around the house as a little girl. It was my mother’s.”

James placed the box on the table and Jake gingerly picked it up. Inside sat a beautiful diamond attached to a silver band. The diamond had to be nearly three carats and had smaller diamonds around it. Jake looked up at James, tears brimming his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask-”

James shook his head, cutting Jake off, “I did the same thing nearly thirty years ago,” James chuckled, “I lost my wingman and almost burned in myself. The moment I got home to Clara, I told her that I could not go back up into the sky without knowing I was going to have her forever. Then she dragged me to the courthouse that same day,” James shook his head with a smile, “I knew this moment was coming at some point in time, when 'dad' stopped being the only man in her life. The only man she looks at with those eyes. No dad is ever ready for that day, and one day, hopefully, you'll have the same experience."

Jake could only imagine the day he would have a little girl and hoped she’d look like Y/N. He could see it now, a beautiful daughter that had her mother’s beautiful eyes and smile, and her personality. If she was born with Jake’s. . . lord help them all, she was going to be a firecracker.

“Does this mean that I. . .”

“You have my blessing to marry my daughter.”

— — —

After dinner was over, Jake probably broke every traffic law to get home to Y/N. He smiled as he noticed the lights in the backyard were on and the sound of her giggle was in the air. He could hear the small barks of the German shepherd puppy he had gotten her as a companion for when he’s gone on deployments. Jake grabbed the bouquet of pink carnations and basically skipped to the backyard.

“Bring it back, Steve!” Y/N called as the puppy hustled his way back to his owner, “Good boy!” Steve’s attention turned the second that the gate to the backyard was opened. Even for a puppy, his barks were still loud, startling Y/N. She turned around, seeing Jake standing there with a goofy grin on his face.

“What are you-”

“Marry me,” Jake said, cutting her off.

Y/N giggled, “Sweetheart, I already said yes. Did you hit your-”

“Nope,” Jake shook his head and walked over to where she was kneeling on the ground. Steve growled a bit as Jake got close to his mother, “Hey, I was the one who adopted you and let you chew on the seatbelts in my truck.” Steve gave Jake a look, before trotting off into the backyard, “Animals.”

“Be nice,” Y/N playfully scolded, and sat down in the grass, “How did dinner go?”

“Went great,” Jake said, sitting down next to her and pulling her into his lap, “He gave me his blessing and gave me this,” Jake pulled out the ring from his pocket.

Y/N gasped, “My nana’s ring! Oh my god, I thought I lost that!”

“Your dad kept it and gave it to me,” Jake said. He grabbed Y/N’s hand and took off the fifteen-dollar ring he bought at Target that was slowly starting to turn green, “Now, we can make it official,” Y/N turned her head to look at him, “What do you say, Mrs. Seresin?”

Y/N smiled and turned in his lap so she was straddling him, “I think you should’ve told him I’m already Mrs. Seresin, but. . .” She tilted her head back and forth, “Baby steps.”

“Yeah, yeah, baby steps,” Jake smirked as he wrapped his arms around her waist and flipped them over. Y/N’s giggles filled the air as Jake pressed kisses all over her face. Her ring glittered in the moonlight.

taglist: @damrlova @shanimallina87 @phoenix1388 @mygyn @cherrycola27 @yanna-banana @seitmai @topgun-imagines @bradleybeachbabe @na-ta-sh-aa @startrekfangirl2233 @atarmychick007 @lunamoonbby @sophiaslastbraincell @bradswolfe @fandom-princess-forevermore @angelbabyange @callsignharper @dempy @lovelywiseprincess @krismdavis @eternallyvenus @dakotakazansky @pono-pura-vida @callsignartemis @starberryhorse @daggersquadphantom @gspenc @poppyalice2001 @els-marvelvsp @nyx2021 @t0kyoreveng3rs @frazie99 @spencvrr @kmc1989 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @toobouquet @malindacath @justenoughmadnesss @sagittarius-flowerchild

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rafesapologist · 10 months ago

Text

the set up — rafe cameron; part twenty

summary: you've been one of the pogues since childhood, and your loyalty has always lied within your friend group, who is practically your family. when a threat by the name of rafe cameron begins to threaten the pogue's plans, they assign you to gain the trust of the dubious kook and keep an eye on what he's up to. however, now it's been six months since your friends set you up to spy on the kook prince himself, but what you didn't anticipate was to fall head over heels for the boy. your relationship had soon become inviolable shortly after your guys' first exchanges, much to your friends' dismay, and you two became practically inseperable. that was, until rafe discovers the truth.

warnings: a lot of angst, mentions of mental health issues, time jump

author's note: good luck

It's been six months since you last saw Rafe Cameron.

The last conversation you both had was anything but pleasant, the words still stinging in your mind. The truth spilled out of you like a dam breaking, revealing the set-up against him that you and your friends had concocted. He pleaded for you to stay, his heart shattered into tiny pieces, and against your better judgement, you spent the night with him.

But as the sun rose and reality sank in, you knew it was best for you to leave before he woke up. You made a promise to give him space, hoping that he would come around on his own. But as days turned into weeks and then months, you never heard from him again.

Unable to face him at the golf course where he frequently visited, you quit your job there and found a new one at the Beach Club alongside JJ. The long hours and minimum wage were far from ideal, but it was enough to sustain you and JJ as you waited for your friends to return from hiding. In those moments, JJ became your lifeline - the only person who could make this unbearable situation even slightly bearable.

Each day seemed to drag on forever as you waited for that phone call from Rafe, hoping against all hope that he would forgive you and start fresh. But it never came. Slowly, a deep depression began to consume you as every day without him felt like a lifetime of agony. When you weren't working at the club, you locked yourself away in your room, trying to shut out the world and its painful reminders. Life lost its meaning as each day passed without any contact with Rafe. It felt like an endless cycle of loneliness and despair, an endless punishment for your foolish mistake.

"Hey there, how's it going, kid?" JJ inquires, coming up from behind with a pair of glass cups in each hand, interrupting your usual daydreaming routine. You straighten up your posture and forge a smile his way, watching as he scurried around the kitchen.

"Doing alright," you reply with a semi-flat tone, still somewhat detached from reality. "Is it a large gathering or something?" You motion towards the numerous cups he tossed into the sink, remnants of beer and liquor leaving their mark at the bottom.

"It was a damn party with sixteen people," he huffs, blowing loose strands of his blond hair out of his face. "Kids, parents, the whole shebang. It was a complete disaster."

You chuckle at his remark, shaking your head. "You'll have that, I guess."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just didn't get much sleep last night, that's all." You keep your statement brief, hoping to sidestep any further scrutiny from JJ, who has a knack for probing. You're aware that his concern stems from witnessing your gradual downturn since the breakup with Rafe. Every agonizing night, he'd pass by your room in the hallway, hearing the stifled sobs, mistakenly thinking you were keeping it quiet.

The sound of clanging dishes fills the air as Sofia, your coworker, enters the kitchen. She balances a stack of dirty plates in her arms and greets you and JJ with a wide smile. Her eyes sparkle mischievously as she poses her question, "Hey guys, am I missing out on some gossip in here?"

You shake your head, amused by JJ's usual grumblings about customers, "Not much besides JJ venting."

Sofia playfully rolls her eyes and lets out a giggle at JJ's never-ending frustration with their clientele. But then her expression turns more serious as she shares her news, "But hey, I wanted to let you guys know there's gonna be a huge bonfire at the boneyard tonight. You should come."

You hesitate, unsure if attending such an event is your thing. "We'll be there," JJ interjects confidently, nudging your side with his elbow.

You turn to him with a shocked expression, surprised that he would answer for both of you without consulting you first. But JJ just looks back at you with a smug grin, knowing that you would have declined the invitation if given the chance. After all, spending your nights locked away in your room was your preferred way to unwind after a shift.

"Great! I'll see you guys later then," Sofia beams at JJ's agreement before leaving the kitchen and heading back to the dining area. "Really, JJ? You know those kinds of events aren't my thing," you scowl at him, crossing your arms over your chest. If looks could kill, JJ would be dead by now.

"Well they used to your thing," JJ retorts, his tone firm but laced with concern. "You used to love going out, having fun, being around people. It's been months since...well, since everything happened with Rafe. And honestly, I'm worried about you. You've been shutting yourself off from the world, and it's not healthy."

You stare at him for a moment, his words sinking in. Despite your initial annoyance at his presumptuousness, you can't deny that he has a point. Since the fallout with Rafe, you've become a shell of your former self, hiding away from any social interaction and drowning in your own sorrow. As much as you hate to admit it, JJ is right – you need to start living again.

"Fine," you finally concede, sighing heavily. "I'll go to the bonfire tonight."

JJ's face breaks into a wide grin, relief evident in his eyes. "That's the spirit! Trust me, you'll have a good time. And who knows, maybe it'll help take your mind off things for a little while."

You can't help but feel a flicker of hope ignite deep within you. Maybe JJ is right. Maybe getting out and being around people again will help you heal, even if just a little bit. You try to push away the thoughts of Rafe that immediately flood your mind, but they still linger, like an unwanted guest overstaying their welcome.

As the day wears on, you find yourself in a state of nervous anticipation. You carefully pick out an outfit that strikes the delicate balance between casual and put-together, not wanting to draw too much attention but also wanting to feel good about yourself. When evening falls and the sky is painted with hues of orange and pink, you make your way out to the boneyard.

The beach is alive with activity as people gather around the roaring bonfire. The sound of laughter and music fills the air, and you can feel the vibrant energy pulsating through the crowd. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart, and step into the midst of the festivities.

JJ appears by your side, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Ready for some fun?" he asks, his voice barely audible above the clamor of voices and music.

You nod, summoning all your courage. "Yeah, let's do this."

As you navigate through the throng of people, you catch glimpses of familiar faces from work and around town. Sofia waves at you from a group near the fire, her smile infectious. You offer her a wave in return, grateful for her invitation tonight.

As you approach the fire, the heat washes over you, and you feel its warmth seep into your bones. The crackling of the flames is hypnotic, luring you closer like a moth to a flame. You find yourself drawn to the dancing shadows that flicker against the night sky.

JJ leads you to a group of people gathered around a makeshift bar not too far from the fire. The air is thick with laughter and conversation, and the scent of toasted marshmallows mingles with the salty sea breeze. You feel a sense of belonging in this moment, as if the weight upon your shoulders is slowly being lifted.

Sofia greets you with a hug, her cheerful demeanor contagious. "I'm so glad you made it. We were starting to think you might bail!"

You laugh nervously, feeling a surge of gratitude for these people who have accepted you into their circle without question. "No chance of that now," you reply, trying to match Sofia's energy.

As the night unfolds, Sofia guides you through the lively crowd, introducing you to various friends and acquaintances. The beach is bathed in the warm glow of the bonfire, and the sound of laughter and music fills the air. You start to feel a sense of belonging, appreciating the distraction from the weight of your thoughts.

Sofia eventually leads you towards a group of people gathered near a makeshift bar. The atmosphere here is electric, with the scent of salty sea breeze mingling with the aroma of toasted marshmallows. You watch as a skilled bartender whips up drinks, and the chatter around the bar is animated.

As Sofia continues with introductions, you exchange pleasantries with the friendly faces around you. The nervous anticipation begins to ease, replaced by a growing sense of enjoyment in the company of these new friends.

Suddenly, Sofia mentions that she wants to introduce you to her close-knit group of friends, and she guides you through the crowd towards a more secluded area. The noise from the bonfire and the distant waves becomes a distant hum as you navigate through the lively gathering.

Sofia's friends are engaged in conversation, their laughter punctuating the night air. You offer polite smiles as Sofia introduces you to each person in the group—Topper, Kelce, and then, the name that makes your heart skip a beat, Rafe.

The moment your eyes lock onto Rafe's, a wave of emotions crashes over you. His appearance, altered since the last time you saw him, is evident in the buzzcut that replaces his once unruly hair. His eyes, once filled with a youthful spark, now carry the weight of experiences and challenges. They appear more mature but also worn down, leaving you to wonder if the breakup and its aftermath have taken a toll on him.

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing the unresolved feelings and unspoken words between you two. The unrelenting gaze he holds sends shivers down your spine, a mixture of nostalgia and regret flooding your senses. It's as if time stands still, encapsulating the raw essence of the moment and the complex emotions entwined in your shared history.

Sofia, oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere, continues with the introductions. "This is Y/N, she works with me at the Beach Club. Y/N, meet Topper, Kelce, and, of course, Rafe."

You offer a polite smile, trying to maintain composure despite the tension emanating from Rafe. The silence stretches, and the unspoken words hang heavily in the air. Rafe remains silent, his intense gaze locked onto yours. The once-familiar connection now carries an undeniable weight, and the emotions between you are palpable. The distance between you and Rafe feels both vast and intimate, the unspoken tension hanging heavy in the air. His silence speaks volumes, and the unspoken dialogue between you becomes a poignant narrative of the time that has passed.

The sight of Sofia walking up beside Rafe, followed by his embrace, sends a sinking feeling straight to your heart. A knot tightens in your stomach as you watch the two of them, and Sofia's words hit you like a sudden storm. "Y/N, meet my boyfriend, Rafe," she says, her voice filled with happiness.

Shock sets in, and your world seems to tilt on its axis. The revelation that Rafe, the person you once shared everything with, has found solace and companionship with Sofia creates a sense of nausea. The emotions swirling within you are a tumultuous mix of disbelief, betrayal, and a deep ache that seems to resonate with each beat of your heart.

Your gaze remains fixed on them, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before you. The bonfire's glow casts a surreal light on the trio, emphasizing the complexity of the situation. Questions flood your mind, and you find yourself grappling with the harsh reality of Rafe moving on while you're still entangled in the aftermath.

With a flat tone, you manage to say, "We've met before," acknowledging the shared history that once connected you and Rafe. The air grows heavy, and his jaw clenches even tighter, creating an unspoken tension that hangs between you two. The weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions lingers in the air, creating an atmosphere thick with discomfort and uncertainty.

Sofia looks between you and Rafe, sensing the tension but not fully understanding the depth of your past connection. She decides to change the subject, suggesting that you all grab drinks and join the group by the bonfire. The invitation hangs in the air, leaving you with a choice to make – whether to navigate the night alongside Rafe and Sofia or find a way to retreat from the situation.

Despite the internal turmoil, you manage a strained smile, agreeing to join the larger group. The trio makes their way toward the makeshift bar, where you can't help but feel Rafe's eyes on you. The silence between you is deafening, each step echoing with the weight of unspoken history.

As you reach the bar, Sofia engages in casual banter with the bartender, leaving you and Rafe standing side by side. The awkwardness is palpable, a silent conversation unfolding between stolen glances and lingering tension. The air becomes charged with the ghosts of memories – the shared laughter, the whispered confessions, and the painful parting words.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the discomfort, a familiar one calling out to Sofia. She excuses herself, leaving you and Rafe alone for the first time since your worlds shattered. The seconds stretch into an eternity as you both avoid direct eye contact.

Finally, Rafe breaks the silence. His voice is low, tinged with a hint of regret. "It's been awhile."

Rafe's comment about the passage of time lingers in the air, a subtle acknowledgment of the distance that has grown between you. You keep your gaze fixed on the ground, finding it too painful to meet his eyes. The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy between you.

"Yeah," you murmur, your voice barely audible over the surrounding noise. "It has been a while."

A heavy pause follows, filled with the unspoken truth of your separation. The mention of time only serves to underscore the absence of communication, the unanswered questions, and the silence that has defined these months of solitude.

"You never called," you say, your words tinged with a mixture of hurt and frustration. The memories of that night resurface, the promises unfulfilled, and the subsequent silence that followed. The pain of that unanswered call echoes in your voice, a testament to the unresolved emotions that have lingered for far too long.

Rafe's jaw tightens as he absorbs your words. The unspoken tension in the air seems to thicken, heavy with the weight of unaddressed issues. The crowd around you continues to buzz with life, oblivious to the charged atmosphere between you and Rafe. It's a moment suspended in time, caught between the past and the present, with the possibility of either reconciliation or further divergence.

Rafe's silence lingers for a moment, and just as the tension becomes almost unbearable, Sofia reappears at his side, seemingly oblivious to the underlying dynamics. She takes hold of Rafe's arm and playfully insists he joins her in the revelry. He glances back at you, his expression a mix of regret and something else you can't quite decipher.

"See you around, Y/n," Rafe says in a voice that carries a tinge of sadness before he's gently pulled away into the crowd by Sofia. The moment hangs in the air as he disappears, leaving you with a whirlwind of emotions. The reality of seeing Rafe after all these months hits you, and the weight of the encounter settles heavily on your shoulders. The bonfire blazes on, the crackling flames providing an ironic backdrop to the unspoken turmoil within.

The air is thick with a mix of emotions as you hastily navigate through the crowd, the tears in your eyes threatening to spill over. The vibrant atmosphere around you is now a blur as you search desperately for JJ, the only anchor in this sea of turmoil. Your heart pounds with a sense of urgency, the need to escape the situation becoming more palpable with each passing second.

Finally spotting JJ near the makeshift bar, you approach him with a sense of desperation. His eyes widen in concern as he takes in your tear-strained face. "Hey, what happened?" he asks, his voice a soothing anchor in the midst of chaos.

You grab his arm, almost pulling him away from the crowd. "We need to leave, JJ. Now," you implore, your voice choked with emotion. He doesn't ask questions, simply nodding and following your lead. The two of you slip away from the bonfire, leaving behind the flickering flames and the haunting specter of a past you weren't ready to face.

As you retreat from the beach, the distant sounds of laughter and music fade into the background. The cool night air offers a temporary reprieve from the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. JJ walks silently beside you, giving you the space to process whatever had transpired.

As you and JJ continue to walk away from the beach, the words tumble out of your mouth in a shaky confession. "He's dating Sofia," you manage to say, the weight of the realization hitting you like a ton of bricks. Before you know it, the tears you've been holding back begin to stream down your face.

JJ's eyes soften with understanding, and without a word, he wraps his arms around you in a comforting embrace. The sobs escape from deep within you, each one carrying the pain of witnessing the person you once loved move on with someone else.

You let the waves of emotion crash over you, leaning into JJ's support. His presence is a balm, a reminder that you're not alone in this difficult moment. The two of you stand there, the night air filled with the sound of your quiet sobs and the distant echoes of the beach party you've left behind.

In that vulnerable moment, JJ remains a steady anchor, offering solace without the need for words. The weight of heartbreak is momentarily eased by the warmth of his embrace, and for now, you find comfort in the friendship that has become your lifeline.

taglist: @ellesalazar, @champomiel, @vadinaleme, @kys4-20, @gills-lounge, @allsmilesreally7, @sublimepenguinpeach-blog, @sp00ky-spr1te, @bibliophilewednesday, @haroldpotterson, @i-love-rafe, @ellesalazar, @calmoistorm, @abundantxadorations, @fals3-g0d, @gillybear17, @oiiviagrande, @hockeybabe87, @augustlikesdeath, @wpdailyminimeta, @palmwinemami, @loxleys-blog, @ikisscline, @flyestvenustrap, @ilovesteveharrngton, @ijustwanttoreadlols, @fastlovela, @wickedlovely121, @fals3-g0d, @givemylovetoall

#rafe cameron #drew starkey #rafe cameron x reader #obx #outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe angst #rafe cameron imagine #rafe imagine #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe fic #rafe cameron fic #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #rafe cameron smut #rafe x reader

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youandtom2 · 1 year ago

Note

Request if you want it: Tom is playing at a golf event and reader is a journalist there. She absolutely can't stand him, because she finds out he is quite arrogant and full of himself. They go after each other throughout the whole day with sarcastic remarks. But somehow (you can fill in the details) Tom seduces her by the end and he gets her on her knees and he totally dominates her, making her choke and gag. And he embarrasses her by making her feel his muscles and beg to suck him off and he boasts about how easily he got her in the palm of his hand. :P

(14/07/22) brain go brrrrrrrrrrr THIS REQUEST!!!!

a/n (28/06/23): This was a request that was sent in and one that I had started last year that I really wanted to finish. Apologies to the anon who sent this in and waited for it whoops. This was supposed to be short but I clearly don't fucking know what short means so here's like 7k or something???

Anyway here's 'A Word for the Youth Diary?' Shitty title I know but I literally can't think of anything else.

MASTERLIST

"The weather is absolutely gorgeous here at St. Andrews' Castle Course, celebrating the first 'Pro Amateur' charity competition where a host of celebrities, socialites or anyone with a keen passion for golf can compete. A number of spectators have gathered around the course, eager to soak up the buzzing atmosphere, the scenic landscape and the presence of Hollywood stars, all in the views of the warm Scottish sun. Now that's something I never expected to say!"

The red light of your recorder dims as you press pause on your commentary. You made the switch to recorder a few years back when journalism became too close to drowning in a number of scribbled, illegible notes written far too quickly. Now it is a simple case of pressing record and pressing pause.

Of course, wherever there is a flock of celebrities congregating in the one area for the week, there will always be flock of paparazzi and journalists close by, each with the same agenda. It usually feels like mission impossible to get a word in with a celebrity or document anything of note or interest when there's a wall of other journalists blocking your way, but today those things won't be a problem. Because you’re not going after who may probably be the most coveted celebrity here. Tom Holland.

You don't quite don't know where it stemmed from; your strong dislike towards Tom Holland. In all honesty, your hatred towards him is very self-inflicted, but there's something about his ego that paints him in a very arrogant light. He knows he's hot shit with the press, he knows everyone fancies the man, he knows that his many talents has sky-rocketed him up the societal ladder and onto the throne of the rich and wealthy. What makes him double as frustrating than he is arrogant is that he hasn't done anything wrong. He's Hollywood's golden boy; ever the humble, handsome, kind, charity-giving actor that has claimed the hearts of many across the world. It's what makes your hatred towards him completely unjustified, so while no one shares the same view as you, there is some things you can do to quietly preach your opinions.

"First to arrive at the course is the notable Tom Holland, waving to the crowd with a smile, loving the attention as ever. Although I'm not sure that his mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire will receive the same compliments!"

The smirk on your lips lasts for the majority of the day as you talk incessantly into your recorder. Your goal isn't necessarily to shit on Tom, only when the opportunity presents itself of course, like when he swung the golf club at an awkward angle, sending the ball straight over the forest and into the sand bunker.

"Oooh, what a poor shot from Tom Holland. He'll be disappointed with that one. Perhaps leaning towards the 'amateur' side of the competition in comparison to some other competitors. Tom Holland yet again teaching us a valuable lesson in life; just because you're a pro at one thing doesn't mean you're a pro at everything else."

The crowd politely applauded and off he went with his caddie. While others followed, you choose to stay rooted while you wait for Mark Wahlberg to walk up to the tee. He's who you've been waiting for all afternoon. Getting a word in with him would set you up for the highlight of your career.

"Mark! Over here! Mr. Wahlberg! A word for the Youth Diary? Mr. Wahlberg!"

As it seems, Mark calmly maneuvers way past the wall of journalists, paying them, and you, no mind and strolls over to the starting point. Damn. You have to get a word with him somehow.

"Mark Wahlberg takes a mighty swing and thrashes the golf ball high into the air, and the crowd watches in astonishment as it sails its way over towards the green, a hair's breadth away from perfection as it rolls upon the hill. A round of applause circles around Mark as he proudly walks on with the confidence of a man who's set on winning this competition."

As the hours tick by, you find yourself without any luck. Those first few minutes of the competition were stuck in a loop, constantly experiencing deja vu of having to witness Tom Holland's unlucky shot followed by being ignored by Mark Wahlberg. You haven't had one decent interaction with anyone yet. Things are getting a little desperate.

You even begin to understand why the majority of journalists are following Tom Holland like a lost flock of sheep; he's very chatty. He stops at every turn to give his narration on his own playing, offers a brief insight to the projects he is currently working on, and if he likes you, even spill some of the secrets of his private life. It's a journalist's dream, one that you haven't even had the taste of yet since Mark Wahlberg is as accessible as the vaults of the Bank of England. Anyone with common sense would advise you to follow the crowd and ignore your bias towards him and just interview Tom Holland if it means you have something worth printing.

Oh no, no, no, no, no, no. Not a chance. He gets enough attention as it is.

"Mr Wahlberg! A word on your new film? Could you tell us about Uncharted! Mark! Over here!"

Not even a glance is spared your way in yet another attempt to get his attention. From your left, a voice emerges. A fellow reporter sidles himself next to you, away from the crowd that follows Tom Holland. You spot the Sky Sports label wrapped around his microphone.

"He doesn't like to speak much to the press. Thinks that he'll say something and they'll twist his words," he sympathies. It's genuine, obvious that he too has been caught up in the same frustration you've been facing all afternoon. At least he has a little more insight as to why you haven't gotten a word from Mark.

"Yeah, I figured. It wouldn't hurt just to say hello and have a small chat. What could the press twist about that? If anything, I think he's damaging his reputation by not saying anything. It's rude, y'know?"

He nods his head in agreement, but the sigh he blows doesn't seem to match. "You have to let it go though. They're not obliged to tell us anything. This is just a day out for them, they're not getting paid so why should they have to say anything about their work? It's just our luck whether they choose to talk to us."

"Ugh, I guess you're right, but I still need something for my article."

"Sky Sports has had lots from Tom. Why don't you try your luck with him? He seems to be a lot chattier than Mark. I don't know much about film journalism, only sports, so I don't know what it is you're looking for. But if you ask him anything, I'm sure he's willing to provide."

You look to him with contempt in your eyes, your lack of smile instantly shuts down his suggestion.

"I appreciate the suggestion but no. He's too easy. Think of how many journalists are here desperate to get a word in about sports, golf, acting, celebrity personal lives, all that show biz. If everyone shared the one source, audiences wouldn't bother reading them all because they all be the same, boring stuff. Think about it. If you, and 30 other journalists had the chance to interview Ronaldo, you would all take it because after all its Ronaldo. The only downside would be that you would then have 30 articles all saying the same thing and audience getting bored after reading 1. Now think about having the chance to interview Messi. It would be hard but total payout if you got it. Plus, you would stand out from the rest and that's what would gain audiences' attention."

Once again, the reporter sighs. "Look, kid. I've been in this job for 20 years and I've learned that sometimes you just have to cut your losses. If your objective is to get something to write about for your article, then you should do it however and whatever way you can, doesn't matter who the source is. If your objective is to get something from Mark Wahlberg specifically? Then you should scrap the whole article and try again. Something is better than nothing."

"I refuse to take anything from Tom Holland."

"Suit yourself. Good luck. Oh, by the way, I think you're still recording. Wouldn't want you to get your chance with Mark only to realise you have no storage left on your recorder."

You mumble a weak thanks and remember to press the pause button on your recorder. The reporter saunters away back towards the crowd, your only indication of knowing where Tom Holland is. You consider it for a second, but determination drives you away, following Mark to the next hole.

~~~~

It's all to play for in the final hole with only two possible candidates capable of winning the trophy. Currently sitting in the lead is the elusive, mysterious Mark Wahlberg, strolling casually along to the final hole with his team behind him. Ah, and of course, next in line is Tom Holland soaking up the attention as he strings along behind Mark Wahlberg like an apprentice would their mentor. It's not clear whether the confidence he walks with is a poorly executed imitation of his acting mentor ahead of him, or whether it is a man deluded with besting him. All will be revealed within the hour.

It's well into the evening of the Pro Amateur competition and the luck that reporter wished you earlier has yet to find you. With the final hole well underway, you're starting to think that it never will. So far, you've gotten a few short, curt answers from other celebrities here but nothing near the sustenance your article needs. If only Mark could stop being so stubborn.

"One at a time please guys, one at a time." Tom's smug, arrogant tone of voice emerges from behind you and not too soon after, tens of other voices asking him questions. As he makes his way nearer, so do the swarm of people and in an attempt to get out of the way, you're stampeded by the press. Bumped, shoved and pushed, you struggle to find your balance and fall precariously on your knees with your equipment tumbling from your bag. In all honesty it didn't hurt, but what an inconvenience picking up all your bits and bobs. Ugh it's all his fault.

Before you do anything irrational and say something you shouldn't, you pack up your stuff and walk away.

The competition concludes with a twist that no one was expecting. With a gust of wind getting the better of Mark Wahlberg, it earned him a double bogey and cost him the trophy, annoyingly snatched up by Tom who achieved victory with a birdie. You seethe at the sight of Tom holding up the golden trophy, soaking up the champagne that his teammates spray all over him and hearing the applause from everyone, even you as a slow, lethargic clap rings from your hands. All to just to keep up the pretence of 'liking him' of course. Ugh, why did he have to win?

After a day of being the lone ranger in a journalists mission, you concede to following the crowd into the conference room where many like you await behind a wall of microphones and a valley of cables to hear from today's competitors. And Mark Wahlberg is one of them. This might be your chance to get a question in. Quick! Where's your recorder?

Fuck. It's not in your bag. Where is it? You rummage through your bag again and it's definitely not there. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where could it be? Did you lose it when you fell over? Has it been stolen? Fuck, you really need that!

You have no other option but to record from your phone and in your quiet, subdued panic, you try your best to catch anything he has to say. The quality isn't great and it's picking up outside noise to the point that articulation has no place on your recording. Sweating at the loss of some expensive equipment and valuable content, your phone drops and the clatter of it paints a mountain on its waveform, rendering the recording useless. Fuck, if you hadn't lost your recorder.

People start to look at you in your fluster and your legs starts bobbing erratically. The attention is too much and it's exactly why you prefer to stay behind the microphone and not in front of it. You have to leave. At the next possible opportunity, you end your recording and begin to make your way through the aisle, apologising profusely to the other journalists who wait for Tom Holland to make an appearance.

You just about make the double doors of the conference room when you hear Tom's voice welcoming the room.

"Before I start, I wanted to check to see if this was anyone's recorder..."

Everything about you stops dead in its tracks; your feet, your heart, your breathing, your entire existence. Nervously, you spin around to spot Tom Holland holding your recorder in his hands, fingers fluttering around its buttons. How the hell did he get his thieving hands on it?!

A pit opens up in your stomach at the dreaded thought of having to announce yourself in front of everyone to claim it. But damn, you really need your recorder back.

Braving the nightmare, your hand raises half-heartedly into the air. "Uh...it's mine. Sorry, I must've dropped it."

Tom's deep brown eyes lock onto yours from the stage and he throws, what you think, a sickly smile before he offers up the most ridiculous idea. "I can set to record if you want. I can sit it riiiiight here." He sits it directly in front of him and sends you a sly wink. It's a spot any journalist would dream of having their microphone; right under their nose on the off-chance that anything muttered under their breaths or whispered discreetly would be picked up. Journalists are a sucker for secrets. Quite frankly, you don't care for his secrets, you don't care for his thoughts on today's events, and you really don't care for what he has to say at all.

But the only reason why you end up saying yes is because you care more about what people would think of you if you gave up an opportunity like that.

"Sure. Thanks."

You proceed to endure 15 minutes of Tom glorifying himself in front of the press. God, it's embarrassing. You could plainly hear the snide tone underneath the guise of 'self-evaluation'. Everyone seems to soak it up like a sponge, praising him for his insightful words and self awareness, writing nothing but positive words about the actor. Whatever. You wish you could drown him out but your paranoia is rooted to your recorder at his table, thinking the worst outcome as his fingers toying with its external case. What if he doesn't know how to work it and accidentally erases all you had from today? One slip up and it's gone. Your eyes constantly flicker from your recorder to him and no matter who he's speaking to or where he's looking, he always manages to catch your gaze.

Already outside your comfort zone, you audibly whimper when you see him lightly tap the little trash button at the end of the recorder, miles away from the stop, pause and play buttons that you would regularly use. You would only ever press that button with intention, it’s pretty to hard to press it accidentally. Even without knowing how to work the recorder, it doesn't take an idiot to know what that means, so watching Tom play with it tells you that he is whole-heartedly toying with you, enjoying the view of you panicking from his throne of sadism.

It's like he can sense your hatred towards him.

~~~~

"Thank you, thank you! Until next year!" Tom smiles as he walks off stage, your recorder in his clutch. The further he walks away, the faster you bob and weave through the crowd, feeling like you're fighting against the tide as it sweeps you out. Then, just as the room empties you reach the entrance to the backstage area in a relief, only to hit a brick wall that stands in your way between you and your highly coveted recorder.

"No press allowed backstage." A security guard towers over you.

"Tom Holland has my recorder. I'd like to get it back." You have no time for polite small chat, your request grumbling with agitation.

"Still can't allow you back--"

"You can let her through, Jim. It's alright." A young boy’s voice echoes from behind the wall.

The guard hesitantly lets you through, keeping you under his iron gaze while you slip through the narrow space he gives you. You are led out into a hallway with plaques decorating the hall, awards from winners of tournaments the venue has previously hosted, the newest addition being Tom's 'Pro-Amateur' plaque much to your distaste.

The boy you recognise as Tom's caddie leads you down this hallway, he hasn't said so much as a word to you as he confidently walks ahead. Now he's getting his assistant to fetch you? God, the arrogance!

"He's in here."

"Thanks," you quietly mutter. The door closes behind you, locking both you and the actor into the room. When you started the day bright and early this morning, you didn't think this was where you were going to end up. You couldn't have put money on it.

Although, you have to admit: despite putting your heart and soul into avoiding Tom Holland the entire day, this could be an exclusive for your article. Nobody else has had this opportunity, so why not take advantage of it?

Tom smiles as he greets you, carelessly tossing your recorder from hand to hand. You swallow nervously. "You are...?"

You respond with your name, who you report for, and make it abundantly clear that you would like to take back your recorder in one piece.

He approaches with a small, boyish chuckle like you just told a joke. "Sorry, I was just thinking," he casually says, "about how you once said you refuse to take anything from me."

What? Where did he hear...? Fuck. He listened to it. And that entire conversation you had with the Sky Sports reporter...

Your mouth drops. As does the anchor in your stomach.

"What was it you said again...?"

"You listened to it." He ignores you.

"Oh yeah, that my 'mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire wouldn't receive the same compliments'."

"You...listened to it all?" you reiterate once again. Your voice rings with all the inflections of a question, but you already know the answer. Unfortunately.

Tom's brows furrow inward.

"Honestly, I can overlook the fact you insulted my outfit, it doesn't bother me that much." There's a 'but' in his sentence. You're just waiting for it. You inwardly panic, trying to remember what else you said that would warrant that dreaded 'but'. Your shield of writer's anonymity has fallen; it's what protects you if you are to ever post negatively about a celebrity, but now that he knows your name and your face, you're left exposed.

"But..." There it is. And in a disbelief, he bites, "I'm too easy? Really?"

There's two ways you could go about this. Stand your ground and defend yourself, or dig yourself a grave and apologise.

Ha. Yeah right.

"I don't really think it was your place to listen to my recordings."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm. Should've minded your business if you knew what was good for you."

"You--" He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, almost to contain himself and tries again. "You," he points accusingly, "are very...very lucky that you look as attractive as your voice sounds."

Your cheeks flush angrily. Safe to say, you're not used to anyone calling you attractive let alone Tom Holland, so in your fluster you have no idea how to respond. You don't know how to tame the flutter in your heart nor the fire in your stomach. Instead, you ignore it all and revert back to your original goal.

"Can I have my recorder back? Please?"

"In a minute." He swats his hand away from yours. High above your reach, you stand helpless as you watch his thumb crash land onto the record button, resuming from where it last left off. "I think that what you have about me in your article is a little bit too harsh. Why don't we start putting some positivity back in. I think you have it in you to pay me just one compliment. I did win the competition after all, I think it's deserved."

You laugh hysterically. The nerve of this guy! So conceited. "You don't deserve anything from me."

"C'mon. Just one. It's not that hard. I promise I'll give you your recorder back straight after."

Succumbing to his torment, your eyes roll over his features, his hair, his outfit and his body, trying to identify possible compliments that would meet his demands but yet wouldn't inflate his ego too much. What you don't anticipate is you're spoiled for choice.

Defeated, you sigh. "You...smell nice."

"Aw, c'mon. I said you were attractive and all you could think of was that I smell nice? Try a little harder."

"Hey, you said the deal was that I give you one compliment then I get my recorder back. Cough up, Holland."

A smug grin pulls at his lips. "I'm not satisfied. And I will give it back when I am satisfied."

Given that your hatred towards Tom Holland is now at least justified and not just self-inflicted, it means that it's twice as hard to sacrifice it all and compliment him like he so desperately wants you to, a complete betrayal to your own beliefs. But you NEED your recorder.

"You look strong."

"Elaborate."

"You clearly work out."

"What in particular?"

"Your arms."

"How can you tell?" He's really pushing the mark, overstepping it by miles with the dirty smirk he has on his face because he knows he is. You audibly grumble at the sight. Losing patience...

"They just looked particularly...muscular when you were swinging the golf club."

"Why don't you give them a feel and you can tell your readers how strong they really are in detail? I know you want to."

Is it bad of you to admit that you do want to feel them? Absolutely. Are you going to announce that to him? Absolutely not.

You don't move for a couple of seconds, your own conscience making so much noise inside your head that you can't make a coherent thought. A spark of adrenaline twitches at your hands, enough to catch Tom's eyes but it's not enough to swing it into force.

Quietly, slowly, he reaches for your hand and envelopes his fingers around yours, manipulating them to wrap around his upper arm. He makes sure to mold your fingerprints into his skin while he tenses, just to feel the sheer density of his muscles. His skin is warm, soft to touch but yet firm to grasp. While you become instantly fascinated, his glistening smile brightens in the corner of your eye. It's so quiet in the room that Tom hears the softest stutter of breaths and he feels like a winner all over again.

"Well?" He nods towards the recorder, its red button flashing. For the readers...

"Definitely..." you clear your throat. Why has your mouth gone dry all of a sudden? You retract your hand. "Definitely toned. Sculpted."

"If that's what you like then I should show you this..."

He takes your hand once again, its warmth holding you captive, and drags it all the way down to his torso. You can't pull your eyes away from how he sensually slips your hand underneath the hem of his shirt and weaves your fingers between the valley of his abs. Your fingertips skate over every sculpted ab of his, feeling the way they almost shiver at your cold touch.

Your fingertips aren't enough. Tom takes a step closer and your whole palm presses against him, almost too intimately for strangers.

Tom's head quirks to the side to get a better view of you. "Thoughts?" he asks, even though he can read them so clearly on your face. You're becoming entranced.

"...Holy shit," you whisper. "Um, yeah. Strong."

"For a woman who had a lot to say about me, you're certainly lost for words now."

As the heat rises and things escalate, neither of you diffuse the tension and the string of long, uninterrupted silence continues. Every minute that passes by is a precarious step over crossing boundaries and breaking every rule you have in your moral bible.

It forces you to suck in a nervous breath and hold it for a few seconds while you deliberate what the end goal is. Of course, it was to leave with your recorder but given your current position and your change of opinions, you're not so sure anymore. To be clear, your change of opinion isn't necessarily about Tom; you still think he's conceited, arrogant and incredibly vain, but it is what you do with that opinion that has changed. Before, you avoided him, stopped yourself becoming another little lost sheep and following him at every opportunity. Now? You're giving him every drop of attention you have to give.

Tom watches you intently while he silently introduces himself to your shyer nature, definitely not the same person that walked in here in a fit of rage and demanding for their recorder. The minute he meets that side of you, he knows exactly what to do next.

He drops his head as he drops his voice into his lower register, your hand feeling all the rumblings from his chest. "Want to be completely speechless?"

Fuck it. Sure you do. "Mm-hm."

"Good girl."

You aren't actually sure what he's planning to do so you look for intention in his eyes, but you see nothing but darkened caverns and devilish features. In fact, it's because you're looking into his eyes that you don't realise that he's grown hard underneath his straight grey trousers. Like before, he guides your hand fluidly underneath the waistband where the button pops out easily, and navigates you under the elastic band where he desperately shapes your fingers around him. He pulses underneath you, shaking with relief that he has you exactly where he wants you.

You dare not pull your eyes away from his, even as they droop in his pleasure. More so now that you admit how seductive they look. You try to mirror that same seduction with a small smile, moving your hand up and down his shaft independently.

Fuck, the more you move your hand, the more you think it's never going to end. Bluntly put, he's huge.

As a journalist, you should be eloquent with your words, careful in your choice of vocabulary, definitive with your metaphors, but all those years of reading and writing falters the second the sheer size of him stuns you. It slightly pains you to be so tasteless but nevertheless, you don't think there's any other way to put it.

So caught up in the heat of it, your common sense finally comes to once again acknowledge your recorder in his hand. You forgot he had been recording this entire conversation...

He brings it closer to his lips, seductively whispering directly into it. "Just like that..." He keeps going. "Doing such a good job - fuck - don't stop."

Encouraged, and progressively feeling turned on, you tighten your hand around his cock and move faster.

"How do I feel, sweetheart?" The microphone tilts towards you. Detail. Although at this point, you don't think it's for your readers as much as it is for you and Tom.

"So big. I almost can't fit my hand around you."

He very nearly buckled. That voice of yours is like a siren to him. Little do you know that when he found your recorder and listened to all of your little angry ramblings about him, it had sparked up a fiery, unavoidable desire inside him. It was hell having to listen to your voice talk shit about him, he just couldn't stand it. He needed to hear you compliment him, worship him, adore him, and he spent every spare minute of his day replaying your recorder, instilling your voice to memory until he could manipulate your words, imagining what they would say about him.

But now that he actually gets to hear you feed into his desire is twice the satisfaction than he initially thought.

As quick as lightning hits, an idea occurs to him and it completely devastates his entire system; if hearing you compliment him turns him on, how would having you beg for him make him feel? The idea becomes such an unstoppable craving he already knows his imagination won't be able to satiate it this time. He needs it for real and right now.

"You wanna taste?"

Doe-like eyes stare up at him - oh, you are so capable of begging him - and your movements come to a halt...all except your thumb sweeping over his tip. You didn't actually think this was going to go any further than a hand job.

"You want me to?"

Oh no, no, no. This isn't about Tom begging. "Because I know you want to. I can see how desperately you want to tell everyone how I allowed you to come backstage, meet me, get on your knees for me, how I allowed you to suck me off and how I allowed you to taste me." His hand slithers up your jawline and brings you close, leaving nothing but a hair's breadth to separate you. As you anticipate the feeling of his lips, you have but his breath fanning over yours and the anxiety bubbling at the pit of your stomach to feed from. "You just need to beg for it, sweetheart."

Beg. It was hard enough to lose one battle and compliment him, but to lose an even bigger one and beg? You would be absolutely humiliated.

Would be meaning if it was under any other circumstance, if you weren't so spellbound and seduced by him. But that simply isn't the case.

Not uttering another word, you slowly drop to your knees keeping Tom with the wicked grin within your sights. The zipper of his trousers comes undone and you pull him free, watching as his cock stands tall and bobs heavily with weight. Instinctively, your tongue rushes to wet your lips.

"Beg." Tom demands again. The recorder soon comes back into your view and your jaw clicks with frustration. He's capturing every single word much to his demented, power-hungry mind.

You chew through your irritation and instead tune into the feeling that's bubbling in and around your stomach, the one that's being powered by him. "Please," you breathe. "Please, Tom, I wanna suck you off so badly, I promise I'll be good."

"And do you promise to never write a bad word about me ever again?"

Oh, this fucker.

"I prom-"

"Say it like you mean it."

How you so wish you could lie through your teeth, but you know for a fact that from now on, any bad word you write about Tom Holland will forever be tied with this day. You'll think twice about writing badly because being on your knees for him will get in the way. You'll struggle to find the words to knock him because the compliments you paid him will stain your lips. You'll hesitate to criticise him because you'll remember how you verbalised about his good looks.

"I promise. Just--just let me taste you." It's sad how desperate you sound. "Please?"

He doesn't respond. There's one last warning to give.

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

Adrenaline rushes through your veins and your heart pounds. Despite being adamant in your dislike for Tom, you do somehow get the feeling that the threat that rings through his tone is not one to be taken lightly. It buzzes a little too seriously for you to brush over it. So you answer accordingly.

"Okay, I promise."

The threat dissipates and he looks at you approvingly, his empty hand dropping to cup your cheek. You aren't so unaware of the twitch of his cock in your hand. "I just want to make it clear and put on the record that out of the two of us..." Tom angles you closer, "it's you that's the easy one. Too easy. So easy that you're already on your knees and begging me."

How you would slap that grin clean from his face. The scowl on yours warns him of it, but he simply laughs, mocking you.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Admit it." His boyish chuckle continues to ring in the air and its contagious effect pulls at your lips despite trying to hide it. He sees clearly that it pains you to admit it, so as a small motivator, he crouches to your level, his hand still cradling your cheek. In quieter words, though still delivered through a smirk, he murmurs..."Be a good girl for me, yeah?" His lips melting onto yours stops you from getting the chance to reply. The surprise of it fogs up your brain, submitted into a dream-like state as he gently molds his lips onto yours. It's short and leaves you wanting more.

With a flutter of lashes, you nod. "Atta girl."

He stands up taller once again and you take that as your cue to fulfill your promise. Your lips wrap around him and your tongue darts to sweep over his tip. His groans can be heard above you and no doubt heard by the recorder, crescendoing the second your head starts bobbing. Your hand covers what your mouth can't reach, doing as much as you can to make him feel good. It seems to work; his hips begin thrusting. Slowly, at first, to swing into rhythm but the more you swallow him the less control he has of his own movements, and soon, with your hair wrapped tightly around his fist, he's rutting erratically, drinking in the sounds of your moans of pleasure and pain.

"Fuck, you're so good at that."

"Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."

"Taking me so well. Good girl."

"Just like that, shit."

"Look how easy you are, fuck. So willing, aren't you? You wanted a word for your precious Youth Diary? Here it is; you are so easy it's pitiful. Fuck--"

Tom's animalistic nature completely dominates to the point where your tears and gags are silently begging to slow down. Every part of you is screaming out: your throat is bruising, your lips are tearing, your eyes are streaming, your knees are cramping, but holy fuck hearing him talk about you like that fuels the fire inside you.

His thighs twitch underneath your hands and you think he might just cum down your throat. The red-hot grip he has of your roots is your only warning before that happens.

Warmth fills your mouth and you're quick to swallow it down before you choke, like it’s instinct. He holds you hostage with his cock deep in your mouth, using you to string out the orgasm for as long as he can. Minutes later, you open your eyes to see Tom hunching over, still very much catching up to you in regaining his composure. His white fist grips the recorder while the other remains tangled through your locks, keeping you in place to prevent you teasing him any further.

When all seems settled, Tom lifts your chin once more - dabbing off the little drop you seem to have missed - and catches your gaze from behind the tears forming in the corner of your eyes. You already know what he's going to ask of you and when he perches the recorder in front of you, he shoots you a wink.

"Detail." He simply says.

"Hmm, you taste so good, Tom. Best I've ever had. I could taste you all day."

At that moment, something snaps in Tom. The smirk drops and his jaw tenses. It's small, minute changes, but it dramatically changes the atmosphere in the room. You just don't know whether it's for better or for worse.

You find your answer when Tom's muscular arms promptly tuck themselves under your arms with vigour, yanking you up onto your feet. The clatter of your recorder steals your attention as Tom carelessly throws it onto a coffee table to his right; after all, he needs his hands to be free if he is planning on returning the favour. You should be complaining about his lack of regard for your equipment and how he could've broken it, but the red flashing light still shows sign of life, so you decide to overlook it for now. Besides, Tom doesn't give you long before he whips your head back to claim your lips, hungrily moaning into them as he forces his body weight against yours and slams you flat against the wall. The collision whips all of the air out of your lungs but it isn't what causes the gasp to jump from your throat. Tom's lips find your neck, suckling onto the supple skin with intentions to bruise, all to distract you from his hand slipping under your skirt. With ease, he palms your cunt, offering just enough of a tease to have you burning for more.

"I need to hear you say my name again with that voice of yours." Ah, so that's what triggered him.

"Tom," you mewl, almost purring.

"As sexy as that sounds, I think it will sound even better when you’re cumming for me."

Oh fuck.

It's frightening how quickly Tom is able to weaken you with just the deft touch of his fingers to your clit and punishing kisses to your neck. You try your best to soak it in and remain somewhat stable to remember every moment of it, but goddammit you can't keep yourself together. So much so that despite Tom claiming to adore the sound of your voice, for the sake of dignity, he keeps his hand clamped hard against your mouth. Neither of you want curious ears to overhear the scandal coming from within.

Never did you think that Tom's all-round talents included making a girl cum so easily. It's kind of frustrating.

His fingers circle around your clit, dragging and pulling every nerve he can find and it winds you up perfectly. Legs shaking, breath faltering, you suspect you have mere seconds before he takes your orgasm.

Your whines and moans buzz from behind Tom's hand, muffled and diffused. Eventually he lets go, and replaces his hand with his lips, once again thrashing against yours.

"You gonna cum for me?"

"Fuck, I--"

"Say my name. Beg me to let you cum."

"Tom, please, I want to cum. Please let me cum."

Two fingers slot themselves into you, his palm taking over pleasing your clit and you have to stop yourself from buckling. It is the last sign Tom needs to know that you're on the precipice of shattering. With a devilish twinkle to his eye and a crooked smile, he sinks closer to you, his lips narrowly brushing against the shell of your ear and whispers the word. "Cum."

In a similar fashion to Tom what seems like hours ago, you come undone. Your hands grip onto his shoulders for stability as he refuses to stop abusing your cunt. His fingers dig deeper, his hand moves faster, and the tight curl of his knuckle breaking you sends you spiralling.

The gut-twisting tension soon turns to tranquil bliss as he slows his movements, finally catching a breath to revel in the post-orgasm haze with a twitch or two catching you out.

For as egotistical as you believed Tom to be, with the grounding kisses he litters over your cheek, neck, lips, he completely negates that belief. He utterly dominated you, yet affection fuels his movements; something you don't expect a vain person to have. Maybe he isn't all you made him out to be...

Calmly, you both collect yourselves until you're presentable, standing apart within the room as if what just happened never happened. The heat of the room is all that's left to suggest otherwise.

Tom doesn't stop you from reaching for your recorder, the plastic rectangular object feeling like home in your hand. You firmly press the stop button, letting the audio file save before you address Tom again.

"Thanks for...y'know, keeping it safe. I genuinely don't know what I would've done if I lost it."

Tom smiles kindly. "It's no problem."

"Oh, and congratulations."

He nods humbly. "Thank you. I didn't actually think I was going to win it, but I guess luck was on my side." Huh. He's not bragging...

Settling your recorder into your bag, you begin to make your way out of the room. You hadn't realised how late it had gotten and how hungry you had became until your stomach grumbled loudly. As you take your cue to leave, Tom leads you out with a gentle hand to the small of your back and chills arise. Shit. Don't start liking him now...

Tom clears his throat before you completely disappear. "Will I be seeing you lurking about any other events this year?"

Something about his question makes you smile. "Maybe. I've got a few film premieres that I will be attending."

"Good. Well, if any of them include me, I'll make sure to review your work again." How his wink makes you weak.

"Hmm, we'll see, Tom Holland."

~~~~~

It takes you over a week after the golfing event to eventually find the courage to finish writing your article. Most of it is written from what you remember thinking throughout the day, but your work leaves much to be desired. All that's missing from the article can be found on your recorder that you have deliberately been ignoring knowing what filth it contains.

It takes a couple of glasses of wine on a Saturday night to find the bravery to listen to it once again. It all goes smoothly at first, words flow from your mind to your fingertips and your article slowly builds as your past self feeds you your own commentary from that day. You were going to stick with your original idea, deciding to keep in all your criticisms about Tom Holland because who's going to stop you?

But your valour is short lived. Because you've reach the end. When you think you have the finished product, a masterpiece of literacy for your readers to enjoy and you have nothing else to write. Just when you think you're about to press 'publish' that you reach that part of your recording that you just can't bring yourself to turn off.

Shit, it turns you on so much to hear Tom's voice once again demand that you promise to never write another criticism again and the way you caved so easily in your lust-induced state. Even listening to it makes you resonate with it all over again, resurrecting the same excitement and anxiety to stir in your stomach. It's a reminder that persuades you that you don't necessarily agree with what you write about Tom. It makes you reconsider all that you've just written, your finger hovering over the backspace button prepared to fix the promise you're about to break.

Fuck. It's such a good story. Probably one of the best articles you've written. Alas, with the disagreement going on in your head, you can't find it in yourself to commit to it. There's also the problem that if you are to post it, the privilege of writers' anonymity will no longer be in your possession. Tom does, after all, know your name and your face, and you are damn sure he will take the time to find it and read it. What unnerves you is that you have no idea what actions he might take. How could you forget that warning?

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

So there you sit with your empty glass of wine, chewing nervously on your nails while your eyes dry at the light of the screen you've been deliberating over for the last three hours. The question still remains.

What do you do?

#ngl the ending was a little rushed #cos this was way longer than i wanted it to be #oh well #enjoy!#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fic #smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #golfer!tom holland #peter parker #tom holland fanfic #tom holland x y/n #anon asks

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luvpookie02 · 24 days ago

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He's into YOU || Sano Manjiro x Reader || SMUT || YANDERE || 18+

005: Blood and Betrayal

You shook your head while your hand blocked Mikey's face from kissing you. "NO, MIKEY, PLEASE, DON'T DO IT!"

A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he removed your hand and placed it back on top of you. Anxiety flooded through your veins as the horrifying thought of him impregnating you crept into your mind.

You gathered your strength and brought your leg up to kick Mikey off. The kick was hard enough for him to fall onto the bed. Seizing this chance, you bolted away from the bed.

As you slowly ran towards the door, your eyes caught a glimpse of a golf bag. Without thinking, you grabbed it and took some wedges before flinging open the door.

Meanwhile, Mikey stood up, searching for you on the bed. When his sight didn't catch yours, he began to curse angrily and stormed outside the room.

But what Mikey didn't know was that you were still outside the room, waiting for an opportunity to hit him on the head to knock him out.

And you did. As soon as Mikey opened the door, you swung the golf club and hit the back of his head, causing it to bleed profusely. Blood streamed down his neck, soaking his shirt until it started to turn red.

"Fuck!" he cursed, leaning against the wall before passing out in front of you.

You were scared. Even though he had hurt you, you still had precious memories of him that you couldn't shake from your mind. He was your first love, after all. You stared at his body as tears began to form in your eyes. "I... I'm sorry."

You broke down, crying, but stopped when you saw Mikey's hand move. "He's alive!"

A whirlwind of emotions surged through you: happiness that he was still alive, mixed with fear of what he would do next. You quickly stood up and ran away from him.

Feeling the cold breeze against your skin, you stopped and looked at yourself; you were only wearing your undies. Your eyes scanned your surroundings, and you noticed a familiar backdrop with different rooms. "Wait, I'm in a hotel?"

You continued to walk around, finding a stairwell. You couldn't help but notice that the hotel floor was an empty suite floor. "Mikey really is very successful now, huh?"

You flinched after hearing a bunch of voices coming from a nearby man. You quickly hid behind a hotel cart, hoping they wouldn't see you, especially since you were only in your undies.

"That fucker Sanzu really spilled on my hand!"

You gasped upon hearing the familiar name. "Sa... Sanzu?"

A husky laugh erupted from a white-haired man. "Well, he's high after all."

"He's always high," Kakucho giggled.

The two men exchanged laughter before Kokonoi revealed a card that seemed to be a room key.

Entering a room, Kokonoi gaped at Kakucho. "What are you doing?"

Kakucho shook his head before closing the door. "Nothing; I just feel like we're being watched."

Confusion crossed Kokonoi's face, and he wanted to ask a question, but Kakucho cut him off, saying, "It's nothing; maybe I'm just imagining things."

You took a deep breath when the two men entered the room. You stood up and started to look for stairs, knowing that there was a high risk of being caught by Mikey's men if you used the elevator. The stairs were your only safe option.

Stepping down three floors away from Mikey's room, you knocked on a random door. A male around your age opened it, surprised by your appearance.

The guy blushed hard as he looked at your angelic face. "Wh... who are you?"

Pushing your way inside, you fell on the floor, trembling with fear. "Please... please help me!" you cried.

Without hesitation, the man quickly ran to his drawer and handed you a loose hoodie and pajama set. "Wear this; I'll call the front desk."

You smiled at him and headed towards the restroom while he dialed a number on the telephone.

After five minutes, you came out and faced the man to thank him. He couldn't stop blushing at the sight of you. "Thank you."

You sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor while tears streamed down your face. "I'm sorry, but can I ask what happened? Who did this to you?"

You struggled to form words due to the trauma. You still felt terrible about what you did to Mikey, even though you were sure he was alive. Your conscience nagged at you to check on him.

"It... it was my e-... ex. He kidnapped me and tried to rape me." The man gasped, unable to believe what he was hearing. He clenched his fists and stood up.

"How can someone do that? That's horrible!" He turned his gaze to you and continued, "Don't worry; you're safe now. I already called the front desk, and they said they would send someone here."

You formed a smile, grateful for his help, and continued to tell him what happened after you got kidnapped while waiting for the hotel staff.

"Do you want to call someone? A family member, perhaps?" he suggested. You nodded in response. The man quickly stood up and handed you the phone.

You decided to call your friend. After three rings, she picked up, but you could clearly hear loud moaning coming from the line. "Shhh! Shut up; you're too loud! I'm talking to someone!"

You rolled your eyes before shouting her name. "YORU!!!"

"Y/N, is this you? Where are you? Why are you using a different number?"

"I need help!!! My ex kidnapped me!"

"What?"

"I said my ex kidnapped me! Can you go to my house and ask anyone to locate me? My brothers can't help s—"

"Huh? Did you just say that your ex kidnapped you?"

"Yes! So please help—"

"Look, Y/N, it's just your ex. Just do whatever he wants, and he'll release you. Stop acting like you haven't slept with him..."

"But—"

"Stop being a bitch and just sleep with the man! Trust me, that's what I do, and it works. Man, these days are really horny, y'know."

"YORU, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! HE'S A PSYCHO! HE WILL KILL ME, EVEN YOU!"

"That's just a threat to scare you; he won't really do that! Just f**k him! Anyway, I'm gonna hang up now; I'm busy."

"No, Yoru—"

You couldn't finish your sentence when Yoru suddenly hung up, leaving you dumbfounded. Tears began to form in your eyes as you thought about the fact that your so-called friend avoided helping you.

You knew that Mikey's organization was as big as your family's organization, so calling the front desk, security, or police wouldn't help. Your only chance of escape was through your own family.

But your hope crashed after hearing Yoru's refusal to help. "If only my brothers weren't out of the country," you thought.

Your two older brothers were the most wanted criminals across France. Even though they were Japanese, they managed to grow the organization significantly. Just a single call, and there would be a hundred men or more in front of you.

But that wasn't going to happen since there was no way to connect with them.

The man stared at you, gently caressing your back to help calm you down from your intense crying. "Shhh, it's gonna be okay. Help is on the way."

Both of you flinched when the doorbell rang.

"That must be them. Stay here; I'll open the door," the man volunteered.

You forced a fake smile, but it quickly faded away after hearing a gunshot from the door. You peeked gradually and saw the man who helped you covered in his own blood.

Your gaze shifted to the doorway, and you gasped upon seeing Mikey holding a gun, flanked by Ran, Rindou, and Sanzu. They blocked the entrance.

"Yahoo, Y/N! It's been a while," Sanzu said, waving his hand.

You averted your gaze and quickly ran to the edge of the room. You tried to hide your body, but it was useless since Mikey had already seen you.

He slowly walked towards you, still holding the gun in his hand.

His dark irises bore into yours as he gripped your throat, blocking your airway and making it hard to breathe. "You have the nerve to run away from me, Y/N."

"You better make sure you have strong stamina because I'm gonna f**king rail you until you're unable to walk." His emotionless eyes didn't leave yours until he gestured for Rindou to come forward and handed him a syringe.

"Remember this, Y/N. There's no escape," he said before injecting the syringe into your thigh.

Suddenly, you felt dizzy, and you closed your eyes, succumbing to the darkness creeping in.

(A/N) lmk if you want to get tagged!

tagged: @itsruki @reiners-milkbiddies @emilymikado @strawberrycheescake3 @theblueslytherin @dolledupformanjiro

#wattpad #manjiro sano #manjiro x you #sano manjiro x reader #sano mikey manjiro #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers sano manjiro

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bonesandchalamet · 1 year ago

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a golf outing - h.styles

masterlist

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

warnings: my former apology for not knowing too much about golf but enough to write this!

he’s four strokes up on the back nine, and he’s grumbling. it’s no fun to play with him, he takes it too seriously and it doesn’t help that a crowd has grown around the course.

“the winds fine, love, just putt already.” it’s your turn to grumble, taking a seat in the golf cart. he’s spent the past three minutes adjusting his grip on the club and waiting for the so called wind to die down.

he mumbles some words you can’t hear. the sounds of the giggles from fans gathering around were growing louder. you know he’ll blame them, the wind, or you for his lack of skill this afternoon.

you’d dressed a little too skimpy for the cold weather. in your white golf skirt and tightly knit wool woven pink sweater, it’s all his mind can think about. fuck the ball he’s been trying to tap into the hole, he’s too preoccupied.

finally getting it in, the crowd around you erupts in a cheer. he just gives his fans a little wave before picking up the ball and returning to the golf cart where you’re sat, “you’re the worst to play with.” you scoff moving to the passenger seat, allowing him to drive.

you’d been golfing since you were a little girl, you’d known how to play a good round on some of the worst and best courses. harry was still an amateur, despite his many rounds he gets in during tour, you wouldn’t ever invite him to Augusta with your father.

“one day I’ll get that invite.” he looks over at you before stopping at the next hole, you just laugh. your dads competitiveness would scare the singer off, and Harry’s hyper fixation with checking the wind would send the whole trip down the drain.

“focus on this next hole, would you? you’ll need a different club. knowing you, you’ll end up in the sand.” you toss him the club he’ll need before he scopes out the next hole. it’s different than the last, it’ll take an average of five strokes, but at Harry’s rate it’ll take him at an average ten.

“you go first, my lady.” he moves out of your way. you bend over placing your ball on the green before adjusting for the swing.

he’s watching you, green eyes glued to your stance, the way your hands grip the club, eyes close and shut before you lift the golf club up and swing at the ball. a perfect shot.

his mouth opens slightly, fans run towards the flag where you indeed just hit a hole in one. girls scream and cheer you on, while harry stands star struck.

you turn around to face with a big grin. he sighs, setting his ball on the green where you stand, “I’m never getting that invite to Augusta.” he turns to you, lips quickly pecking your cheek in congratulations.

“you’re cute to think you’d ever be invited in the first place.”

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lakesbian · 7 months ago

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My bugs were now successfully settling on him, oddly giving me a better sense of his movements than my eyes had, and I was directing them not to sting or bite, so he wouldn’t have an easy time finding them. They began to cluster on him, and somehow I felt like that was slowing him down even more. The onslaught had been softened, and he wasn’t half as effective at keeping me off balance, now. He couldn’t effectively see my posture to know the optimal places to strike, so I was able to get my feet firmly on the ground. I lashed out twice with my fists, but my hits lacked impact. Something to do with his power, I suspected, as well as his ability to move fast enough to roll with any hits he felt connecting. So I grabbed a weapon he couldn’t react to, my pepper spray, and directed a stream of it into his face. Then I instructed the bugs I’d gathered on him to bite and sting.

this is one of those moments in worm where i don't know if it was intended to be humorous, but the phrasing always makes me laugh. something about the italics on "then" and the "so" cutting off this serious, lengthy analysis with this visual of her just casually standing there spraying a massive amount of pepperspray right at the face of this blinded guy covered in bugs fucking kills me. it feels like slapstick comedy. especially because the next thing that happens is This:

The effect was immediate, and dramatic. You’ve never really seen someone flip out until you’ve seen a speedster flip out. He fell to the ground, stood, tumbled over a chair, then was up the next second, lunging for a table, blindly patting it down in the hopes of finding something to wash his eyes out with. I felt him slow down dramatically, increasing his own strength enough to allow himself to check the cups and pitchers. I had bugs on the table he was searching, and the only liquid there was wine. Anticipating he would continue looking for some relief, I moved closer to the table nearest me. Sure enough, he darted over to the same table and began searching. I took one long step to my left, reached behind my back, and gripped the foam handle of my extendable baton with both hands. Like a golf club, I swung it up and between his legs.

LIKE A GOLF CLUB.

#wormtime 2 #wormtime 2 arc 6 #TRULY ONE OF MY FAVORITE PARTS IN WORM IT ALWAYS FUCKING GETS ME #LIKE A GOLF CLUB. GET PEPPERSPRAYED IDIOT. AND THEN GOLF CLUB BATON SWING TO THE NUTS #THWACKED THIS MANS BALLS RIGHT OFF THE TEE AND INTO THE SUN

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frenchkisstheabyss · 1 year ago

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7 Psychopaths: Lee Know

x Summary: You are X, a seasoned assassin, and your boss has just assigned you an unusual task. You have two weeks to gather six men for a top-secret mission that requires their unique brand of psychopathy. The trick is, you've got romantic history with all of them.

A detail that might make this a walk in the park or the fight of your life. Time to find out...

x Pairing: assassin!lee know x assassin!chubby!fem!reader

x Genre: angst/crime au/smut

x Word Count: 1.8k-ish

x Warnings: blood, violence, fighting, knives, guns, disposable mob goon deaths, unprotected sex, fingering, mirror sex, hair pulling, lino is a lil obsessed with you, the strongest of language

x A/N: This is #2 in a series of 6 stories featuring two members from TXT, two from ATEEZ, and two from Stray Kids. They all follow the same theme and can be read chronologically or you can jump around. I support the chaos.

Previous Psychopath: Yeonjun | Next Psychopath: Wooyoung

Downstairs in the lobby of the Hotel Artemis the Innkeeper sits behind the check-in desk face down in a pool of his own blood. If someone were to lift his head up, the mangled flesh swimming around might resemble crushed raspberries. Their daily serving of fruit courtesy of you. But no one will lift his head up. They’ll all mind their business because that’s what you do here. You step around his body and grab your fucking key before you end up just like him or worse. He’ll wake up eventually. Probably.

Stepping into the surprisingly well-kept elevator, you press the button for the top floor, adjusting the garter belt beneath your dress as the doors close on the empty lobby. This is no time to admire architecture but you can’t help yourself. The Romanesque style interior is breathtaking, much nicer than the deathtraps you’ve found yourself in trying to track down the Black Cat. Some might call it lucky that Minho’s petty streak led him to the penthouse suite of the Artemis, right down the street from where your hotel is.

Watching the numbers light up one after the other as the elevator ascends, you’re shocked when it comes to a stop at the 6th floor, 14 floors short of your destination. You step back, wedging yourself in a corner, and fish your headphones out of your purse. Your music’s on before the bell dings, doors sliding open to let half a dozen goons file in. Italian mob. Dressed in all black. Cocky. Faces still healing from their last brawl. Half of them smile at you, nodding, politely admiring the way your dress hugs your curves, gawking at your flawlessly applied makeup.

You smile back and they turn away, eliminating you as a threat. Stealthy glances around the elevator reveal the guns tucked into their waistbands. The Big One, twice your size in every way, has a set of brass knuckles on his callused hands. Gold plated. Fancy. “Excuse me, gentlemen” you sing, maneuvering through them with the grace of a proper lady. They part the sea for you, unknowingly clearing a path to the control panel. “Getting off already, beautiful?” “Mmm'' you sigh, a manicured nail hovering near the bright red EMERGENCY STOP button, “Not yet.” Your fist slams down on the button, bringing 6,000 pounds of metal to a screeching halt.

Minho studies the 16th-century Turkish vase on display in the lavish, and utterly destroyed, penthouse of the Golden Child, a pretty boy whose mob boss daddy provides him with enough money to blow on all the cocaine, strippers, and obnoxiously expensive art he can get his hands on. “Don’t you touch it!” the Golden Child screams, spitting loose teeth and blood onto his bear skin rug. Minho pops open the glass display case that houses the vase and an assortment of other highly fragile artifacts. “Don’t touch what?” he asks, winding up the scarlet splattered golf club he used to lay ruin to the apartment and its inhabitant, “This?”

“I said no!” Minho chews at the inside of his lip, pretending to be unsure of his next move when he knows exactly what he’s about to do. The head of the club shatters the priceless vase into a thousand pieces, shards of ceramics and glass flying through the air as he dishes out swing after spiteful swing to those poor, innocent historical treasures. The Golden Child grabs onto the arm of his white leather couch, attempting to push himself up but broken ribs send him tumbling back down. “You’re out of your fucking mind!” he curses, “All because I spilled a drink on you? I said, ‘My bad!”

Winded, Minho tosses the golf club across the room, grinning to himself as he notices a leaking cut on his hand. “My bad?” he laughs, “My bad?” It disgusts him, the smugness of people who think they can run around doing anything they want to anyone they want. Poor manners, that is. His parents should’ve taught him better but that’s what Minho’s here for. Charging across the room, he grabs the Golden child by the collar of his soft cotton robe and hammers his head onto the floor. “My bad is not ‘Sorry!’”

Minho bashes his fist into the man’s jaw, the brute force of the blow knocking another molar loose, “Say sorry!” “Eat shit.” “What?” Minho snaps, positive his ears are deceiving him. The Golden Child smiles up at him, arrogant and entitled even in his battered state, “Eat shit. My dad keeps tabs on me 24/7. He’s probably sending some guys up here right now and when they get here? You're dead.” Grabbing the belt barely hanging onto the man’s robe, Minho twists it around his neck, depriving him of air.

“I guess I’ll see you on the other side then, huh?” Minho doesn’t blink, not even once, as the color drains from the Golden Child’s eyes, bone splintering, his windpipe crumbling just as easily as his precious vases. Saying sorry really couldn’t have been that hard.

“There’s nowhere to run, little one” taunts the Big One, trying and failing not to trip over the corpses of his friends. Your chest hurts like hell. The others were easy, so shit with their aim that only one bullet in 20 clips had even managed to skim your thigh. But this one? He won’t go down. Squared up against him, the knife from your torn garter clenched in your fist, you know you can’t let him hit you again. Another blow to the chest and you’re done for. “Who’s running, big boy? Let’s get it.” Tapping the EMERGENCY STOP button again, the elevator whirls back into action.

The Big One charges at you, swinging wildly. You duck, rolling through the bodies and slicing open the back of his left leg. The bell dings on every floor like the start of a boxing match. The Big One punches one of the walls, denting the metal. So much for pristine architecture. As he reels from the hit, you jump on his back, jabbing the knife into his chest from behind. The bell dings for a final time on the 20th floor. Biting down on your arm, he flips you over his shoulder, slamming you down onto the floor, knocking the air out of you.

The doors creak open as he raises his foot to stomp a steel toe boot down on your chest. Bang! A bullet barrels through his skull. The titan stumbles, his brain quite literally scrambled. Bang! Bang! Two more shots and he’s slumped on the ground with his friends where he belongs. Reunited at last. “Who’s your new boyfriend?” Minho teases from the hallway, tossing the gun to the ground. “You’re welcome!” you groan, flipping him off. He hops onto the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby. “Thank you,” he says, sweetly, grateful for your help and your presence.

Taking you into his arms, he props you up in the corner, checking you for injuries. “What is this?” You flinch when he brushes a tender spot on your head, “You tell me. You’re the one with the mob after you.” “No, I mean, what are you doing here?” “Oh, uh, boss sent me to get you” you stutter, the entire reason for your arrival in Rome having shifted to the back of your mind until now.

“We need you.”

“Where?”

“Berlin.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

“Okay, if…”

You whine when he caresses your thigh, checking the severity of the bullet wound. “If what?” “If you let me take care of you” he winks. “Take care of me? Why’d you say it like that?” Minho rips a long strip of material from the shirt of a nameless corpse and secures it around your thigh to stop the bleeding. He kisses your thigh, suckling softly at the tender flesh to distract you from the pain. Ding! First floor. The doors open to the lobby and he takes you by the hand, “Let me show you.”

Taking care of you. When you say that in this line of business, it’s never a good thing but Minho had no intentions of cutting your life short. The only thing on his mind was carrying you back to your hotel, running you a nice bath, and dressing your wounds. “All better?” he asks, his breath tickling your neck as he plays with your clit. This was a part of the plan too, getting you in his lap, his naked body reunited with yours after months apart. From this position on the edge of the bed, you can see your reflection clearly. Your plush breast bounces in one of his hands while the fingers of the other spread your lips wide enough to fully expose your clit.

With your legs dangling across his, follow your cream as it trickles down the base of his cock. There’s nothing fast or rough about the way he lifts his hips to fill you. The slight curve of his cock makes you stutter each time he disappears into your pulsing warmth. “All---ah---b-b-better.” “B-b-better?” he mocks, his fingers working faster against your clit. You reach back to cup his face, scratching him the slightest bit as punishment for being a smartass. The pain only makes him want you more. His cock is as hard and smooth as polished marble, leaking precum into your needy pussy.

Minho watches you in the mirror, admiring your reflection, entranced by how the beauty of your face and the plumpness of your figure could make him put a bullet through the skull of a man who even dared to look at you wrong. “Take over for me” he whispers, guiding your hand between your legs, his fingers moving on top of yours to splash in the audible wetness of your pussy. You pick up a rhythm together, one that has your breath growing ragged and your stomach in a frenzy. With his hand now free, he brushes your hair out of your face, tilting your head to the side to kiss you.

His tongue ventures as far down your throat as it can go, devouring your moans. Bouncing you in his lap at a quicker pace, still careful not to hurt you, he caresses your body, greedy to claim you as his like you were meant to be from the start. The argument that broke you up. That stupid fucking argument. He doesn’t even remember what it was about anymore and he doesn’t care. Because you’re in his lap, your back arching against his chest, sloppily playing with your own aching bud, biting on his lip while you whimper his name. Your pulse races, your hand reaching back to grip his hair for stability.

“Mmhmm, pull my fucking hair and cum for me” he urges, “Cum for me angel.” Your tongue lashes at his, his words making you burst. “Minho! Aah, baby!” you cry, pulling his hair harder as your orgasm deepens. Minho rests his head on your shoulder. Watching you cum is like performance art. “I don’t care about anyone else. Just promise you’ll never leave me again.” Your glossy eyes meet his in the mirror, “I promise.” “You mean it?” “I mean it.”

And you do mean it. You have to. Because, with the hell that awaits you in Germany, sweet reunions like this might end up being your last.

#lee know x you #lee know x reader #lee know x y/n #lee know angst #lee know smut #stray kids au #stray kids x female reader #stray kids x chubby reader #stray kids angst #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #chubby reader #plus size reader

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te5te5te5p0t · 4 months ago

Text

Phillip Graves x Reader

Contains- gender neutral reader, object insertion (baseball bat), exebitionism, dubcon, implied no aftercare, college/high school au, anal, public (storage shed)

It had really started as light hearted teasing. You were tagging along with a friend, more of an acquaintance than a friend, really, to the school’s baseball practices.

‘I’ll shove this up your ass,’ must’ve been the thousandth thing you've heard from the jock today.

“Won’t you j’st- just stay fuckin’ still f’r me.” he growls, a waver in his voice- you can tell he’d be yelling at you if he didn’t need to be quiet, to not attract any attention. Graves had already managed to rip the skimpy shorts off of you, working your underwear to your thighs.

Damn it, it was hot, the way he was shoving your thighs against your stomach, head pressed uncomfortably against the wall of the storage shed. You whimper, tears in your eyes as he adjusts again, your body pressed up against his, his knees against your back, strong thighs supporting the rest of you in an upward position.

In the struggle to get you into this position, Phil had knocked over plastic soccer goals, a sack of lacrosse sticks and golf clubs, as well as shoved a plastic bin container of whiffle balls out of the way. They had spilt all over the floor, making a racket in the storage shed.

You whimper against one of his hands, head shoved to the side, pressing against the wall. He’s holding you down, now pressing his forearm against the back of your thighs to keep you exposed.

“Good fucking bitch.” he huffs, gathering spit in his mouth and lowering his head, sticking his tongue out and letting the saliva drip in between your legs. You squirm, it feels warm and sticky and a little uncomfortable. His hand lets go of your face, reaching for the bat next to him. It was long and blue, with some silver detailing near the handle. There was a black grip on the handle, a ribbed piece of leather over the handle of the baseball bat. “This,” he starts, putting it under his arm and spitting on your hole again, “is going in you, n’ you’re gonna fuckin’ like it.”

“Fuck y-”

“Shut it or I’ll make you deepthroat this.” he growls, taking the bat back into his hands, adjusting his grip to be just over the handle, positioning it against your ass. You squirm against him, kicking weakly, it seems as such, managing to kind of push his shoulder, not really stopping him from doing anything. Graves makes a frustrated grunt, shoving the top of your thighs into your stomach with a forearm, one hand on the bat.

He angles it slightly, pushing one side of the stopper into you- Fuck, it hurts.

Your sex throbs, legs shaking against the pushing. It feels so fucking big, it’s only just the stopper on the handle. You moan, gasping against his hand, trembling.

He laughs, smiling sadistically. He’s clearly enjoying this, breathing heavily, puffs of warm air against your exposed body.

The dark storage shed heated up quickly, and you’re getting increasingly warm under your remaining clothing. Your shirt clings uncomfortably to your body, making you whine and push against him. In a cruel response, he pushes the bat further into you.

“Just… fucking take it.” he growls, emphasizing each word with a small shove into you with the bat. You whimper, your hands gripping against his jeans, clawing at him. He hushes you, stilling the movement of the baseball bat and finally letting you adjust to the feeling. “Shh, shh… You're gonna be good for me? Be quiet.”

“Hmnn…” you whine quietly, relaxing just a little against the wall of the shed and his body.

“Shh.” he hushes you again, beginning to slowly push the bat into you, making you groan softly. Your eyes roll up, the pleasure is right there against the thin line of pain. You start to tremble again as you realize he isn’t going to let you adjust like he did last time, giving small, pathetic whimpers every second he pushes it into you. The knob on the handle of the bat digs against your insides, your soft, plush walls crying out and protesting against said bat by squeezing and contracting, only forcing you to make more noise.

“Hurts…!” you yelp, making his hand shift from pushing your knees against your chest to covering your mouth, making sure that no one possibly outside of the storage closet would hear.

“Be good for me…” he growls, squeezing the bat in his hand. He presses it into you further, making you see stars in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your whines and whimpers become louder against his hand, despite being muffled. Louder, more insistent whines made their way out of you, a swirling sensation of white hot pleasure in your core, in your stomach elicited from you. “Good fuckin’ bitch… You don’t know anything, do you? Nothing in that dumb little head of yours…”

You squeeze around the handle of the bat, sobbing when he starts moving it in and out of you at a slower than usual pace. It hurts, it hurts so good. The ribbing on the handle is dragging against your tight walls, each sensation just piling onto the mountain of pleasure, bound to erupt anytime soon.

You whimper, legs shaking again as the bat is pushed in and out. Graves quickens the pace much too early, making you want to scream so bad. You need to scream, to let it out, you need to do something to get this feeling done and over with. He actually chuckles at that, the same sadistic smile on his handsome face. Your uncomfortability was his power, and he felt like he needed more. He needed to tease this out of you.

Maybe he’d just leave you once you’re on the edge of cumming. Maybe he’d want to keep fucking you with the bat afterward to see how long you can last before you pass out. Maybe he’d want his own turn at you. You could feel his erection pressing against your back right then, not grinding into you quite yet. This was about your pleasure, and it had yet to be over with.

His neutral pace turns quicker when he senses your closeness. You groan, beginning to thrash against him, whimpering and shaking. He pushes you against the shed’s wall again, fucking you harder and deeper with the bat, forcing the orgasm out of you. You sob against his hand, curling into yourself, squeezing your legs shut.

“See, there you go,” Graves mutters, the handle of the bat still rubbing against every single sensitive nerve inside of your ass, “beg n’ I’ll stop.” You let out a pathetic whine, looking up at him with pleading eyes. His hand over your mouth moves from your mouth to your neck, allowing him to feel each vibration your voice makes in your throat.

“Please,” you start, voice breaking as the ribbing on the bat teases against your entrance, “f’ckin’ hurts, please- please stop-” Your own desperate gasps cut you off, head lolling to the side as he pulls the bat out slowly, making you shiver and moan.

“Good little slut, you are.”

#graves #phillip graves #phillip graves x male reader #phillip graves x gender neutral reader #phillip graves cod #phillip graves call of duty #phillip graves x reader

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raindrop-on-a-spiderweb · 6 months ago

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Your characterization is so good, it honestly feels like I’ve known them for more than 18 pages. If you still want to, I would love to read more about them! No pressure, of course.

Thank you, I'm flattered you think so! I used more exposition and tell, rather than show--I was trying to ape a certain period of straightforward, gritty 70s-80s pulp novels. Here is another subsequent scene under the cut for you.

***

Randy was perversely happy when he saw the blonde girl's–Sarah Lee? Jenny Jane? No, it was Heidi Lou–belly resting against the slack fabric of her gray cardigan. She had stopped covering herself in thick wool blouses and dresses, and no longer cared that her bastard pregnancy was out in the open. Now as he took her wrist and led her up the steps to his apartment, she was wearing a modest white button-up shirt and knit cardigan, over a pair of jeans that had at one time ridden high on her hips, but now dipped low below her swollen belly.

She'd all done away with her swishy seductive lace dresses, and dressed like a proper woman now. But Randy still might make her wear those dresses in the bedroom. Yeah, even when her belly got too big from the kids and she started wearing those dowdy sloppy dresses old housewives like his mother wore. But he'd still make her wear lace when he had her bent over his bed and fucking her with her swollen stomach hanging beneath them and that little lace dress hiked up above her waist. That lace dress would always remind him of that fated day when he pinned her to the floor and fucked all his rage into her, and fucked every last remnant of superciliousness out of her. It would always remind him of her blue eyes staring blearily up at him, with her legs spread and his hatred leaking out of her.

It had taken a while to get to this point, but Randall was a patient man. A few times each week–"dates" he liked to call them to her face as she dissolved into sobs. Often it was under the bushes near his newest job site, with his hands pinning her arms to the ground as he hammered her from behind and muffled her screams with his arm.

Sometimes it was at night when he threatened his way into her bedroom, climbed into her window in the sea of faceless moonlit suburban houses, and forced her to run her soft fingers across his hard body as they laid beside each other and his prick jutted into her abdomen. He loved the way he could force her to take his length of cock in her trembling hands and guide it to her terrified clenching pussy.

Once or twice, he'd even snuck her into his rented room while his roommates were raucously partying next door. He'd fucked her against the wall then, warning her that each sound she made would lure them over to take their turn with her. He adored the way she tightened up inside with fear. She really was the perfect woman. He thought of his mother, that fucking fishwife with her dull, shiny hair tied up with a scarf and folds gathering on her waist, always nagging his father to throw his beer bottles away. Heidi was a real wife and mother, someone you could show off to your golf club, someone who kept a tiny waist and pert tits even after she'd birthed five kids.

After a month or two, the hatred he'd pumped into her had made a little tyke swell in that flat belly. Randy had been doing her from behind in his apartment bed when he noticed it. One of his arms had been scrabbling for her breasts and the other looking for purchase on her hips as the girl instinctively tried to buck him off from behind. His hand had gripped onto her stomach for a second to steady himself, and the small pooch below her navel fit perfectly into his palm. That was when he realized.

Randy stood still then, trapping her squirming body between his strong, tense legs with one hand sealed over her womb like a knight's iron greave. He was frozen as a statue, then started to fuck into her harder and harder. The thought that there was a baby inside her excited him immensely–a tiny thing that was half of her and him, the living proof of his final domination over her. A little Randall Puchalski junior that he could teach to fix cars and teach to ride a bike– something that his own father had never bothered with–and that he could send off to school with the brand new fire engine red lunchbox that he had always wanted. A kid he could teach to be a man, who could scrape the serial numbers off a gun and sweet-talk a woman and lie with a smile.

Randall fucked himself deeper and deeper into her twitching canal, his heart thudding spasmodically between her shoulderbones. He came longer and harder than he ever had before, so hard he gasped as every bit of energy sapped out of him into her womb–even if it was fruitless to release his seed in her now. When Heidi Lou rolled over sobbing on his moldy mattress, face flushed and hair messy, he batted away her flailing, pushing arms and pressed the side of his greasy black head into her tummy. He could detect only the slightest curve of her midriff as she laid flat on her back, but it was enough.

You start moving around soon and kicking, son. You're gonna be a tough little guy. You'll give your Mom no end of trouble when you're inside her, just like your Dad.

"Heidi," he told her dispassionately, "you've got a bun in the oven."

The girl wept and wailed and went into hysterics about that, but a few punches to the face–not the belly–quieted her down immediately.

Heidi Lou sat with one arm around her folded leg, the other on her bruising face, staring blankly at the floor as Randall pulled his weathered jeans above his limp cock. "Go tell your parents about it. Right now. Get out of this apartment and march right into your daddy's law office–or wherever that rich cocksucker works–and tell him some dirty trainhopping tramp knocked you up."

"I don't–I can't–"

He slapped her open-palmed, feeling merciful enough not to punch her this time. Her face was constantly puffy with bruises, and he wondered how she kept explaining it away to her parents. Soon, she wouldn't even have to.

"Can't what?" Randy taunted. "Are you gonna flit around like the airheaded cunt you are and pretend everything is hunky dory until you're ready to pop? Denial is a river in Egypt. 'Oh, muddah and faddah, it was just a one-night stand'–but you don't have those. You're a GOOD girl. 'It was just my old boyfriend'–except you don't have a boyfriend either, because you're a GOOD girl. You only have me."

That sent her into another full-blown sobbing fit, and Heidi Lou wailed as she grasped and tore the sides of her ragged red hair. He helped her along by gripping the back of her scalp and yanking her face to meet his.

The black coins of his irises met her disintegrating, disbelieving blue eyes.

"I don't think your mom and pop are too big on bastards, especially when it comes out of their perfect golden child. So I think it would be better if you told them now you've found a man to shack up with. I don't give a shit how you explain it to them. Tell them I helped you look for your dog and we got busy in the bushes. Tell them you met me at the mechanic's and we did it in the back seat. Tell them I raped you on the floor of your house. I don't care. You're going to walk down the aisle anyway."

"I'll get rid of it," Heidi Lou hissed in a sudden display of defiance.

Her words made Randy freeze still. Heidi Lou's eyes had hardened into chips of ice, and she drew her legs back and tucked them under her to lean forward on her wrists and look him in the eye. "I'll get an abortion. It's gonna be legal soon anyway, with that woman's case making its way through the Supreme Court. I'm not going to have your disgusting child. You can shove your filthy cock as many times into me as you want, but I'll never birth whatever degenerated thing you force into me. I'll do whatever it takes to rip it out of me–it will be like squashing a tadpole underneath my heel, do you hear me?" He had never heard such hardness and cruelty in her voice before, and it shocked him into an uncomfortable silence.

Back in Chicago when his parents still dragged him to St. Stanislaus Church, he remembered the priest telling him something very clearly. Father Janek with the mole on his cheek, and his whispery voice that made the hair on his arms stand up, making him shift and fidget in the pews until his mother whispered he would be sorry when they got home. It was just after the little M's died, when he had approached the priest to ask if his little siblings were in heaven.

“Randall, I am sorry,” said the stern little man. “When babies die before they have a chance to receive God's eternal light, they cannot come to heaven, or know the light of God's love. You see, they have not been freed from original sin--they haven't been baptized. So they… they live in limbo. It's not a good place, or a bad place. They're not hurt–God would never do that to a baby–they just… exist.”

That stunned Randall and haunted him for weeks afterward, listening to his mother sobbing over his little brother and sister that had died before they were born. Their rooms had been right beside each other, and Randall had stayed awake for hours listening to his mother crying and praying. Why did little Mark and Mary go to limbo? He had wondered as his brother snored beside him. They're just little babies. Why can't they go to heaven?

Randy thought about a piece of him, a part of his body, his blood. He thought of his frown and lips and cheeks, floating forever in purgatory and crying alone into a vast dark space. Something that belonged to him; something that was she was predestined to carry inside her womb as a woman should. But this woman was spitting bile, denying her natural place in life and threatening to send his child–that part of him– to a thankless, godless place forever.

Randy didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.

He reached down beside his mattress, into the pocket of his green army jacket, and took out a rusted revolver. He leveled it against Heidi's sobbing crinkled forehead.

In a quiet voice, he said, "If you get the scrape, I'll fucking kill you for it. I'll put a bullet into your empty blond head and you'll go to hell for it. You'd go to hell for killing your baby."

"If I go to hell," Heidi said quietly, "Then I'll meet you there. And you'll never meet your child there either."

His words sent him into an internal spasm. He remembered the streets of Chicago, the Rican kid gurgling on his blood, the dago's face puffed and purple until it looked like a Halloween mask as he dealt the finishing blow to his neck with his boot, the lady at the shop who screamed as he pulled the trigger in the midst of a robbery, and the old black man crumpling facedown on the street when he took too long to get his wallet out, his blood spreading in a pool over the concrete. He thought of his baby torn so soon from Heidi's womb, those genes that were his, that belonged to him. Never being able to hold it in his arms.

This was his last chance, and he had no other choice.

In a roundabout way, Randall's cold, self-centered mind realized that this was his only chance at salvation and a normal life. Cheating and crime were second nature to him, and he would never take an honest way if there weren't a quicker and more illegal one. Ironically, that was the reason it made so much sense to him to do what he realized he would have to do. Becoming a hard-working man, contributing to his community and living an honest Christian life would ensure his survival. Fire and brimstone lit up in his mind again, like he was back in St. Stanislaus Church with Father Janek.

Neither did she.

He lovingly rubbed the barrel of the gun against her blond head. "Are you sure, honey? You sure you want to die? I've killed a lot of people. You would be just another tally on the board. Imagine… a little blond woman found in a flophouse with a hole in her head leaking blood over the floor and a cunt full of cum. What would such a good girl be doing there? Obviously she'd come to sample some working class dick and paid the price for it. The Sherriff would seal your file, especially if he knew your daddy. Everyone would quietly brush your life under the rug. Aunt Heidi? She died before you were born. My daughter? She died unexpectedly. You would be a black mark on your whole family."

Randy pressed the barrel harder into her crying face. "Would you rather die than have my kid?"

In a fraction of a second, he jerked the gun to the side and fired once. A bullet buried itself in the thin plywood an inch beside her head.

Heidi stopped crying abruptly, her high-pitched sobs ceasing with an eerie finality. She looked into his eyes with a dead understanding–the same look she had given him on the floor of her kitchen that one fateful day. She said nothing, but he knew her decision had been made.

He cupped her face between his calloused hands and kissed her gently on her pursing, twisting lips. His tongue slipped between her wet lips to lave softly at the inside of her spasming mouth. He tasted the salt of her tears, and it made blood pump through his dick.

"Go and let your parents know, and your preppy brother, and your pig uncle. You're gonna marry me and have my baby. And see if you can convince them soon enough so that you won't have a bowling ball for a belly as you walk down the aisle."

#vitelline #bonus chapter

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incorrectbatfam · 2 years ago

Note

What does each member of the Batfam give/make for Alfred's birthday?

Dick: a new set of golf clubs

Jason: one-ups Dick with a trip to the golf course

Tim: one-ups Jason with tournament tickets

Damian: one-ups Tim with a tour through Britain

Duke: one-ups Damian by detouring through nostalgic places

Cullen: one-ups Duke by being Alfred's personal assistant there

Stephanie: one-ups Cullen by being Alfred's personal chef

Cassandra: one-ups Steph by tailoring a closet of new suits

Barbara: one-ups Cass by finding a lost Pennyworth heirloom

Harper: one-ups Babs by restoring it to perfect condition

Carrie: one-ups Harper by gathering all of Alfred's spy buddies

Kate: one-ups Carrie by hosting the party at a castle

Selina: one-ups Kate by celebrating for a whole week

Bruce: one-ups them all with an old photo of him and Alfred

#alfred pennyworth #batfamily #batfam #batbros #batboys #batkids #batsiblings #batman family #dc comics #headcanon

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justinspoliticalcorner · 5 months ago

Text

The Proud Boys are back: How the far-right domestic terrorist group is rebuilding to rally behind Trump

Aram Roston at Reuters:

A dark SUV cruised past former President Donald Trump’s supporters near his Bedminster golf club in New Jersey on a windy April afternoon. Billowing from the vehicle were three flags: one for the Trump campaign, two others with the initials “PB” – the insignia of the far-right Proud Boys movement. Through the open windows, three Proud Boys flashed the “OK” sign with their hands, a gesture often associated with white supremacy and the far right. Trump’s fans cheered. Four men dressed in the signature black-and-yellow shirts of the Proud Boys spilled out of the SUV and began glad-handing the crowd like homecoming heroes. The Proud Boys are back. Four years after the failed effort to overturn Trump’s 2020 electoral defeat, the violent all-male extremist group that led the storming of Congress on Jan. 6, 2021, is rebuilding and regaining strength as Trump campaigns to return to the White House, according to interviews with eight Proud Boys, two U.S. law enforcement officials and four experts who track the group’s online activity.

Since the Jan. 6 Capitol riot, four former Proud Boys leaders have been convicted in federal court of seditious conspiracy, each sentenced to 15 or more years in prison. At least another 70 members were charged with participating in the violence. But that crackdown hasn’t stopped the Proud Boys. Some Proud Boys say they are preparing to emerge once again as a physical force for Trump, drawn to his hardline nationalism and convinced their leaders will be pardoned if he wins. Trump himself promises to pardon convicted Jan. 6 rioters if he’s elected. After last Thursday’s historic guilty verdict against Trump, an Ohio Proud Boys chapter vowed “war” and posted a video of Proud Boy street brawls that ended with the message, “Fighting solves everything.” A Miami chapter said, “Now, more than ever, we are recruiting!” Some posted images of the upside-down American flag symbolizing the “Stop the Steal” movement that falsely claims Trump won the 2020 election. One Proud Boy told Reuters that America is in a period of “calm before the storm.”

The group’s main Telegram channel, however, posted a message urging Proud Boys to stay calm and not get drawn into a trap and risk arrest. “Trump is, of course, getting railroaded but we will not be walking into any honey pots over this.” In recent weeks, the group has become more prominent at pro-Trump events, highlighting the risk of renewed violence in this year’s presidential election. Dozens of Proud Boys – some in body armor and helmets – marked the third anniversary of the Jan. 6 insurrection with a show of force at the statehouse in Columbus, Ohio. On April 20, nearly a dozen gathered at a rally for Trump’s Republican campaign in Wilmington, North Carolina. More recently, groups of Proud Boys from two chapters mixed with tens of thousands of Trump supporters at a campaign rally in Wildwood, New Jersey, in May.

On a boardwalk near the entrance of the Wildwood rally, several Proud Boys identified themselves as members of the “New Jersey State” chapter. One said they were there to provide security and stop agitators from “disrespecting or assaulting everybody.” Inscribed on his wraparound sunglasses were the initials “POYB” – short for “Proud of Your Boy.” He wore a ring with the initials “PB” and a black shirt with the yellow laurel wreath of the Proud Boys. Three men from another chapter greeted them, their faces hidden by gaiter masks. The re-emergence of the Proud Boys at Trump’s political rallies and events coincides with polls showing a majority of Americans fearing political violence will flare around November’s election. It also comes when Trump’s use of incendiary rhetoric is inspiring his supporters to target his opponents – including judges, prosecutors and political rivals – in a wave of threats that’s unprecedented in modern American politics.

Trump himself has not ruled out the possibility of political violence if he loses in November. “If we don’t win, you know, it depends,” he said when asked by Time magazine in April if he expected violence after the election. If he’s jailed or put under house arrest, “I’m not sure the public would stand for it,” he said in a Fox News interview that aired on Sunday. “At a certain point there’s a breaking point.” Before the last election, Trump told the Proud Boys to “stand back and stand by.” Three months later, federal prosecutors say, the group’s leaders plotted and led the insurrection of the U.S. Capitol. Trump’s baseless, rigged-election claims inspired the gathering, and Trump himself urged the assembled crowd to march on the Capitol as Congress certified Democrat Joe Biden’s victory.

A spokesperson for Trump did not respond to questions for this story about his rhetoric, Jan. 6 and the Proud Boys. As the Proud Boys regroup, they’ve made changes designed to make them less vulnerable to law enforcement scrutiny, including doing away with layers of top leadership, according to interviews with members. The Proud Boys now operate with self-governing chapters in more than 40 states, with little apparent central coordination, members said. While the group’s structure has changed, its Canadian founder remains an inspirational figure to today’s Proud Boys. Gavin McInnes, a British-born far-right commentator who lives in New York, announced his resignation from the Proud Boys in 2018. But he remains deeply involved with the group, according to interviews with Proud Boys.

[...]

After McInnes stepped down, his successor, Henry “Enrique” Tarrio, raised the Proud Boys’ profile, pulling them from the fringe of the far-right toward the center of Trump-era Republican politics. Tarrio, a Floridian of Afro-Cuban descent, was sentenced last September to 22 years in prison for seditious conspiracy, defined as an effort by two or more people to overthrow the government or use force to hinder its operations, and other charges related to the Capitol riot. He has appealed.

Two criminal defense attorneys for Tarrio did not respond to emailed questions and phone calls. In the past, McInnes, Tarrio and a group of leaders dubbed “Elders” spoke publicly on the group’s behalf, set the agenda and guided its confrontations with left-wing groups around the country. They sat atop a formal structure and could disband Proud Boy chapters or expel members. Now, members say, the chapters are largely independent of each other and ban communications with the media. Most members who spoke to Reuters for this report did so on condition of anonymity. The group’s resilience has surprised some extremism experts. “The amazing thing is that so many people from the Proud Boys can be in jail and yet you have these active chapters,” said Heidi Beirich, co-founder of the nonprofit Global Project Against Hate and Extremism. “Traditionally when the head of a neo-Nazi or white supremacist group goes to jail or dies, the organization will collapse, but that does not seem to be happening with the Proud Boys.”

[...]

During the Trump administration, the Proud Boys engaged in large-scale street brawls with antifa – antifascists – and other leftist groups across the country, typically by taunting demonstrators to instigate a fight. They adopted the slogan “Fuck Around And Find Out,” and emblazoned the letters “FAFO” on hats and t-shirts. Some historians compare the Proud Boys to fascist European militias of the 1920s and 1930s such as the Brownshirts, a Nazi paramilitary group that helped bring Hitler to power in Germany. Proud Boys say they’re nothing like the Brownshirts and bear no resemblance to fascists. But street violence and extreme nationalism are features of both groups. In the weeks before the Capitol riots, some wore a patch inscribed with “RWDS,” short for “Right Wing Death Squad,” a term used to describe Central and South American paramilitaries who supported right-wing governments and dictatorships. [...]

After Trump left the White House, the Proud Boys turned to America’s culture wars. They clashed with supporters of abortion rights and vaccine mandates, and harassed organizers of Drag Queen Story Hours, where female impersonators read at libraries or bookstores to children. Fights often ensued. Since the 2021 Capitol attack, Reuters identified 29 incidents of political violence involving the Proud Boys, almost all of them centered around social issues. All but one of the eight cases in 2023 involved clashes between Proud Boys and left-wing activists at demonstrations supporting LGBTQ+ rights. The tally was based largely on news reports and court records of fights, assaults and other physical confrontations. This year, the Proud Boys have returned to politics. In the first three months of 2024, there have been far fewer Proud Boys public events than in the same period last year. But half of them have been pro-Trump and the rest have been political in nature, related to guns or immigration, said Kieran Doyle of the Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project, a U.S.-based nonprofit that monitors political violence.

On April 24, Proud Boys founder McInnes appeared at Columbia University’s pro-Palestinian protests. He told Reuters that the Proud Boys were not getting involved in the anti-Israel unrest, saying he was there to “ridicule” liberals by pretending to be a left-wing journalist. It didn’t work, he said, because people saw him and posted alerts on social media. “They recognized me and were scared.” There’s no authoritative count of Proud Boy members. McInnes claims there are about 5,000, down from 8,000 during Trump’s presidency but up from lows after the Capitol riot arrests. Official estimates of the Proud Boys’ strength vary widely, from 300 to 3,000 members, said a law enforcement source who has monitored the group. Reuters could not independently corroborate its numbers. Some former Proud Boys have abandoned the group for other, more overtly racist and violent groups, including the neo-Nazi Blood Tribe and the underground “Active Club” scene, a white supremacist male movement, one Proud Boy told Reuters.

Reuters has an informative article about far-right domestic terrorist group Proud Boys is rebuilding to rally behind convicted felon Donald Trump.

After the January 6th Insurrection, the group turned towards right-wing culture war items to launch protests, such as COVID mitigation measures (esp. vaccine mandates), drag story hours, and abortion access.

Read the full article at Reuters.

#Reuters #Proud Boys #Right Wing Extremism #Right Wing Terrorism #Right Wing Violence #Donald Trump #2020 Presidential Election #2024 Presidential Election #Capitol Insurrection #The Big Lie #Stop The Steal #Telegram #Gavin McInnes #Anti LGBTQ+ Extremism #Vaccine Mandate Protests

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