#I can pour a better one for my dad from a BOTTLE
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Note
what about an Ellie-verse where they have a family day planned but Aaron got home from a case super late the night before and is exhausted but trying to hide it/power through and reader assures him that he’s allowed to be tired and they have a movie day at home instead! I think of the quote where Hotch says he felt like he constantly had to be the perfect Dad and husband because he only had a short amount of time and it makes me so sad for him :-(
rain check
my heart 🥺 cw; girl dad!aaron, fem!reader, established relationship, reader is referred to as mom, hurt to comfort - aaron is self-deprecating per usual, domestic fluff <3 wc; 1.5k
One second, Aaron’s eyes were shut, his head resting comfortably against his pillow as he slept soundly beside you. What felt like the next: Ellie pouncing onto his chest.
He startled, opening his eyes and finding her sweet face. He couldn’t be annoyed, nor could he help the way his heart warmed immediately at the sight of her - how he's missed her the last couple days.
"Hi Daddy."
"Morning El Bel." He mumbled sleepily, "what're you doing?"
"Mommy asked me to quietly check if you're awake." Her tiny brows furrowed, tilting her head to get a better view of him as if she couldn't already tell. "Are you awake?
He chuckled, yawning into his words, "I'm awake."
"Good." She looked pleased. "C'mon it's zoo day!" Her hands landed on his chest, shaking him lightly. "We're gonna see monkeys."
"Really? I think there's already a monkey right here." He teased, tickling her side and releasing a plethora of giggles.
Ellie's talk pulled him out of bed - Elephants. Lions. What's your favorite animal? Jack wants to see the snakes, but they're scary. Mom is packing a lunch so we can have a picnic. She only left at his suggestion she should go help you, specifically, choosing his sandwich for him.
He showered, and nearly fell back asleep in the process, counterintuitive to what he had hoped would wake him up. The stream of warm water hitting his tense muscles relaxed them immensely, melting the stiffness from his shoulders and dulling the edge of his thoughts.
Once he pulled himself out, he got dressed, shaved, going through the motions hazily with a heavy body. The lack of sleep was already giving him a migraine, pulsating behind his eyes.
"Hey," you poked your head into the bathroom. "You almost ready?"
"Yeah, sorry." Aaron nodded, capping the ibuprofen. "Just taking a while to catch my bearings this morning."
Your eyes moved from the medicine bottle to him. It was dark when he climbed into bed, late, and you could vaguely remember the weight of his body settling down beside you, tossing an arm around your middle and scooting close.
And this morning, you had awoken before him, so now you had the opportunity to really look at him. The bags under his eyes - while always there - were more prominent. His eyes lacked their sparkle, drowned by the weight of pure fatigue. You could always tell when he needed a day, and he needed a day.
"Aaron..."
He recognized your concerned tone, immediately waving it off. "I'm fine."
"But-"
"I'm fine, sweetheart." He insisted, placing a kiss on your cheek on his way out. "Don't worry. It's going to be a fun day."
But naturally, you worried.
Any normal day, you would've been out of the house in less than an hour. When initially making the family day plans, the goal was to leave around 10 am. Or in Aaron time - 9:45, and it was already quarter after. Aaron, being Aaron, never deviated from schedule; the tardiness alone would have been enough of a sign that he was off his game, but when paired with everything else, it was quite damning.
As Jack - the ever helpful big brother - helped Ellie tie her shoes, you cornered your husband in the kitchen, watching him pour an extra large cup of coffee.
"Why don't we take a rain check?"
"Hm?"
"It's going to rain." You lied bluntly and badly, the fib so undeniably obvious.
"No it's not." Aaron laughed gently, his eyebrows quirking lightly in confusion. "I checked this morning. The radar is perfectly clear."
"Aaron, you're exhausted," you stated the obvious, sympathetically. "Do you really want to be on your feet all day long? And how's that headache of yours?"
Silence was his answer, screwing the to-go lid shut slowly. His tired eyes found yours, defeated. "Ellie's been looking forward to this. As has Jack."
Moving in front of him, your hands found his shoulders, offering his rigid muscles a soothing squeeze. "We can do something fun here. The zoo isn't going anywhere."
Dropping his head, he huffed a laugh, a rather disappointed-in-himself one at that. "Yeah, but I am."
Your brows crinkled in confusion. "What?"
"Any second, my phone could ring and I'm gone again." He said, his eyes rolling ever so slightly. "It's best to take advantage of what we can do when I'm here. And I am. What if the next time, it does rain?"
"Then we accommodate again." You solved easily, bringing a hand to his cheek. "Listen to your body Aar. Taking a day off isn't going to make you any less than a father. It's okay."
"And what, give them another reason to be disappointed in me?"
You frowned, "you know that's not true."
"I'm sorry." He sighed with a head shake. He did, but still gently admitted under his breath. "But that's how I feel."
"I know honey, and I wish you didn't. You don't give yourself enough credit." Your thumb stroked his skin sadly, releasing a breath from your nose. "They'll understand."
His gaze moved off to the side, unconvinced. "I don't know-"
"Are we going now?" Jack's voice entered the kitchen. Ellie was at his side - her tiny backpack on and ready to go.
You shared a quick look with Aaron, whose jaw was tight, an unhappy expression plastered on his face. "I'm not sure, you two. Dad's not feeling well today."
Ellie's eyebrows dropped in concern. While their resemblance was always uncanny, she looked like a miniature version of her father in this moment especially. "Are you sick?"
Aaron remained silent, biting down onto his lip, so you answered for him again. "He is a little bit, yeah. Would it be okay if we went to the zoo another time?"
"Yeah, we can always go to the zoo," Jack nodded with zero hesitation. "But what about the picnic we packed?"
"We can have it here." You mussed his hair gently. "Right in the living room, how about that?"
"Really?" Ellie's eyes widened. "A picnic inside the house? We can do that?"
"Yeah, it'll be fun." You crouched down to her level next, offering her a grin. "We can watch movies, play some games, and let Dad get some rest."
"Cool, I'll go see what we have." Jack hurried out and down the hall, beelining for the playroom.
"I'm sorry you're sick Daddy." Ellie consoled, wrapping her tiny arms around his legs and peering up at him. "We can see monkeys another time when you're all better."
His eyes softened, his scowl turning into a smaller pout. "Thanks El, I appreciate that."
She gave him a bright smile before running after her brother, pigtails bouncing atop her head.
Your eyes found his as a small smile tugged at the ends of your lips, conveying without words the reassurance you knew Aaron needed- they love you. His expression, while not entirely convinced, was more hopeful. He pulled you close by a belt loop on your jeans, wrapping his arms around you.
After selecting a few games and movies, Jack helped you set a picnic blanket on the carpet. Meanwhile, Ellie dragged every - literally every - stuffed animal she could find to the living room, creating a makeshift zoo just for Aaron. If he's sick, she'll bring the zoo to him.
You didn't say it aloud in front of the kids, but you watched his demeanor change. As if this healed something in him.
While he didn't verbalize it as often anymore, the weight of leaving home was something he held quietly in his chest - the dire need to be perfect with such a limited time. To go above and beyond for the kids to make sure they were happy, loved, and knew they were everything to him.
You witnessed it every time he left for a case; the instant dread that overtook him whenever his phone rang, the solemn expression on his face as he gave them hugs goodbye, the dismal tone in his voice over the phone during bedtime check ins. As if he were awaiting that one day he returned and they realized what a neglectful father he was.
While you reassured him, and he appreciated your reassurances, there was always the little voice in his head telling him not to get too comfortable. If he grew complacent, the life he loved could once again slip through his fingers.
But now, with the plans falling short, Jack and Ellie didn't display any remorse or sadness, only the care, concern, and empathy for their father you together have taught them.
He didn't need to be on all the time. Quality time was quality time no matter the plans. And, making sure Dad was okay was more important than anything else.
"Do you think Dad's feeling better?" Jack's voice pulled your focus, looking up at you from his spot on the carpet. The second movie of the day was playing on the screen.
You glanced over at Aaron, who was fast asleep on the couch - head leaning back against the cushion, his feet crossed as they rested on the coffee table in front of him. Ellie was nestled into his side, her eyes trying their hardest to stay awake and follow the movie, but ultimately failing.
"Yeah, I think he is." You gave Jack a smile, holding your arms out; he didn’t hesitate to scramble up and join you. "This is exactly what he needed."
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner fluff#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotch x reader#aaron hotchner imagine#criminal minds#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds x you#criminal minds drabble#aaron hotchner drabble#criminal minds fanfiction#hotch imagine#criminal minds x fem!reader
614 notes
·
View notes
Note
can you do a fic where worst!logan and reader have a baby and he loves the baby with every fiber in his body
Warnings: fem!reader, Pregnancy, birth, girl dad logan, angst to fluff, logan is terrible with emotions
a/n: So This is angstier than I meant it to be lmao but I love girl dad Logan and i think Worst Logan would be going through a lot if he found out his girlfriend was pregnant so. I got stuck a couple times but I hope u enjoy <3
"You're what?"
"Pregnant. I'm pregnant Logan."
The tension is thick in the room. This isn't how you imagined things playing out. In fact you didn't ever think it would ever come to this. You and Logan are always careful. Always.
If you were completely honest you weren't even sure if Logan still had...you know after everything. But one thing led to another at one of Wades parties and well...now you're pregnant.
"No. That's not possible." Logan growls.
You feel your heart drop at his reaction. You didn't expect him to jump for joy or anything but now you were scared of what was going to happen next. Would he leave? Walk out on you and the baby?
"It is Logan, I went to the doctor and they confirmed it." Hesitantly you reach into your back pocket and hand him a picture. It's the ultrasound. There's not much on it but you can a little bean shape.
"I'm about two months along." Logan takes the picture with shaky hands.
He can't fucking believe it. This is, it's a lot. It's too much. It feels like the world was closing in on him.
"I have to go."
"What? Logan you can't leave." You beg as he walks past you. He grabs his jacket and throws open the front door.
"Logan!" You shout and he stops in his tracks.
"I'm coming back, I just. I need a some time." He can't even look you in the eyes as he says it. Shame creeps into his bones as he walks out the door, closing it behind him.
"Dammit!" You cry as the panic starts to set in.
Tears pouring down your face as you fall onto the couch. With your head in your hands you let yourself cry, wondering if everything you had built with Logan was gone.

He's a fucking coward. He knows he is. What kind of man walks away from his pregnant girlfriend? Apparently he is.
The truth is Logan is fucking terrified. He's not father material. He never was. It didn't matter what anyone else said he knows deep down he'd fuck it all up. He's selfish, temperamental, angry, drunk. He can't raise a child, he can't be responsible for a little innocent life. He's made so many mistakes and he's not going to let this kid be one of them. You and this baby would be better off without him.
"You alright man? You've almost gone through half a bottle." The bartender asks.
Logan just grunts and continues to sip on his drink. The photo weighs heavy in his pocket as he the alcohol seems to stop burning, damn his high tolerance.
"Just fine." He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out the ultrasound.
He tries to ignore that little part of him that feels joy seeing it. He can't be excited for this, he can't be a father. He's not the right guy. What if he hurts them? What if he passes on his X-gene? What if his child grows up with claws just like him. What if his child hate themselves just as he did. Logan's life was not an easy one and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Especially not his own child.
"That your first one?" Logan looks up at the bartender and just narrows his eyes, shoving the ultrasound back in his jacket.
"I've got two of my own. They're crazy but man do I love coming home to them. Nothing like it." Logan downs the rest of his glass and slams a hundred on the table.
"Keep the change." Logan walks out of the bar and finds himself sitting on a bench.
He should go back. He needs to go back. But maybe it's better if he doesn't. He takes out the crumpled ultrasound again and looks at it. He's never felt so afraid.
This little thing, this bean blob of nothing is his child. A child he's made with you. He gently rubs his thumb along the grainy picture. He can't do this, he just...he doesn't know anymore.
Would you even want him to come back? Maybe you'll realize what he's known all along, he's not man who can be a good father. What the hell does he know about parenting? He could barely call Laura his child even though she was made from his counterparts DNA. She didn't need him.
As painful as it is he thinks back to his old world. To the kids he taught at the school, they weren't his children. He wasn't a model professor. He was all about tough love. Yet the kids always seemed to flock to him. He thinks about Rogue, about Jubilee. He would never admit it but they were his favorites. His heart aches and he can't bare to think about it anymore.
He's afraid, so fucking afraid. But you must be too. It's not like either of you asked for this. God he's such a fucking idiot. He hopes he hasn't ruined everything yet.
It's dark when Logan returns. He opens the door slowly, his ears straining for anything. What if you left? What if he fucked up and you left him and he'll never get to see you again.
"Logan?" Relief floods his veins as he hears your sleepy voice. You were on the couch, cuddled up with a blanket and a pillow.
"Sweetheart," Logan drops to his knees in front of you as you.
"You came back." His heart breaks at the uncertainty in your voice.
"Yeah, of course I did. I...I shouldn't have walked out like that." He cups your face gently.
"I'm terrified. I don't know the first thing about being a father. I'm just gonna fuck it up." He confesses.
"I don't know what's gonna happen, I can't promise that I'll know what to do or be what you need. But you've been the best thing to ever happen to me and I love you."
"I don't need you to be the worlds perfect dad Logan, I just need you to be here." Him walking out that door was like a knife to the heart. He said he'd come back but a small part of you was afraid that he wasn't going to. That a baby was too much.
"I will be, I promise you that I'll be here every step of the way."
"Okay," You smile softly. You sit up and Logan sits on the couch next to you.
"I am still mad that you walked out by the way, but our baby needs their dad so I can't kill you." You hum as you rest your head on his shoulder.
"I know, and I'm sorry." A few beats of silence pass before you take Logan's hand and put it on your stomach.
"We're having a baby." Logan's hands are warm and he can't help but smile at the way you just melt into his touch.
"Yeah sweetheart, we really are."

Logan kept true to his word. He was there every step of the way. Some days were harder than others. Some days the doubts got the better of him and he'd spiral. But you were always there to pull him out of it. Logan didn't know anything about this but neither did you.
So you figured it out together. Every bad day, every good day, through all the cravings, the pain, the sickness. All of it you did together. Logan even put together a bunch of Ikea furniture. Some of those instructions have holes in them now though, but he got them put together in record time.
The day the baby came was absolute chaos. Thank god for Logan's adamantium bones or else you would have crushed his hand from how hard you were squeezing his hand. The cries of your baby was music to your ears and the worst thing Logan has ever heard.
He knows babies are supposed to cry but hearing his baby, his daughter, cry and cry sent a knife right into his heart. He hated it. He wanted to push the doctors aside and take her in his arms himself. They bundled her up and place her in your arms, Logan was right by your side.
As you held and rocked your baby, Logan was silent. Carefully he reached out his finger and gently pulled the blanket away from his babies face. The tears she was shedding just moments ago were long gone. God she was adorable.
When you asked Logan if he wanted to hold her, he went as pale as a ghost. The fear creeping in again at the very thought of holding her. What if he dropped her? Or what if she cried? She's just a baby. She's fragile and small. She can't take care of herself or do anything.
It's all on him to protect her, to love her. Logan sat in the chair next to your bed, the breath sucked out of his lungs as you handed him your baby girl. Sleep was calling to you and once you saw her in his arms, you felt at ease to finally fall asleep.
Logan sat there for hours. The doctors and nurses came and went and he almost growled at them when they tried to take her from him. She didn't cry when she saw him, she smiled, giggled even. One of the sweetest sounds he's ever heard.
At his lowest Logan never thought he could let anyone into his cold dead heart. Then he met Wade who brought him to this world and gave him a little bit of hope. And Wade introduced him to you who squeezed your way into his heart. Lighting it up in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.
And then came his baby girl. Just one look from her and he's fallen in love. He's going to give her the whole fucking world and more. Both of you. His life has changed so drastically in such a short amount of time and he wouldn't have it any other way.
"Careful sweetheart, let me get that." Logan says as he opens the door.
In one hand he's carrying pretty much everything except for the baby who was asleep in your arms. He wouldn't let you lift a finger since you gave birth. His protective instincts are out in full force ever since Marie was born. Every possible bad outcome runs through his head seeing you and her, the two of you are his whole fucking world now.
"Ah fuck." Logan mumbles when he sees the apartment decked out in a million balloons and gifts.
"I told you not to give Wade a key." He says as he kicks clear path.
"I think it's sweet, he's uncle Wade now. Isn't that right Marie, you're going to have so many Aunts and Uncles." You coo as you rock Marie back and forth. She lets out a little squeak at your words.
"Oh please, nothing about him is sweet. You remember what he said when he found out." Logan grumbles.
Wade had looked at Logan and then back at you to ask if the two of you had recorded your baby making session. That comment landed him a stab wound. But Wade meant well and you knew that.
"Dear god, this is horrible." Logan holds up a red onesies with a crudely drawn Deadpool logo on it.
"It's cute, I think he painted it himself." Logan rolls his eyes and tosses it to the side.
"She's not wearing that. Ever."
As Logan puts away the various things in his hands you bring Marie to her room. Showing her all the little stuffed animals and the pictures on the wall. She watched it all with curious eyes. Reaching out towards the little bear sitting on her dresser.
"Your daddy got that for you baby." You smile remembering the day Logan came home with it.
It was still early on in your pregnancy and Logan was still apprehensive about it all. He walked through the front door with this bear in his hands. He said that he was passing by this store and saw it in the window. That something inside of him just told him he had to get it, that it would be perfect for the baby.
The first bit of paternal instinct took over and it seems he was right. Her tiny hands held onto the arms of the bear and nothing was going to take it away from her. Logan appears in the doorway, a smile on his face at the sight of his two girls.
"How are you feeling sweetheart?" Logan asks, noticing the tired look on your face.
"Okay, just a little tired." Logan hums as he walks over and gently takes Marie from your arms.
"Go take care of yourself sweetheart, you deserve it." You start to protest at the very thought of leaving your baby, as much as a bubble bath and a nap sounded, you didn't want to leave her side.
"Go, I'll take care of everything okay?." Logan gently shoos you out of the room and didn't stop until he heard the water running in your bedroom.
"Hey there Marie, you know you were named after an old friend of mine. I think you would have loved her." Logan whispers as he bounces her in his arms, walking circles around the room.
Soon her little eyes started to close from sleepiness. Logan knows he should put her down but he doesn't want to let go of her. He wants to keep her close an safe. The small plush chair creaks under his weight as he sits. Leaning back so that he can rest Marie on his chest. He stares in awe, his heart bursting at every soft noise.
By the time you come back to her room she's still resting on Logan's chest.
"Hey there," You smile at the soft look on his face. You walk over and gently rest your chin on his head, arms wrapped around his shoulders.
"She's perfect." You hum as you admire your sleeping daughters face.
"She is," Logan holds her a little tighter but is careful not to wake her.
"Do you want to put her down? I know you must be tired." You ask Logan who shakes his head.
He looks at you, then around the room. Taking it all in once again. Just how lucky can he be? What did he do to deserve any of this? To deserve to be happy. He's truly, unmistakably happy.
"No it's okay, I just want to stay here a little longer."
He wants to stay here forever. Wrapped up in his perfect world with you and Marie. Forever.
#logan howlett#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett angst#wolverine x reader#worst!logan howlett x reader
498 notes
·
View notes
Note
thinking about being in a long term relationship with rafe and being so in love & happy him.
you have made a home together with love & warmth — and you’ve given him a secure home where his siblings come over. you’re a natural hostess and you love having wheezie, Sarah & John b (and their baby) over
thinking about how grateful he is to you for creating a home that he and his siblings haven’t had 🥹



rafe cameron x fem!reader | fluff | (i named sarah’s baby, not after jj because in ALL my fics he is still alive and thriving, just fluff tbh)
︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶
Christmas in Tannyhill has always been magical. There were always expensive gifts under the tree, lights covering the building and an all-you-can-eat buffet on the dining table for lunch. The sight of it was something out of a fairytale, something only rich kids would be able to afford.
The problem was that Ward was never there. He was working. He didn’t buy the gifts, the maids did. He didn’t put up the lights, he hired someone else to do it. He didn’t go to church with the kids, he didn’t help them write their letters to Santa, he didn’t do anything.
Rafe can remember the Christmas that he realised Santa wasn’t real, because the only thing he’d written on his list was for his dad to spend the day with him and his sisters. He’d woken up bright and early and ran down the stairs, expecting for Ward to be sat beside the tree with a grin on his face as he got ready to watch the kids open their presents, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, the maid was there waiting with a bored expression on her face as she waited for the kids to wake up.
You’d always adored Christmas. Your family wasn’t perfect, you didn’t have over-the-top gifts or lights surrounding the entire house but you had the thing the Cameron’s didn’t; you had love. Rafe remembers the first Christmas you spent together, three years ago, you hadn’t spent an entire month’s paycheck on his present, you’d gotten him something meaningful, a scrapbook you’d spent hours making. He cried, he cried for hours, because for the first time ever he felt that love you’re supposed to feel at Christmas time.
“You look beautiful,” he complimented, walking into the kitchen where you were in the middle of pouring cocktails. He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your cheek.
“Gonna ruin my makeup,” you warned, but there was a soft smile on your face as you looked back at him. You turned around to face him, hands looping around his shoulders. “How are you feeling?”
“In love,” he smirked, leaning down to kiss your red painted lips.
You giggled, shoving at his chest. “I’m serious. I know this is gonna be a bit weird for you, and for Sarah.”
“We’ve been getting on a lot better, and I didn’t invite them to see Sarah, I invited them to see our niece,” Rafe explained, making you grin.
“Are the cookies ready?” Wheezie appeared in the kitchen, wearing the purple dress you’d forced on her. Rose had finally allowed for her to come visit, so she was staying with you and Rafe for the holidays.
“On the table,” you replied, nodding to the dining room that you and Rafe had never used before.
Half an hour later the doorbell rang, you pretty much ran to get it. Sarah, John B and one-year old Mimi stood there with smiles on their faces. You squealed, taking the chubby baby from Sarah’s arms.
“Merry Christmas,” John B greeted, holding a bottle of wine.
“Merry Christmas, lovebirds,” you replied, leading them inside the house. You kissed Mimi’s cheek before handing her to John B, wanting to greet your boyfriend’s sister properly. You hugged her and she eagerly hugged you back.
Even when Rafe and Sarah didn’t get along, all for good reasons, you and her were always friends. You’d gone to school together, you helped the Pogues out countless times, it was impossible for any of them not to like you. She truly believed that if it weren’t for you Rafe may have never changed, you didn’t believe that; he just needed a push in the right direction.
“Give me her.” Rafe demanded, making you laugh as he held his hands out expectantly for the baby. John B chuckled too, passing her over. It was something you never thought you’d see, John B and Rafe having a civil conversation. John B giving him his child. “Her presents are under the tree.”
“Oh, God,” Sarah laughed. “How many did you get her? We’re trying not to raise her spoilt.”
“Don’t want another one of you, huh?” Rafe asked, a smirk on his face as Sarah stuck her tongue out at him. “The other one’s eating all the cookies.”
Sarah and John B left to go and say hi to Wheezie, leaving you, Rafe and Mimi in the hallway. He was rocking the baby, talking to her about her presents as if she could understand a word he was saying.
“What do you think about… havin’ one of our own of these?” Rafe asked, looking over at you. He looked nervous, something you didn’t see often.
“A baby?” You replied softly. He nodded his head, looking between you and her. “We could just steal that one.”
“We could, not sure Sarah would be too happy about that,” Rafe smirked.
You walked closer to him, his arm gravitating towards your waist to pull you into him. “I’d love to have a baby with you, Rafe. You know that. I’ve wanted that since I was fifteen.”
“Damn, someone’s obsessed,” he teased. You rolled your eyes, poking his cheek. “I love you, a lot. We ain’t ever had someone do stuff like this for us, I mean, you pretty much brought the family back together.”
“No, I didn’t,” you argued. “You did that, baby. You sorted things out with Sarah, you called Rose and demanded her to let Wheez come. You did all this, okay? Don’t give me the credit, all I did was put on a pretty dress and make some cookies.”
“Maybe… maybe we could do this next year, too. If tonight goes well, that is,” he suggested, that nervous tone back.
“It will go well,” you reassured. “Maybe next year we’ll have someone for Mimi to hang out with.”
He looked down at you, eyes full of love. His lips met yours, but only a few seconds later you were interrupted. “Can you not make out in front of my baby?” John B snorted, coming over. “I want to see these presents you got her.”
“We got you something, too,” you laughed, starting to follow him out the room.
“Even better.”
You looked back at Rafe, blowing him a kiss as you went. He stayed put for a moment longer, looking down at his niece. If every Christmas was going to be like this from now on, then maybe he’d stop being such a grinch.
496 notes
·
View notes
Text
Late Nights and Close Calls


Summary: You and Peter sneak a bottle of champagne from one of your dad’s - Tony Stark’s - parties at the Avengers Tower. Giggling and hanging out in your room, one quiet moment leads to you almost confessing your feelings to your best friend.
Mcu!Peter Parker x Stark!Reader Fluff 1.2k Words Posted on: 2-19-2025 masterlist
The bass from the party downstairs thrums through the walls of the Avengers Tower, muffled but insistent, like the pulse of New York City itself. You lean against the door to your bedroom, biting back a grin as Peter scrambles to follow you inside and shut the door behind him, cradling a stolen bottle of champagne like it was radioactive.
“I can’t believe you actually went through with it,” you whisper, your voice tinged with awe and laughter. You walk over to your bed and flop down on the mattress, Peter quick to follow.
He turns to face you, his boyish grin equal parts triumph and nervous energy. “What can I say? I thrive under pressure.” He wiggles the bottle in his hands. “Besides, it’s not like Mr. Stark’s going to miss one bottle right?” You know he’s trying to convince both himself and you of this.
You let out a snort of laughter, crossing your legs as you got comfortable on your bed and as Peter sat next to you, leaning against the wall. “I sure hope not. We’re dead if he catches us. And by ‘we’, I mean you.”
Peter smirks, a teasing edge in his voice. “Good to know where your loyalties lie, Stark.”
You roll your eyes, but are unable to hide your smile as you reach and grab two mismatched mugs from your nightstand. One of them has a Spider-Man design on it that Peter had jokingly given you as a birthday present, and he secretly smiled to himself at the realization that you’d actually been using it.
“Here. Fancy drinking glasses for our super-classy operation.”
Peter chuckles and pops the cork with a loud pop, making both of you jump and laugh. Bubbles froth over the top, and he quickly pours some into the mugs in your hands, spilling more than he probably should.
“To bad decisions and avoiding your dad’s wrath,” Peter says, setting the bottle on the nightstand to grab his mug from you, holding it up in a mock toast.
“To bad influences,” you shoot back, clinking your mug against his. You both take a sip, eyes smiling at each other over the tops of the cups.
The champagne was sweet and fizzy, a little stronger than you had expected, but the warmth it brought to your chest was welcome. You scoot over you so you’re sitting next to Peter, your shoulders close enough to touch every time one of you moves.
“This is way better than listening to my dad schmooze with a bunch of billionaires,” you say after a minute or two of talking, tipping your mug towards Peter and resting your head on his shoulder for a moment.
“You mean you’re not interested in talks about stock portfolios and advanced AI?” Peter quips, raising a teasing eyebrow.
You laugh, the sound light and easy thanks to the drink. “Not even a little.”
The two of you settle into a rhythm of a familiar banter and conversation, the champagne loosening any nerves. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed this much. Peter was good at that - at making you forget the weight of expectations, the constant pressure to be more than just the Tony Stark’s daughter.
Somewhere in the middle of a story about one of Peter’s disastrous attempts to ask a girl to homecoming freshman year, you found yourself staring at him. His face was animated, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. The soft glow of the city lights through your window and your desk lamp cast golden highlights in his hair, and his eyes—warm and expressive—crinkled at the corners when he laughed. It was one of your favorite things about him.
You didn’t realize you were smiling until Peter stopped mid-sentence, turning his head to meet your gaze.
“What?” he asks, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.
You shake your head, heart fluttering in a way you didn’t quite know how to handle. Damn, this champagne was making it hard to think… it totally wasn’t Peter that was causing your brain to short-circuit, right?
“Nothing. Just… you’re really great, you know that right? I’m glad you're my best friend.”
Peter blushes, looking at his mug and trying, but failing, to suppress a smile. “Thanks, y/n. I’m glad you’re my best friend too.”
He turns his head to look at you again, and your breath catches, the words hanging between the two of you like a live wire. For a moment, you think he might say something more—something that you were also thinking, something that would change your friendship forever.
Another moment of silence passes as you just stare into each other’s eyes. You get a sudden urge of confidence, thanks to the effects of the alcohol neither of you were very familiar with.
“Peter, I–”
A loud boom from outside causes you both to jump, and your heads turn to look out your window, where you see an array of fireworks going off, some in the shape of Iron Man’s helmet. It was as if Tony was listening in on you and purposely stopped you from saying what you were about to confess.
Great timing, dad. Thanks a lot.
Peter laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Your dad sure knows how to throw a party,” he turns to meet your eyes, but looks away quickly with a shy smile, still blushing from your almost-confession.
You laugh softly, also avoiding Peter’s gaze and fixing your stare to your mug. “No kidding.” You didn’t know if you were thankful for the interruption or should yell at your dad later for setting off his stupid fireworks. Maybe it was for the better, though; Peter seemed to want to ignore it, so maybe you should too.
What you hadn’t noticed, though, was that Peter had also been staring at you all night, just as much as you were staring at him, if not more.
Thankfully, the effects of the champagne hadn’t quite faded yet, so the awkwardness between you two faded as quickly as it had appeared; something that always seemed to be happening to the two of you.
You bump your shoulder against Peter’s. “Wanna head back out there?”
Peter smiles at you, taking a sip of his champagne. “Nah, I’d rather stay here with you. Besides, I think it would be pretty obvious that we’ve been, you know, having fun up here.”
You blush at the accidental insinuation that Peter had just made, but you knew he only meant that you had been drinking. He seemed oblivious to it though, so you decided not to make a joke about it and spare yourselves any more awkwardness.
“True,” you say with a soft laugh, “I’d rather be here too, anyways. You don’t totally suck to hang out with.”
Peter laughs softly and it’s his turn to bump your shoulder with his, the slight contact almost making you shiver. “Yeah, yeah, you’re not so bad yourself.”
You spent the next hour or two doing the same thing you always did—making each other laugh and testing the hell out of Peter. And, even though neither of you said what you were really thinking, it was okay. You knew there would be other moments—other nights like this where the words might finally spill out.
For now, this was enough.
Thank you for reading! My first mcu!peter fic yay!! I have lots more in my drafts lol, so lmk if u wanna see more of himmmm. Tom Holland was my first ever celebrity crush and I am a MASSIVE Marvel fan, so this Peter holds a special place in my heart :) Again, thanks for readin and I hope you liked itttt! xoxo
#mcu!Peter Parker x reader#stark!reader#mcu!Peter Parker x stark!reader#Peter Parker x reader#Peter Parker x stark!reader#Peter Parker imagine#mcu!Peter imagine#Peter Parker fluff#mcu!Peter fluff#mcu!Peter parker#mcu!peter#Peter Parker x reader fluff#mcu!Peter Parker x reader fluff#Peter Parker fanfic#mcu!Peter Parker fanfic#Peter Parker x stark!daughter#mcu!Peter Parker x stark!daughter
310 notes
·
View notes
Text
BDSMaid - Chapter 5 (Part One)

Series Summary: After recently graduating you take what is supposed to be a job to save money before you go back to university to get your law degree. Your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. Easy. Simple. Mundane. Until one of your clients is home and everything you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.
Chapter Summary: You let Mister Miller help you out of a slump and learn you might like a little pain
WC: 8.9k
CW: Reader as some descriptors (freckles, long hair etc) so this might be more of an original character vs female reader. Dom/Sub dynamics, pet names (sweet girl, baby, baby girl etc). More CW in red below the cut but will contain spoilers.
AN: THANK YOU for being sooooo patient with me while I delayed this chapter. This is only HALF of the chapter and as soon as my lovely @lotusbxtch beta's the other half I will post it. No pressure thought, bb!! I just couldn't WAIT to share this since you've all been so wonderful and supportive. Moodboard by me, dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics
CW: riding crop, oral (male and female receiving), male masturbation, female orgasms, hand cuffs, deep throating/face fucking, descriptions of self doubt and panic attacks; reader is going through it, ok? Hair pulling, Joel is a bit mean but he does it with love and care. Joel being a consent and aftercare king.
Joel
Joel sits on the Trocadéro platform of Café de l’Homme, the birds chirping and the sound of rustling papers keeping him from getting too lost in his thoughts of you. Sarah sits across from him, a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower to their left, and a buying agreement typed out in French taking up most of the table. Joel might not look like it, but he can see himself eventually living out his years in either Paris or Italy. He speaks enough French and Italian to get by, but relies on Sarah to read over the contract for her new condo. His baby girl is a doctor and now that she’s almost a year into her surgery residency, this condo is her graduation present finally coming to fruition.
He looks down at his phone, opening the text thread he has with you. He’s been trying to give you space to study this week, telling himself each day that this isn’t what you signed up for but he can’t help himself, and when you responded with a selfie of yourself in your maid discreetly polo the other day he knew there was no way he’d be able to keep that pledge to himself anymore. Joel looks at the time, factoring in the time change, and your LSAT retake is in a few hours. His thumbs move on their own.
Good Morning. Good luck on your LSAT today.
He attaches a picture of the coffee he had that morning before hitting send.
The waiter comes by to take their orders, Sarah’s French flowing from her lips as easily as she breathes, happily telling the waiter what both her and her dad will have. Joel mutters a ‘merci’ as the waiter nods.
Thank you. That coffee looks a lot better than mine.
A selfie of you, all pink cheeked and smiling follows. A paper to go cup with a plastic lid in your hand beside your face.
Were you running?
“How’s it going over there?” Joel says over his phone screen to Sarah, her focus is intent on the stack of papers in front of her.
“Shh, I’m reading,” she says lightly as the waiter opens an expensive looking bottle of white wine and pours a little for her to try. After taking her small sip and nodding at the waiter she looks to her dad. “What? I thought we were celebrating!”
He shakes his head, laughing at his daughter as both of them look back at what they were doing.
Yes. I run most mornings. Gotta clear my head.
What’s bothering you, sweet girl?
You know, you calling me that has the same effect as me calling you Mister Miller.
Ok, we’ll just call each other by our names then.
Joel is so wrapped up in his little bubble with you that he doesn’t notice Sarah sitting back and watching him as she sips her wine.
That’s no fun, let’s come up with safe nicknames.
He feels the side of cheek tug up. She’s so fucking cute.
Alright, I’m calling you giggles
What am I, a rodeo clown?
Joel laughs silently to himself, not realizing that he’s sporting a full and cheesy ear to ear grin across his face.
Fine - Freckles
Eww, that’s what the mean girls in high school used to call me
Well the hot, successful man who owns a sex club and supplies your orgasms finds your freckles incredibly sexy. What’s my safe nickname?
“Who are you texting?” Sarah says, her voice thick with amusement.
Joel clicks his phone shut, laying it face down on the table. He wipes the smile off his face and looks up at Sarah like a child who just got caught stealing candy. “No one. Just work stuff.”
“Uh huh, sure dad. I know that smile. Did you meet someone?”
Joel grabs his wine, taking a larger drink then necessary. A drink of someone who’s lying. There’s no way he can tell his daughter about this. Sure, Sarah knows about the club but they never talk about what goes on there. “No! Of course not. I’m too busy for that.”
Her eyes blink to his phone as it vibrates on the table, but he keeps his attention on Sarah, his wine glass looking comically small in his large hand. “I’ll just ask uncle Tommy.”
“Funny story, he’s been removed from the family.” He deadpans.
“Tess will tell me then,” Sarah says, her and her dad both challenging each other jokingly.
“Who? Never heard of a Tess before,” Joel says, crossing his arms.
Sarah laughs into her wine glass, “Ok dad. Look, I want you to meet someone, so don’t hold back on my account. Seriously, you’re a catch and have been alone for a long time.”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you, Sarah. Not yet at least.” His phone vibrates again and she cocks an eyebrow before going back to her papers.
Joel scoops up his phone to read your texts.
Huh, suddenly I’m over being bullied. Weird. Oh, I have the peeerrrfect nickname for you!
Go on, Freckles…
Sweet Cheeks, cuz seriously Miller, dat ass.
Daaaammmnn!
You’re treading on mighty thin ice, baby girl
Joel, I have a serious question…
Go on?
Are your suit pants tailored TO your ass?!
Joel chokes on his wine, trying to stifle his laugh.
“Alright, who is she?”
“Fine. I met someone, but she’s really young, like younger than you, Sarah. And she’s leaving soon for law school so it’s just best if I don’t talk about it.”
Sarah smiles at her dad. “First of all, I don’t care if she’s younger than me, especially seeing you smile like that. Do you have any idea how many of the girls at college wanted you? You're my dad, so it’s gross to say, but you were the campus DILF.”
Joel feels himself blushing as she continues, “Second of all, you don’t have to end things just because of school. Me and Wyatt maintained our relationship while I was in New York and he was in Seattle.” As she wiggles the pear shaped diamond on her left hand the waiter brings out their food, and Joel changes the subject to the condo that he just bought for his incredible daughter.
Our little girl did it, Tiff. Thank you for giving her to me, he thinks.
You
“That’s time, everyone,” The proctor calls from the front of the stuffy, windowless room that you and forty five other law school hopefuls have been in for just over three hours.
You let out a slow breath, cheeks puffing and eyes fluttering closed. You didn’t finish, last time you finished, and the proctor has been eyeing you the entire time. He knows, he fucking knows you aren’t nearly as qualified or as smart as the rest of the people in this room. That line from Gilmore Girls, something about having shiny Harvard hair is all your anxiety can focus on. The people in this room have Havard hair, even the men. You don’t belong here.
You’ve never been in a lower spot and after the high of the flirty text conversation with Joel this morning you didn’t anything could get you down. In the span of just a few hours you’ve been completely torn apart, you can feel the panic attack clawing greedily at your chest. You fucking blew it, all of it. You blew your chances at law school, you blew your future as a lawyer and, in turn, your future as a judge. You’ll be cleaning houses forever, and not that there’s anything wrong with being a professional maid, but it’s not your goal.
Maybe I was fucking stupid for only having one goal. Maybe I need to do something else with my degree. Maybe my father was right, I’m nothing and I’ll always be nothing. Maybe my mother was right too, I’m the smartest girl at home but the world is going to chew me up and spit me out. It’s doing that right now, isn’t it?
Your feet take you to the locker where your phone’s been locked up, and then out to your car. You don’t notice the warm late March air when you leave the testing building and there's a good chance that you jay walked, narrowly missing being hit by a car as you walked to the parking lot. Before turning the key in the ignition you open your phone, there’s a little red bubble on the JMK app. When you tap on it you have a new calendar section and Joel has invited you to the club tomorrow night. You stare down at it, waiting and hoping to feel something. That excited giddiness you usually feel, or the butterflies that typically erupt in your stomach, but nothing comes. You close out of the app without accepting the invite and drive home.
A soft knock on your door pulls you from the anxiety-ridden nightmares you’ve been slipping in and out of. In the first one, you were having your degree taken away. In the second, you were sitting on the end of the bed in Joel’s private room looking out a window into the voyeur room. Joel was walking another woman around, similar to how he did with you the first time. The one that your roommate interrupted involved you being completely naked while trying to find your first class at Harvard.
“Babe?” Odette’s calm voice fills your room, “You ok?”
You tap your phone screen: 9 pm. You’ve been passed out all afternoon and evening.
“Ya, just had a hard day.” You try to move out from the blankets, but they’re tangled around your limbs; a clear sign that you were restless in your sleep.
“Are you hungry? I ordered pizza. You have a few more college letters too, I think three were in the mailbox today.” Her voice is light and excited, as if she’s trying to pump you up.
“Thanks, O. I’ll, umm, I’ll be out in a sec.”
The door shuts gently and the tears finally come. Five minutes, you tell yourself, before you start sobbing into your pillow to not alert Odette. After your allotted crying time is up, you open your phone. Messages from Jamie and Laren are left on read before you slide into the JMK app and accept Joel's request to meet at the club tomorrow night. You join Odette for a late dinner, but there’s no way you’re opening those letters tonight.
Cap drops you off outside of the club the next night. This seems to be the officially unofficial routine of being Joel’s sub and you aren’t sure why. Cap confirmed last time that he didn’t do this for the other girls; you don’t deserve special treatment.
Any treatment, really, you think. Even the little box of feelings in your mind feels the same way, sulking sadly in the dark corner you banished it to.
The black marble foyer feels cold and mocking tonight, even with the beautiful hostess smiling brightly and greeting you by name. As you turn towards the entrance to the club, a man dressed in an impeccable black suit holds his arm out for you.
“Good evening, Miss. Joel asked me to escort you to his room tonight.”
You nod, forcing a smile and a thank you. All this black feels like he’s walking you to your own funeral. As you step into the club there are people everywhere. Couples are dancing, people are taking up the tables and the barstools. The deep bass of the music thumps through the club and the nagging pressure behind your right eye threatens to pop it right from its socket.
The security guard holds his wrist to the pad on the door and holds it open for you.
“Thanks,” you say again through another fake smile.
The door clicks behind you and the music dulls, the only light on this side of the door comes from the propped open door of Mister Miller’s room. You rap your knuckles lightly on the door frame and Joel steps into view. Your eyes travel from his shiny black dress shoes, up the perfectly tailored black dress pants and fitted white dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing the strong muscle lined forearms that usually drive you wild. You stand there, waiting and hoping to feel something, but just like in your car yesterday, nothing comes. Meanwhile, he’s smiling at you as if he’s just discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
“Hi, my sweet girl,” Joel’s voice usually coats you like warm molasses, especially when he calls you his. But the rejection letters feel like they have plastered themselves onto you, seemingly creating a hard shell, keeping that miserable gray fog from escaping.
“Hi, Mister Miller,” you say obediently, hoping he doesn’t notice anything is wrong.
He motions for you to come inside, and pulls you into his arms as the door quietly clicks shut behind you. You wrap yours around his waist subconsciously as he presses his lips to your forehead. You’re sure the two of you have embraced like this before but right now it feels foreign. “What’s wrong?”
Fuck.
“Nothing. I’m sorry, it’s just been a long few days. I’m sorry, I can go. I don’t want to drag you down.” Your hands fist his dress shirt, a silent cry for him to not let you leave as an annoying dry lump forms in your throat.
“Hey, no. Don’t be sorry, baby girl.” His hands run long, slow lines up and down your back as he brings his forehead to meet yours.
The pounding of the music on the other side of the club fades away completely as his eyes melt into yours. It's absurd that you missed him, isn’t it? You are his submissive, nothing else. But when he looks at you the way he is now it’s hard to remember up from down. The pressure behind your eye dissipates as one of his hands cups the nape of your neck and squeezes gently. From the outside eye, you could almost argue that he’s acting as if he missed you too.
His voice is a soft whisper as he continues, “Did you want to talk about it?”
Maybe it’s his years of experience as a dom and taking care of his subs. Or maybe this is just normal for him, but you aren’t used to someone wanting to talk about it. You’re used to a quick hug and a shitty pep talk. His hands felt heavenly on your clothed body, but as they brush against the bare skin of your neck to cup your cheeks they’re out of this world. This strong, successful, handsome man is giving you his full attention, wants to give you his full attention, and as his nose runs down yours it finally happens.
Your body is flooded with that familiar desire. Your breathing catches as you practically moan, “No, I need you to make me forget. Help me, Mister Miller. Please?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, exposing that dimple that makes him so damn endearing as he pulls his face back from yours. “I’m going to push you tonight, sweet girl.” He slides your faux leather jacket off, letting it hit the floor. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, Mister Miller,” you say, your voice turning husky.
His eyes dance around your features and with a single blink he switches. You don’t think you could ever describe it, but it’s like he puts on a mask. His soft brown eyes turn almost onyx, the muscles in his jaw seem flexed, but it’s his voice that really gives away when he’s transformed into his fully dominant form. Joel’s voice is deep yet has a soft aura. Mister Miller's voice on the other hand is full of gravel, and nothing is a suggestion.
“Take off your clothes.”
Joel steps back, watching as you slip your bare feet out of your sandals. You felt underdressed tonight, but you just couldn’t convince yourself to put together an outfit. Your denim shorts and oversized black t-shirt come off easily and after stepping out of your shorts you look up at Mister Miller. His tongue runs along his bottom lip as he takes you in, eyes widening at your lack of bra and panties tonight.
“Dirty little girl.” He accentuates every word as his eyes travel a burning path up and down your exposed skin and then to the side of the room behind you. “See that pillow?”
You spin slowly, a black velvet pillow sits on the floor, handcuffs hanging above it from a chain connected to the ceiling. You look over your bare shoulder at Joel who simply juts his chin towards it in a silent command. As you walk towards the pillow, the metallic clink of his ring hitting the ceramic dish washes over you. Goosebumps spread across your skin and you feel the anxiety leaving your body. The doubt that has been screaming at you dulls to a barely-there whisper. For a second you feel weightless, floating towards the black pillow like the little styrofoam packing peanuts you used to place in rain run off as a kid.
‘No one has ever made you feel like this’. The little box of feelings says from the dark, ‘He’d take care of you, if you let him.’ You push that box deeper into the archives of your mind as you stop in front of the pillow.
Joel’s voice is deep, almost a menacing growl from behind you as he says, “Kneel.”
Your mind shuts off completely as you comply, dropping to your knees, facing the wall, and tucking your feet underneath you.
“Toes planted on the floor, sweet girl.” You adjust how you're sitting, exposing the soles of your feet to Joel as he walks towards you, his expensive dress shoes clicking slightly on the hardwood. You can feel the heat of his body as he stops just inches from your bare skin. “Good. Hands up.”
His touch is gentle as he places the cuffs around your wrists. “What’s your safeword?”
“Stegosaurus,” you say softly.
“Louder!” He barks.
You jump slightly before saying it again with confidence, “Stegosaurus.”
Joel takes a small step towards the wall and tugs the other end of the chain to pull it tighter, stretching your arms up above your head. You’re almost lifted off your knees. A small piece of leather running up and down your spine and your breathing starts to speed up. The anticipation of what’s to come almost has you bursting at the seams.
“This is a riding crop. You said you’re interested in impact play, as well as paddles, whips and crops. Is that correct?”
You nod, your throat going dry and voice cracking as you say, “Yes, Mister Miller.”
“How’d your LSAT go, baby?”
“I…I th-think I failed,” you murmur.
A sharp snapping sound fills the room, quickly followed by red hot pain on your right ass cheek; you gasp at the sensation.
The soft leather goes back to tracing your spine, slowly up and down, almost feather light and ticklish. “Again, how did your LSAT go?”
“I’m sorry, Mister Miller. But,” your try to swallow the dry lump in your throat. “I think I failed.”
As if he’s had years of sniper training, he strikes you in the exact same spot. This time your body jerks, the chains rattling above you as you cry out. However, the heat of this strike spreads right to your clit, and your cry morphs into a whine of pleasure.
“Sweet girl, do you belong to me?” He trails the leather along your hip, slowly teasing up your side.
“Y-Yes, Mister Miller.”
“Does it look like I own things that aren’t perfect?” The soft end of the crop continues its trail, over the side of your breast and to your armpit.
“No.” You whisper.
I can’t do this, he’s going to ask me to say I’m perfect and I can’t do it.
“I don’t appreciate you talking bad about something I own.” A strike lands on the sole of your left foot, you hadn’t even realized the crop had moved from your arm. He taps the foot again, lighter this time but the pain from the first strike hasn’t ceased, a strangled cry passes your lips. “Especially when what you’re talking about is yourself.”
Another strike hits your right ass cheek and the red hot stings of it causes you to shoot up onto your knees. The chains above you rattle and go slack. Joel makes a noise similar to a growl behind you before two quick snaps land on the back of both of your thighs. “Kneel, sweet girl.”
You’re shocked by the moans and gasps that are filling the room, sounds that are unconsciously coming from your own mouth. Your pussy is throbbing and as you settle back onto your heels you realize how wet you are. You didn’t think you’d like this this much.
“You need to learn how to stay still without being tied down.”
“Sorry, Mister Miller,” you whine through the panting breaths you’re taking.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says, striking your left cheek and then gently rubbing along your ass. “How did your LSAT go?”
“I…It…I don’t know,” you say defeatedly.
He hits the sole of your left foot again, then your right ass cheek and this time your body acts on its own, your hips tilting to push your ass out towards Joel, a needy moan filling the room. “Come on, baby girl. Use your words.”
“It was harder then I remember,” you hum, your body practically vibrating with need. God, you can’t believe how good this feels.
The crop makes a slow line from the top of your ass, up your spine again and you tense up, sucking in a big breath. “Relax, my sweet girl. Until we talk about it, I will never strike you anywhere above the waist.”
“In fact,” he continues. “Anywhere here,” he draws a big circle along your entire lower back, “Should never, ever, be hit.”
“Ok, th-thank you.” You sink onto your heels again, your inner thighs are almost slippery with how turned on you are.
Joel laughs lightly, “You’re welcome. So, it was harder than you remember?”
“Y-yes. I think I failed, Joel.” As soon you say it, you know you’ve fucked up. Eight quick, sharp snaps of the crop hit; two on each ass cheek and two on each foot, all at random. It’s over faster than you can apologize, and the walls of your pussy spasm with each crack of leather on skin. “Sorry, Mister Mill, hnng, M-Miller.”
Your head falls back, eyes fluttering closed as he speaks. “Again, it was harder than you remember?”
You whine before whispering, “Yes, but I tried my hardest.”
“Up,” Joel commands, pulling the chain so you’re up on your knees. “Good girl. Spread your legs.”
He bends down behind you, the heat of his broad upper body warming your back. His strong hands grip your waist to steady you as you walk your knees out. “That’s it, good job sweet girl.”
His praise shifts everything. Sure, maybe you failed, but you are stronger than a little test. You are bigger than law school. If you don’t get in, you’ll try again and you’ll keep on trying, because you can do anything. A bright light shines on the little box of feelings.
The crop lightly tapping your inner thigh brings your back to the moment. “Please, Mister Miller.”
“You don’t have to ask, sweet girl. If this is enough to make you come then let go for me.” He whispers, trailing the leather of the crop up your thigh before trailing down the other.
“I need you to touch me,” you whine, letting your head fall forward.
“Aww, poor baby,” he mocks before bringing the little leather square between your legs and taps lightly against your swollen clit.
“Oh god, oh god, don’t stop,” you moan.
“Yea? My perfect sweet girl gonna come?”
“Yes,” you cry, head now falling back, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.
"Tell me,” he commands, stopping the tapping and just letting the soft leather rest against you, “Tell me you're perfect.”
“No, please,” you murmur.
“Tell me you’re perfect and you can come, sweet girl.” The crop is barely touching you now.
“I’m perfect,” you whine.
He smacks your clit harder once, twice and with the third snap of the crop you fall over the edge. The chains rattle as pleasure consumes you. Your orgasm rolls through you so hard and all you can do is take it. You moan loudly and your legs start to give out beneath you, the handcuffs and chain above you the only thing holding you up.
Joel
Fuck, she looks absolutely stunning when she finally submits. My beautiful, broken girl. She’s so smart, so driven, always pushing, pushing, pushing. Always taking care of everyone else. I wish she’d just let go, let me take care of her.
As you slump forward he drops the riding crop, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you up, as he undoes the cuffs. You go completely boneless in his arms, your back pressed to his front, his soft lips peppering kisses along the top of your glistening shoulder. “You did so well, sweetheart. God, you’re so beautiful.”
He supports your weakened body, lowering you to the floor and rolling you onto your back. He pushes the hair that’s stuck to your sweat soaked forehead back. The soft and mischievous smile across your face is exactly what he was hoping for; you’re not ready to be done yet and luckily, neither is he.
“I’m not done with you,” he whispers, gravel in his throat, before kissing your forehead.
Joel stands and takes a few long strides across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He can feel your eyes glued to him as he walks away. After your joke about his pants he picked a pair that's extra snug, just for you. He’s never picked an outfit for a sub before, and this just further proves that even if he’s not ready to fully admit it to himself yet, you are so much more than just a sub.
“Sweet girl, come here.” He pats his thigh. As you sit up he says, “No, I want you to crawl to me.”
Your eyes widen, cheeks flushing, and his heart nearly flutters right out of his fucking chest as you say, “What?”
He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. He wants to wrap you in his arms and praise you, but you’re responding so well to him being mean and he knows you need him to keep going. “I said to fucking crawl.”
When you get on your hands and knees, his cock swells to its full potential, pushing painfully behind the zipper of his dress pants. He begins memorizing every inch of your glistening skin and the lust-filled expression on your face as you move so beautifully across the room.
“Like this, Mister Miller?” You ask innocently, wetting your lips and effectively ruining his life at the same time.
“Just like that, my sweet girl,” he praises, sitting back up and patting his thigh as he adds, “All the way, then rest your head right here.”
You finally reach him, settling yourself in a kneeling position again and laying your head on his lap, big eyes looking up at him sweetly. His short nails scrape along your scalp as his fingers card through your hair and butterflies fill his stomach as you melt into his touch. “You look so pretty like this. So sweet and submissive. I’m a bad man for the thoughts I have about you when you’re like this.”
You hum quietly, eyelashes hitting your cheeks as your eyes flutter closed. You’re fully at his mercy, trusting him to do what he thinks is best. It’s not a role he takes lightly, not like when he was younger. If this was fifteen years ago you still be handcuffed to that ceiling as he fucked you, but after breaking a lot of hearts he’s reformed his ways. No sex, that’s the rule, as badly as he’d love to sink into your tight, wet heat, you’re trusting him to keep you safe.
A sense of calm and comfort washes over him as he continues to massage at your scalp, and he smiles to himself as your body gets heavier between his spread thighs. There’s lots of things he likes about you, but the thing he loves the most is how he never knows what’s going to come out of your mouth next. And you prove that when your eyes flutter open and you confidently say, “I want to suck your cock.”
“Fuck, baby. Gonna give me a heart attack sayin’ shit like that outta the blue.”
Your perfect pink lips curl up into a shy smile, his hand moving from your hair so he can brush his knuckles lightly down your cheek. “S’ that what you want? To suck on my cock?”
Your head comes off his lap as you nod up at him. “Yes, Mister Miller. Please?”
“You know that you don’t have to do that. Right? I don’t do this for orgasms, it’s about so much more than that for me.” He asks softly, knuckles trailing your jaw.
“I know, it’s more than that for me too, but I want to.”
The two of you look at one another for a while, eyes dancing along each other's faces. His voice comes out thick and full of sand, “Take it out.”
He sits back, resting his hands on the bed behind him as your hands go to his belt, quickly undoing the buckle and then opening his pants. His thick cock springs free as you pull down his soft black boxers, the tip already leaking a bead of milky precome. As you eagerly press the flat of your tongue to the tip, he stifles a moan and watches as your eyes widen. He knows that look, it’s the same look every other man and woman has when they see it for the first time. Joel’s never been with someone of the same sex, but on the rare times he’s shared a sub with another man they have the same expression too.
“You have a piercing,” you say, curiosity thick in your voice, eyes glued to the nickel sized silver hoop that sits at the very bottom of his pelvis, the bottom of the hoop sitting just above the base of his cock.
“Yes,” he confirms, watching the questions about the unusual placement of it run behind your inquisitive eyes.
Your hand is wrapped around the base of his cock now, your pinky grazing the shiny metal, and his hands fist the sheets behind him to stop himself from grabbing you. “I didn’t know that was a place people pierced.”
He smirks. “Welcome to the wonderful world of kink, sweet girl.”
He got the piercing shortly after he began his journey to become a dom. In certain positions it can be very beneficial for his partner, and even though he’s vowed over and over again to himself that he’s not going to cross that line with you, he can’t help but imagine your perfect face as you find out exactly what it can do. A little piece of metal that would stimulate your clit as he fucks you.
Your soft pink tongue wets your lips before you begin to suckle on the sensitive rosy pink tip of his cock. His lips part with a quiet sigh. The entire tip of his cock slips into your mouth and his hands clench harder at the fluffy white sheets, desperately trying to let you explore him when all he wants to do is wrap your silky hair around his hands and hear what you sound like when you gag. His efforts double as you hum and then swirl your tongue around the leaking tip, big doe eyes looking up at him.
“Fuck, baby,” he almost whimpers. “Do that again.” You smile up at him sweetly and his heart starts to thunder behind his ribs. This isn’t a good idea. He should just focus on you, he gets off on that too, just in a much different way.
Submissives come to him for many different reasons but he’s a dominant for one reason only. From the minute Tiffany passed, Joel has been responsible for everything. From raising Sarah, to bailing out Tommy whenever he got in trouble. Not to mention his construction job, which eventually led to being a business owner. Everyone needed everything from Joel. He had to pivot plans or multitask, nothing ever went as planned; but when he’s Mister Miller it goes exactly how he wants it to. He can say no, he can make them beg or say please, he plans what happens and it goes just how it’s supposed to. For a man who is supposed to be “the boss”, he only feels in control when he’s playing the role of dominant.
And then came you. This beautiful little ray of light. From that first gasp and wide eyed stare in his office he had a feeling about you. And then everything that came out of your mouth took him by surprise. And right now, how good your mouth feels has him even more surprised.
You haven’t looked away as you’ve worked more of him down your throat, your hand moves in tandem with your mouth, and your tongue flicks against the ridge along the bottom of the tip each time.
“Feels s’good, sweet girl.” One of his hands moves on its own, tucking your hair behind your ear. “You can take more though. Come on. Be a good girl and take it all.”
A small humming giggle vibrates along his length as you work more of him into your mouth and he can’t fight it anymore. Both his hands come to your hair, pushing it back as he wraps the soft strands around his fingers and grips tightly, guiding you down and holding you as low as he can get you before you gag. “Good fuckin’ girl. Jus’ like that.”
You
Joel’s salty precum is like a drug. You want it. Need it. And know you’re going to crave it forever. He’s been mean tonight, something you haven’t really seen from him, but it was exactly what had to happen to get your head back on straight. You needed a harsh hand to snap you out of the dark looming cloud that’s been threatening to swallow you whole.
You’ve probably always suffered from depression or high-functioning anxiety, not that your parents would have noticed or said anything. And even if they had, they wouldn’t have gotten their braggable daughter diagnosed. God forbid you weren’t something for them to hold over their friends’ heads.
Joel’s hands tighten in your hair as he starts to take over. He let you taste him, let you get his cock nice and sloppy with your saliva. He looked down at you softly while you started, but now he’s back to full dominance. Full Mister Miller.
He pushes you down onto his cock, the tip just kissing against your gag reflex. Your scalp burns under his strong fingers and you can feel yourself submitting. Everything goes quiet: your limbs feel heavy yet ready to move or adjust as he commands, the sides of your vision darken, and the only thing that matters now is him. His wishes. His desires. His commands.
He pulls you off of him, and you gasp in air, a string of your spit landing on your chin, your eyes watering. “You snap if you need me to stop, got it?”
“Yes, sir, Mister Miller,” you say hoarsely. “Fuck my mouth, please.”
“Open,” he says growls.
You do as he says, opening your mouth wide while looking into his dark obsidian eyes. You can see his cheeks and tongue working behind his closed lips before he spits into your mouth.
“That’s my fucking girl,” he rasps and then roughly guides you back onto his cock. He doesn’t take his time or stop at that point of resistance this time. No, this time he pushes you further than you’ve ever been. The cool metal of the ring on his pelvis touches your nose. The juxtaposition of his hard cock meeting your soft mouth and his cold piercing meeting your warm face is staggering, yet comforting.
“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs.
You switch your focus, sucking air in through your nostrils slowly. “That’s it, sweet girl. Relax.”
You let your body sink again into his muscled lined thighs. He starts to move you up his cock. He gets about halfway before he forces you down again. You gag as he hits the back of your throat, shocking yourself when the gag ends in a moan and your pussy starts to weep for him. In fact, almost everywhere is weeping for him. Salvia drips from your lips and onto his lap, tears run down face.
You’re a mess.
‘His mess’, says that annoying little box in the corner of your mind which now has ‘Mister Miller’ written across it in loopy cursive handwriting, the dots of the i’s little bedazzled hearts.
Joel uses your hair to pull you up to the tip and you gasp in a few breaths before he starts moving you up and down his now obscenely wet and fully erect cock. Your jaw aches with how wide you need to open your mouth to fit him. Your fingertips just met around the tapered base earlier. You’ve never looked at man’s cock before and thought much, but Joel’s might be enough to ruin your life.
“Fuck, this mouth. Feels s’ fuckin’ good. Look at you, takin’ it so well. You like this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you say, although it’s muffled around his cock. He pulls you off fully, releasing his grips from your hair. You sit back on your heels, his eyes raking over your body, pausing to watch your heaving chest; a mixture of needing to catch your breath and being insanely turned on. You don’t take your eyes off his face.
“Stay.” Joel’s voice is deep enough that you feel it reverberate through you. You lick your lips, swallowing down the taste of him that you’ve become addicted to and place your hands on your lap.
One of his hands comes up to his mouth and he spits into his own palm before bringing it down to fist his cock. Your eyes flick down to watch as he pumps himself slowly. “You have me doin’ shit that I didn’t plan, sweet girl. I give in to you, let you take the reins. But I’m in charge here.”
He pumps faster, and you fight to stay where you’re supposed to. “You need to remember that, so you don’t get to be the one to make me come today, you don’t get to feel it or taste it. No, you’re going to sit there, like a good little obedient submissive, and watch.”
You whimper, your right hand moving on its own to between your thighs.
“I didn’t say you could touch yourself. Keep your hands on your lap.” His voice is strained as the movement of his hand becomes less fluid. His free hand comes to his balls, massaging them lightly and you try to commit the sight of him like this to memory. Tall, wide, and commanding, yet falling apart as he looks at your naked and kneeling form in front of him.
“Mister Miller?” You ask, your voice small and cracking, the back of your throat raw from the way he fucked your mouth. “I’m so wet. Please, can I just touch for a little bit?”
His mouth falls open, pleasure etched across his features, his focus never leaving you. “Show me how wet you are. Spread your legs for me.”
You raise off your heels slightly and slide your knees apart, exposing your wet and swollen cunt to him. Then you lean back, hands resting on the floor behind you, tilting your hips up so he can see all of you.
“Good girl. So fuckin’ pretty,” he moans and then you watch as white ropes of cum spill over his hand. Your name passes his lips in a groan as he comes simply from the sight of your pussy. His hand stills and you lock eyes. You should feel shy like this, but instead you smile at him, a mischievous giggle bubbling up your chest as you bite down on your bottom lip.
His head nods towards the small dresser by the door, the one with the ceramic dish where his ring is on top. “Bring me a small towel from the top drawer and then get on the bed.”
You saunter to the dresser, trying your hardest not to look too eager, and then back towards him with a small fluffy white hand towel. He takes it from you and cleans himself up as you lay on the bed. He stuffs his softening cock into his boxers and then removes his pants and shirt. If you thought you were turned on before, it’s nothing to how you feel now seeing him almost naked in front of you.
That whole looking like you’re carved from stone gene is strong with the Millers, you think, watching the muscles behind his toned skin flex beneath his tanned skin as he climbs onto the bed. He grabs you by the ankle and pulls you to the end of the bed, a squeal leaving your lips. You had almost forgotten about the riding crop welts, but the friction against the sheets has them burning slightly and you wince as the heat settles.
“I’ll fix those sore spots, but first I need to taste you. Is that ok?”
You spread your legs wide for him, “Y-Yes. I need you, Mister Miller.”
“Tell me what you need,” he hums, settling himself between your legs.
“What you said,” shyness seems to have finally caught up to you, although you aren’t sure why.
He raises a thick dark eyebrow at you. “Ask for it, tell me how you like it.” He nods at you encouragingly as you take a few breaths. “Come on, my sweet girl. You can do it.”
My sweet girl, you melt. That fucking bedazzled box of feelings is fully in the spotlight now. He has years of experience in this role, but you can’t be imagining it. Looking at someone the way he’s looking at you now isn’t something that someone can fake. You can’t be the only one to feel whatever this invisible teether is between the two of you.
“I like fingers curled inside while the tip of your tongue flicks at my clit. I like suction too.” The pride in Joel’s face is almost overwhelming as he listens. God, he’s beautiful.
He hums slightly, readjusting himself between your spread thighs. “My pretty girl gets what she wants,” he whispers before using the tip of his tongue to gently work at the soft folds of your cunt, working his way from your tight entrance to your clit.
Your body jerks when he reaches your most sensitive part and you can’t stop the salacious moan that fills the room. “Oh god, Mister Miller.”
He runs his tongue in slow, teasing circles around your clit. Not with enough pressure to actually make you orgasm, just enough to taunt you, and your entire body breaks out in goosebumps and a thin sheen of sweat at the same time. He slides his right arm under your leg, hooking his elbow under your thigh and reaches his hand up and over towards your pussy. His thick pointer finger and thumb easily slip to each side of your puffy clit. Just as you’re about to float off into another dimension he pinches hard. You scream out in a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, your back arching off the mattress.
He holds your clit in his fingers, easing up the pinch to tease at it with his tongue again while he works the middle finger of his other hand inside of you.
“You’re so tight,” he hums between licks. “Gotta relax for me. Let me into this tight little cunt.”
You whimper at the push of his finger inside of you. One of his fingers is easily one and half of yours, and if he’s having a hard time getting just one of them in, you can’t imagine how it will feel to have two.
“Eyes on me, sweet girl,” he rasps, releasing your clit from his fingers. His strong hand presses lightly on your mound. “You’re safe here, baby. Open up for me.”
As always, you follow exactly what your dom says. Craning your neck slightly and opening your eyes to lock your gaze with his. The honey flecks in his dark brown irises warm your skin and as your body relaxes he smiles up at you. You feel Joel’s finger slide the rest of the way in with minimal resistance and it sends a wave of pleasure from your core to your toes.
“There’s my perfect sweet girl.” He groans as you let out a euphoric whimper. And then he’s back on you. Soft lips pressing to your wet heat, the flat of his large tongue circling your clit.
Your head falls back to the mattress, “Fuckfuckfuck. Oh god!”
Your orgasm is embarrassingly close. Joel is hitting almost all the spots you love. No man has gotten you to the edge this quickly. Just as that tingle at the base of your spine starts to spread he curls his finger forward and sucks your clit into your mouth.
“Mis…hnnng…fuck. I’m - I'm gonna.” You can barely think outside of the pleasure, nevermind form a sentence.
A second finger slips inside of you, “Give it to me, sweet girl. Show me what I do to you.”
Your orgasm hits you like an earthquake, making you shake harder than you ever have. The walls of your pussy clench hard on his strong fingers. His mouth is back on your clit, sucking it between his soft, warm lips. The lewd sounds of his sucking mix with your cries of pleasure. Joel is ruthless, never stopping as you absolutely crumble underneath his touch. Another strong wave of your orgasm rushes through you when he curls his fingers forward again, pressing right on your g-spot.
“Oh fuck, fuuuck Mister Miller.” You whine.
He slows the motion of his tongue as the convulsions of your body slow, working you through the aftershocks of your earth shattering orgasm.
“Good girl,” he whispers before placing a light kiss to your spent clit and slowly slips his fingers out of you. As your gazes lock he licks your arousal off his fingers and then rolls you onto your stomach. You hear him suck in a breath through his teeth when he sees the aftermath of his riding crop punishment earlier. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. Just stay on your stomach for me.”
His lips press to your shoulder blade as the mattress baubles under his weight leaving the bed. You glance over at him, watching his broad, tanned back as he grabs a few items. He spins to face you, coconut oil in one hand and an orange juice and a bottle of water in the other. He places the drinks on the bedside table then scoops a bit of coconut oil onto his fingers.
You wince as he makes contact with your right cheek, “Ouch, Mister Miller.”
“I know. This will help, and hopefully you learned your lesson about talking badly about what belongs to me.” His voice is sweet yet serious and he moves onto the other cheek, then the back of your thighs before his hand wraps around your right ankle, guiding you to bend your knee so he can look at the sole of your foot.
He places a light kiss on the light pink spot and you giggle, “Your beard tickles.”
He laughs and does the same thing to the other foot before lining his body up with yours and pulling you in to be his little spoon. “How are you feeling, sweet girl?”
“Mmmm,” you hum, sinking back into his warmth. “Much better. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” he holds you tighter, biceps flexing around your body like a ring of muscled safety. You're both quiet for a few minutes before he breaks it. “You kinda scared me tonight if I’m being honest.”
“Sorry,” you whisper, hiding your face in the arm he has under your head.
“No, don’t be. I’ve always been good at reading people, it’s probably more of a curse than a gift, but I just - I could feel that you weren’t in a good space when you got here.”
“Ya,” you agree.
“I know I can’t fix it, it’s not my place, but I hope I at least helped.”
You fixed it.
“You did help. I feel much better. Plus,” you turn to face him, both of you using one of your own arms to support your heads and your other arms wrapping around the other person. “Plus, you were right. I am smart. I can do this. I need to not be so hard on myself.”
Joel smiles sweetly, straight white teeth shining at you.
“If I can be spanked with a riding crop while handcuffed, fuck, I can be aaaanything.”
You and Joel laugh together and it all feels so natural. Maybe too natural. There’s something comfortable and familiar about him. It might be that southern hospitality, but in all the years you’ve been in Texas you’ve never felt this content with someone else.
“Mister Miller?” you say as the laughter subsides.
“You can call me Joel now,” his eyes widen just for a fraction of a second after it leaves his lips, almost as if he didn’t intend for it to come out before adding, “The scene is over.”
“Ah, so you’re saying this is a safe nickname zone now?” His smile makes your stomach flip.
“Careful, freckles.” He laughs, raising an eyebrow at you.
You give him a closed lipped smile, “Hey, if you’re gonna use it then so am I, sweet cheeks. Don’t think I didn’t notice the extra tight pants tonight.”
He shrugs a strong shoulder to his ear as you continue. “So, if you don’t sleep with your subs, why the piercing?”
He takes one big breath and licks his lips before he starts, his fingertips trailing up and down your arm. “I got it a long time ago, I wasn’t always as strict with my rules. I’m not proud of it, I broke a lot of hearts when I first started this whole thing. I haven’t taken it out because…well, I don’t really know. I guess because when I do finally reach that point with a partner I want them to experience the benefits.”
Always the giver, you think.
“Can you have a traditional partner while living this lifestyle?” You immediately begin to back track, realizing that you don’t want to seem like you’re getting attached. “Not you in particular. What you do outside of this room isn’t my business. I just mean like, are there doms that have subs that are married? Again, not you.”
He stares at you as you continue to ramble. “That whole thing came out wrong.”
“Relax, freckles, I knew what you meant. You’re kinda cute when you get all flustered and start to ramble though.”
The lid of the now pink painted box of feelings in your mind lifts a little. It seems to have gained an entire personality, and has the voice of Mrs. Potts from Beauty and The Beast as it says, ‘oh he definitely feels that tether too.’
“To answer your question,” his voice pulls you out of your own mind, “There are doms that do this professionally. I did have paying subs at one point myself and had a fairly serious girlfriend.”
Jealousy churns in your stomach. It’s irrational and you really hope it isn’t whoever Tess is.
“But,” he continues, “It’s a tricky situation and involves a lot of trust and communication. Probably more than a sub-dom dynamic. But, yes, I’ve seen lots of happily married people who live and explore the kink lifestyle.”
You shiver slightly and he pulls you in closer, tucking your head into his chest, inhaling that ash, leather and natural Joel musk. His hand runs up and down your naked back, the calluses on his fingers scratching slightly.
His body tenses, almost as if he’s nervous before he speaks. “Did you want to come to a Shibari class with me this week? We are hosting a demonstration at the club on Wednesday.”
You glance up at him, “I’d really like that, Joel.”
He tucks your head back into his chest. His lips press to the crown of your head at the same time that yours meet the soft skin of his sternum. “It’s a date.”
Part Two
#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller tlou#pedro pascal#joel the last of us#joel miller fanfiction#joel tlou#joel x reader#joel miller fic#daddy joel#joel miller fanfic#the last of us hbo#tlou joel#tlou fic#Joel Miller au#joel miller x you#joel miller x ofc#joel miller x y/n#joel miller x oc#joel miller x original character#joel miller fan fiction#joel miller the last of us#pedro pascal fanfiction#Pedro pascal stories#pedorhub
748 notes
·
View notes
Text
Little Kisses | cl16

Summary : A day in Greece with the Leclerc family and a lot of… little kisses! 💋
Warning? oh no! It’s just dad Charles, should that count?
Thoughts & Notes : hiiiii y’all! It’s my first ever one-shot on this new cl account so thought what could be better than starting off with fluff? And that too girl-dad Charles! Best choice. I’m so excited for y’all to read it and love it as much as I do. Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated, DMs are always open so stop by if want 💌 requests are open too! I went to F1 when I was 4 and lost track while growing up, dear god, thank you for F1 movie bc I’m obsessed! Going third time soon. New obsession is unlocked and THIS MAN omg is stayin’ my heart is literally half his now. I’m a newbie in this fandom so just keep watching me drop on me knees for him😘😜 anyways for now just keep reading! Enjoy💕
p.s. my main account is @harryssyndrome
Posted on : July 7th, 2025. WC : 2.2k
Pairing : Husband!Girl-Dad!Charles x Wifey!Mom!Fem!reader
MONACO GRAND PRIX - SUNDAY
The roar of engines finally faded. The red-and-white kerbs of Monte Carlo glowed under the setting sun, and the scent of burning rubber hung heavy in the air as mechanics hugged one another in jubilant relief.
Charles stood atop the podium, champagne bottle in hand, spraying silver droplets over the crowd below. His cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. The Monegasque flags waved like a sea of red and white, and his name echoed off the sleek glass buildings lining the harbor.
But even as the national anthem played, even as the trophy gleamed in his hands, a single thought pulsed through his chest, louder than the cheers:
I can’t wait to leave it all behind for a little while and just… be.
And more than anything, he wanted to share that quiet with the people who made every lap worth it.
🏎️🏁🚥🏆💨 🧸☁️🎀⋆。𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🪐 𓇼
𝑮𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒄𝒆 🍰 . 𖦹˙🧸ྀི ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴅᴀʏs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ
The villa perched on a cliff above a secluded Greek bay, its whitewashed walls almost blinding beneath the sun. The infinity pool glimmered like a slice of the Aegean itself, and the scent of brine and rosemary drifted on the breeze.
Charles lay sprawled on a lounger beneath an oversized straw umbrella, one ankle crossed over the other, sunglasses perched low on his nose. A soft linen towel was draped over his bare chest, still damp from an earlier dip.
Beside him, Y/N reclined with her legs stretched out, ankles shimmering with sun lotion, a wide-brimmed hat casting shade across her delicate features. She wore a pale coral bikini beneath a flowing white cover-up, the breeze tugging playfully at the fabric. A soft smile curved her lips as she scrolled through photos on her phone.
Their laughter came in gentle bursts, blending with the hush of the waves below.
From further across the terrace came the shrill, joyous shrieks of their daughter, Amelia — known to everyone as Amy.
“Amy, doucement!” Y/N called, though her voice held no real urgency.
Amy wore a cotton dress white as clouds, sprinkled with vivid red cherries that seemed almost alive under the Greek sun. The hem flounced as she toddled barefoot across the hot tiles, tiny toes pink against the pale stone.
In one hand, she clutched a plastic watering can, bright yellow, its spout trailing drops of water. In the other, a bright pink hair clip she’d plucked from Y/N’s suitcase.
Bounding after her came Leo, their exuberant golden retriever, tongue lolling out, his fluffy tail waving like a royal banner. His nails clicked over the stone as he darted in delighted circles around Amy.
“Leo, come bak here!” Amy babbled in a hybrid of French, English, and baby talk. “Me pour you flowa wawa!”
Leo barked and skidded sideways, snatching one of Amy’s small sandals from the ground in a single swift motion. He bolted off, triumph shining in his eyes.
Amy let out a squeal that somehow split the silence and turned every head.
“LÉO! Gimme back my shoe!”
Y/N burst into laughter, shaking her head. She dropped her phone onto her lap, eyes sparkling.
“Charles, your daughter is a hurricane.”
Charles tilted his sunglasses down to peer at her. “Our daughter, amour. Though… oui. A very adorable hurricane.”
“She gets it from you.”
“Moi? I never cause trouble.”
Y/N gave him a look so flat that Charles snorted in surrender. He leaned in, pressing a soft, sun-dappled kiss to her lips.
“Okay. Maybe a little trouble.”
Y/N gave a soft sigh against his mouth, pressing closer. Charles deepened the kiss slightly, fingertips brushing her jaw in a tender caress. Her skin was warm, tasting faintly of salt and sun lotion.
For a precious moment, it felt like the entire Aegean had stilled around them.
“Oi!”
Amy’s tiny, indignant voice cut through the balmy air like a siren.
“That’s my mommy!”
Charles and Y/N pulled apart, faces bright with laughter as they turned to find Amy barreling toward them, curls bouncing wildly around her flushed cheeks. Leo bounded after her, still brandishing the sandal like a trophy.
Amy stopped in front of the loungers, hands planted firmly on her hips. She glared at Charles with a comically stern expression.
“Daddy, no kissy Mommy!” she declared, stamping one little foot. “Mommy is mine!”
Y/N pressed her knuckles to her lips to keep from bursting out laughing. Charles opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again:
“But… but Daddy loves Mommy too!” he protested.
Amy narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “No. She mine.”
Then, without further ado, she climbed up onto Charles’s lounger, little knees digging into his stomach. Charles grunted in mock pain as Amy scrambled onto his lap, her cherry dress flaring out around her tiny legs.
Once seated, she cupped his face firmly between both small hands, smushing his cheeks together until his lips puckered.
“Me kiss me kiss, Daddy!” she insisted, her voice wobbling as she tried to form the words. “You run outta kissesss. Giv me kiss! Me also!”
Charles burst into helpless laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looped his arms around her tiny waist and peppered her cheeks, forehead, and chubby little nose with rapid-fire kisses.
“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”
Amy squealed, wiggling away and flailing her arms.
“Daddy, no tickle face!”
Leo, as if inspired by the excitement, dropped the sandal and barked joyfully. Then, in one glorious bound, he leapt into the pool, sending a huge arc of water spraying over the tiles.
Amy froze, twisting around in Charles’s lap, eyes wide.
“Daddy! Leo in wawa!”
Charles peeked over Amy’s shoulder, water dripping off his chin. “Oui, bébé. Leo loves swimming.”
Amy’s mouth fell open. “Leo is fish?”
Y/N, wiping her tears of laughter, chimed in: “He’s Monsieur Poisson today.”
Amy giggled. “Monsieur Pwa-sin!”
Charles beamed, heart swelling in his chest. There were few things in the world he loved more than the two of them — and seeing Amy’s curls shining under the sun while she chattered in her baby voice might be at the top of that list.
Amy wriggled off Charles’s lap and toddled toward the pool’s edge, curls bouncing. She knelt beside the water, peering at Leo as he paddled in delighted circles. But when Leo splashed closer, sending droplets onto her toes, Amy shrieked and scrambled backward.
“Daddy! Wawa scary!” she cried, pressing her hands over her mouth.
Charles eased off the lounger, stretching his back until his vertebrae cracked. He peeled off his white linen shirt, leaving his chest bare, abs tight and tan from days in the sun.
Y/N caught her breath. “Charles…”
He paused, smirking. “Quoi?”
“Stop looking like a Greek god in front of our daughter.”
Charles leaned closer, kissing her firmly. “Later, amour,” he murmured with a wicked grin.
He turned to Amy, who was now half-hiding behind Y/N’s legs, peeking out with big brown eyes.
“Come here, petite cerise,” Charles coaxed, kneeling by the water.
Amy inched forward cautiously.
“Daddy… no boom wawa?”
Charles bit back a grin. “No boom. Come give Daddy a kiss.”
Amy hesitated, little fingers twisting the hem of her cherry dress. After a moment, she leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek.
Charles immediately threw himself backward into the water with exaggerated flailing arms.
SPLOOSH!
Water surged over the tiles in a sparkling wave. Amy let out a scream of delight so high it practically startled seagulls from the sky.
“DADDY FELL DOWN!”
Y/N howled with laughter, clutching the umbrella pole for support. Charles surfaced, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and sputtered water.
“Did you see that, bébé?” he spluttered, grinning. “Daddy fall?”
Amy hopped up and down, clapping her hands. “I see! Daddy go BOOM!” She turned to Y/N, eyes huge. “Mommy, Daddy go boom in wawa!”
“Yes, baby!” Y/N gasped, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Daddy went boom!”
"Yup, he did, baby!" Y/N laughed. "Silly Daddy."
Charles floated to the pool’s edge, reaching up his dripping hands toward his daughter.
“Come in, ma chérie. Daddy’s here. I’ll keep you safe.”
Amy wavered, clutching the edges of her dress. “No… me scawed.”
Y/N crouched beside her, brushing a damp curl off Amy’s forehead. “But Daddy’s so strong, baby. He’ll hold you tight. And look — Leo’s swimming like a big fish!”
Amy peered over the edge again. Leo gave a happy bark and seemed to wave a paw at her.
“Leo fish?” she whispered.
“Oui!” Charles said. “Leo is Monsieur Poisson!”
Amy dissolved into giggles. “Monsieur Pwa-sin!”
Y/N kissed her cheek. “Let’s take off your pretty dress first. You can swim in your strawberry swimsuit.”
Amy gasped. “Me want swim suit!”
Y/N peeled the cherry dress off over Amy’s head, revealing a red swimsuit dotted with tiny strawberries. Charles gave a low whistle, eyes wide.
“Look at that beautiful mermaid!”
Amy giggled, cheeks pink. “Me mermaid!”
Y/N nudged her gently. “Want to swim with Daddy?”
Amy bit her lip. Then, glancing at Charles’s open arms, she finally nodded.
Charles spread his arms. “Jump, bébé. Daddy’s ready!”
Amy’s curls fluttered in the breeze as she teetered on the edge, wiggling her toes. She drew a deep breath, scrunched her eyes shut… and launched herself forward with a high-pitched squeal:
“Daddy, catch meeee!”
Charles caught her in one smooth motion, sweeping her high above the water before pulling her close. Amy clung to his neck, shrieking with laughter as he spun them in a gentle circle.
“See, bébé? Water’s not scary at all.”
Amy kicked her legs experimentally. “Me swimming! Me mermaid!”
“Yes, you are!” Charles laughed, kissing her damp curls.
Nearby, Leo paddled over, spraying water everywhere. Amy shrieked as Leo gave her cheek a big wet lick.
“LEO!” she shrieked. “No lick me!”
On the pool deck, Y/N stood with her phone raised, snapping photo after photo, eyes shining with pride and affection.
“Smile for Mommy!”
Charles turned toward her, holding Amy close, and pressed a soft kiss to his daughter’s cheek. Amy waved at the camera, tiny fingers splayed wide.
“Hi Mommyyyy!”
Y/N lowered her phone, eyes warm.
“You two… are my whole world.”
Charles swam closer, lips quirking into a mischievous smile. “You’re part of this world too, amour.”
He reached up and tugged Y/N closer. Y/N squealed, leaning down for a kiss… and Charles pulled her halfway into the water.
“CHARLES!”
Water soaked the hem of Y/N’s cover-up. She slapped his shoulder playfully as Amy shrieked in delight.
“Oi! Daddy, that’s my Mommy!” Amy scolded again, flailing her tiny arms between them.
Charles and Y/N laughed until their sides hurt, pulling Amy close in a soggy three-way hug while Leo barked gleefully around them.
Eventually, Charles carried Amy over to the pool steps, letting her sit while he splashed gentle waves around her feet.
“You’re so brave, mon trésor,” he murmured, brushing her wet curls off her forehead. “Daddy’s proud of you.”
Amy leaned forward, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck, eyes fluttering half-closed in exhaustion. “Me brave,” she echoed sleepily.
“Yes, you are,” Charles whispered, kissing her cheek. “Daddy’s little mermaid.”
Y/N knelt beside them, ruffling Amy’s hair. “I think someone’s ready for a nap.”
Amy jerked her head up. “No nap!” she protested — then yawned so hard her eyes watered.
Charles chuckled. “How about snuggle time instead?”
Amy paused, considering. Finally, she nodded. “Snuggle time.”
“That’s my girl.”
Charles lifted her out of the water, wrapping her in a fluffy towel. She nestled her damp curls into his shoulder, thumb creeping into her mouth.
Y/N rose and pressed a soft kiss to Charles’s wet temple. “Thank you for this,” she whispered. “For all of it.”
Charles glanced down at the two most important people in his life. His chest swelled, heart pounding with love so fierce it almost hurt.
“There’s nothing in this world more important than you two,” he murmured. “This… this is the real victory.”
Y/N kissed him again, slow and lingering, as Leo bounded out of the pool, spraying water everywhere and flopping at their feet.
Amy peeked up sleepily, mumbling around her thumb:
“Daddy… me still want more kisses.”
Charles smiled so wide it crinkled his eyes.
“You’ll never run out of Daddy’s kisses, mon amour. I promise.”
Under a sky awash in pink and gold, Charles settled onto the sunbed, his family curled close, warm skin pressed together, the salt-scented breeze rustling the olive trees around them.
The Monaco trophy sat gleaming somewhere miles away. But Charles knew: this was the real win.
#charles leclerc x reader#dad charles leclerc#charles leclerc#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc x female reader#dad!charles leclerc#formula 1#formula one#f1#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#f1 grid x reader#cl16#cl16 x reader#cl16 fanfic#cl16 imagine#charles leclerc fake instagram#charles leclerc fanfic#misspossessiveleclerc#charles leclerc fluff#husband!Charles leclerc
95 notes
·
View notes
Text
Blurred Lines 8
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
The hotel room is nice. Two beds, a couch and chairs, a bar, a large TV mounted on the wall, balcony, full bath... every amenity you could never afford. You're sure Nick will expect a big thank you. Or at least many.
Joey goes to the bar as you feel along the lapels of Nick's jacket. You forgot you were wearing it. You lower yourself into a clam shell armchair. You sigh as the adrenaline drips from you. She clucks as she nears and puts down two glasses.
"Looks like you need a drink," she sits in the other chair and pops the cork of the mini wine bottle. "Hell, so do I."
You lean your head on your hand as you watch her, "I don't think--"
"Long night," she insists as she pours, nudging a glass closer to you. You lean forward to take it. You pinch the stem and stare into the golden nectar.
"Honey," you begin.
"I'm okay," she assures you. "Mom, it could've been worse. So much worse but..." she pauses to drain half the glass, "you sent in the goon squad." She scoffs as she hunches, leaning her elbows on her thighs, knees wide. "Mom, who the hell do you work for?"
You chew your cheek and sip. You look around the suite which probably costs as much as your rent for one night. You lean back as the tension racks your back.
"CIA, I think. I saw his badge once," you say.
"CIA?" She echoes in awe.
"Plus, they had it stamped all over that work event," you scoff. You look down at the deep vee of the dress and try to pull it closed.
"He took you on a date?" She asks.
You flinch, "no, no," you shake your head and drink again. "He's my boss. And I'm a bit old for that."
"Never too old, mom," she cooes.
"He's too young for me," you counter.
"You know," she sniffs, "dad only ever wanted you to be happy."
"Joey..." you exhale.
"I'm just saying. Seems a bit much for a boss to do. Take you somewhere in that dress, then come to my rescue with his CIA henchmen..." she sucks her teeth. "I stick to women because most men, don't put in that much effort."
You chuckle, "Joey."
"Or they're creeps. Old creeps," she gives an exaggerated shudder. "Oof. Nasty."
You frown, "honey."
"It's over with. I'm moving on," she looks at the glass of wine in her hand. "I gotta find a new placement."
You nod, "Nick said something about that. Maybe he can help."
"I wouldn't want that. It's my problem."
"Sweetheart--"
"Look, I'm so thankful about everything you did. Him too but... I'm an adult."
"I know that, honey," you say.
"So let me figure it out."
You sit back and nod. You know what she means. Ever since your husband died, you can be a bit much.
"Mom," she says gently. "You don't need anyone else to take care of. You need to take care of yourself. For once."
"I do--"
"No, you work yourself to the bone to look after everyone else. When's the last time you took a vacation?"
You feel like a scolded child. The reversal of roles has you off-kilter, more so than the rest of the night. You shrug.
"Right, well, it's been a long day, night, whatever," she yawns behind her hand. "I'm going to crash out. Please try to do the same."
"Yes, Josephine," you answer meekly.
"Oh, don't," she points a finger in your direction.
"Sometimes..." you stand slowly. "You remind me too much of your father."
"Good. He always did keep you sane," she chuckles.
🩵
"Hmm, well, I didn't expect all this." You mutter to yourself as you look at your reflection. You turn amd cringe at the wrinkled dress.
"Still look hot," Joey whistles.
"Hey." You stick your tongue put at her as she passes, "not exactly dressed for the train. Or bus... I haven't heard from Nick."
"Huh? Really? I'm sure you will." She slithers.
"We're not having this conversation again."
"Fine, but denial isn't that deep of a river. You can't hide forever." She laughs and you shake your head.
You go into the bathroom, dejected by the full body view. You tame your hair as best you can and pause to examine the wrinkles around your eyes. Age isn't so bad. Lonelier than you expected.
"Speak of the devil..." Joey appears in the open door and you stand straight. "Looks who's calling."
You turn to her and grab the phone. You arch a brow at her and answer. She always loves to tease you. Nick? He's your boss. And he's as close to her age as yours. Probably.
"Hello?" You say. Joey tilts her head as she leans on the door frame.
"Hey, Nick," you daughter calls out.
You hush her with a wagging finger.
"Hi, ladies." He returns smoothly.
"So," you try to ignore Joey. "I can find my way home--"
"No need, I'm downstairs." He interrupts.
"Downstairs?" You echo.
"Sure. You know. I had some loose ends to tie up so I hung around and got that done. No point driving home in the dark." He drawls. "Figured I'd give you a lift back to town."
"Right, eh..." you rub the back of your neck. "Sure. Makes sense."
"I can take care of myself, mom," Joey trills. "You got... 'work'." She gestures with her fingers. You roll your eyes.
"I'll get myself together," you say. "Won't be lomg at all."
"Take your time, honey." He says.
"Alright. Bye."
You hang up and turn to sneer at Joey. "He's my job-- my boss. It's funny but not that funny."
"Chill, mom. It's a joke. Come on. I just think it's cute. Thinking of you dating... anyone."
"Because it will never happen," you approach her. "Now," you put your hands on her arms. "I have to go home. As much as I'd rather stay but... law school ain't cheap." You pull her into a hug. "I'm so so happy you're safe. So happy." You pull back and look her in the face. "And thank you for calling me. You know you can do that always."
"Yes, mom. Better count on it," she grins.
"Oh, if you don't. You'll hear from me." You pinch her cheek playfully. "Love you, kiddo."
She snorts. "Kiddo? Only dad called me that."
"Well... You've always me my kid. Always will be."
"Alright, mom." She makes a face. "Love you too."
"Oh, don't let me keep you from that lovely girlfriend of yours. Hope you two have fun," you chirp.
"Oh, you too," she counters sharply.
You sigh and shake your head. You squeeze her hand then make yourself let go. You head for the front room of the sweet and grab Nick's jacket off the back of the chair. You'll use it for cover until you're out of the hotel.
You groan as you slip into the heels. Your arches are still aching from the night before. You snatch up your purse and look back one last time. Joey winks and waves.
“You message when you’re back home safe.” You warn.
“Oh, you too. Can’t have you out riding in cars with boys too late.”
You scoff and leave her. You definitely raised her right. You head down the hallway on what feels like a walk of shame. The deja vu to the years you were Joey’s age is almost paralysing.
You stand in the elevator with a family of four. The parents are yawning as the kids can barely keeping from hooting and jumping. You always wondered what it would be like to have more than one but then again, you only wanted what you could handle. Josephine was always enough.
You smile at the mother as she sends you an apologetic look on ground level. You wait for them to go first before you step off. You can’t imagine that you give off the best impression. Slightly disheveled and worn out.
You check your phone as you cross the lobby. As you get to the doors, you slow. Nick’s outside; waiting. He surely got a lot done as you tossed and turned in the hotel room.
Unlike you, he has a fresh set of clothes; dark blue slacks, a lilac button-up. His hair is styled and he hides behind a pair of dark sunglasses. His head tilts as if he's taking in your measure.
“Sir,” you greet him as the automatic doors set your free. He smirks. He must be amused to see you this out of sorts. As his maid, you're typically the one keeping things in order.
“Morning. You look well-rested.” He puts a hand on his hip.
“Oh, very,” you agree dryly and touch the front of the jacket. “Um, sorry about the jacket. You can take it back.”
“Suits you better,” he waves you off.
“I’ll have it drycleaned,” you assure him.
“Not worried about it, honey. Let’s get home first.” He steps back. “Got us a rental.”
You nod and step forward. He turns to walk beside you. He points you toward the silver blue car. A two-seater with an oblong hood. The expensive kind. Ostentatious.
“Here,” he jumps ahead of you. He opens the passenger door. “Got it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fowler.” You duck down and sit.
“What happened to Nick?” He looms above you, his hand on the top of the door.
“Nick,” you correct yourself. “Habit.”
“Mr. Fowler makes me sound old,” he tilts his head.
“Nope, just me,” you chuckle lackadaisically.
He hums and clucks. He gently shuts the door then round the car to the driver’s side. You sit patiently, content enough to laze away the drive home. If he doesn’t mind, you might even close your eyes.
He settles in as the faint scent of his cologne wafts off the jacket. You shift around as he gets the motor humming. You pull down the seat belt and peek over at him. You’re surprised to find him watching you.
“You okay?” You ask.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” He says.
“Oh?”
“Why don’t you get some sleep? I’m sure you and Joey were up all night catching up.” He sets his sights straight and puts the car in gear. “Be a couple hours.”
“I won’t say I didn’t think of it,” you stifle another yawn.
You shimmy in the seat as he steers round the lot. You stare through the windshield, your eyes rolling with motion of the car. You let your shoulders relax as your eyelids grow heavier.
After all the fear, the adrenaline, the panic, and the uncertainty, you’re completely drained. The night kept you awake in disbelief and anxiety. Now, you’re on your way back to normalcy. When did you become so adverse to change? You thought you learned to deal with that a long time ago.
#Nick fowler#dark nick fowler#dark!nick fowler#nick fowler x reader#blurred lines#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#the 355
101 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tennessee Whiskey | Tom Cruise
Fantasize Series Chapter 8 | Previous Part | Fantasize Masterlist
Thankfully, the head injury isn't serious. A week of strict observation, IVs, bland food—and finally, they discharge you from the hospital. You still have a bandage on your head and dizzy spells every now and then, but you're okay. You can walk. You can breathe.
Tom visits often—always with your father, of course. Your father watches you like a hawk, still shaken from the sudden accident. And Tom? He visits like he's checking in on a pal's daughter. Like he didn't just confess, days ago, that he can't live in a world without you in it.
You breathe a little easier now. Sleep a little better. Knowing Tom is only a few feet away from your cabin.
You stay in Utah, in the temporary cabin they've rented near the set. Your dad refuses to let you fly home just yet. Says you're still healing. Still fragile. So you stay. Stay quiet. And behave.
Except tonight.
The silence of your room grows too loud. The stars outside your window feel too still. You miss home. You miss freedom. You miss—
Him.
And you're hungry.
The only place open nearby is that tiny diner-bar on the road to the cliffside set. You've heard the crew mention it before—small, quiet, barely lit. Perfect for slipping into the shadows and pretending the world doesn't exist.
You walk in just before midnight, the bell above the door giving you away.
Tom is already there.
Your heart drops—and flutters—all at once.
He sits at the bar, fingers loose around a glass of amber. A bottle of whiskey beside him, nearly gone. He looks up as the bell chimes and mutters a breathless, "Great," before throwing back the rest of his drink.
The bartender glances over, eyes meeting yours. There's something like recognition in them. Like he knows who you are. Like maybe Tom's already told him too much story about you.
"Are you Y/N?" the bartender asks.
You glance at him, startled.
The blonde man nods like he's reading the sudden thick tension between you and Tom.
"You should stop him," the man says in a slow Southern drawl, wiping the counter. "Ain't nobody gets through to him but you."
Your feet move before your mind does.
You slide onto the stool beside him. He doesn't look at you right away. He tries to not look back at you, fingers fumbling with the rim of his glass.
"I thought you didn't drink," you say gently.
"I don't." He reaches for the bottle and pours another.
Before he can bring it to his lips, you reach over and stop him. He sighs—sharp, defeated—and puts the glass down.
"Wanna tell me what's it about?" You ask.
His head turns to you. And those green eyes—God, those eyes.
They meet yours.
And it hits you all over again—how they burn.
Then he leans to you, too fast. His face comes inches from yours. You can smell the whiskey—burnt sugar mixed with his cologne.
"You," he says simply. "It's you, darlin'."
Your knees threaten to give. That word—darlin'—tastes too tender coming from him. Dangerous.
You swallow. Bite your lip to hide the way it wants to curve into a smile at the sound of it.
"Me?" You ask again.
He nods.
"Because your face. Your scent. Your voice. Your wit. Your stubborn little pout when you fight me. Your heart. Your damn soul. All of it. All of you."
He laughs, quiet and bitter. "I've been sober for over a decade—and one ridiculously stunning girl steps into my life, and just like that—" he snaps his fingers, eyes dramatically widen "all my control's gone."
You feel your breath catch. Heat flushes under your skin.
You know he's drunk. You know that.
But it doesn't make a single word feel less true.
"Come on, cowboy," you whisper, pulling his arm around your shoulders. "Let's get you back to your cabin. You've got film to shoot tomorrow."
He makes a show of ignoring you—just as the music changes.
The first guitar chords of "Tennessee Whiskey" hum through the speakers.
Tom returns to his stool. "Ah... hang on. I love this song."
"Tom—"
"Shh." His index finger touches your lips "Just listen."
He gives you a boyish–tipsy grin and he starts to hum along to the tune of country guitar, his head swaying. His hand fumbles with yours. Fingers slowly intertwining. Soft touches. Like your fingers dancing along the tune with his.
He looks at you deeply. With a thin smile. Almost like admiring you.
And suddenly—
"Dance with me."
Before you can protest, he stands. Gently tugs you with him toward the center of the room—right under the flickering neon beer sign.
"Tom—please—" you try to pull your hand away from him.
But he doesn't let go.
You glance around.
The bar is mostly empty. Just the bartender and a couple of guests tucked in quiet booths. But the flush of embarrassment still creeps in, curling beneath your skin.
Tom, meanwhile, looks elated. Glowing. Like he's waited forever for this moment.
"I can't dance" you quietly protest
He chuckles. His hand settles on your waist. Nearly makes you gasp as you feel his warmth through your thin top.
"Just follow me," he whispers. His other hand takes yours.
He starts to sway. And you just follow, awkwardly so...
You never danced before. Not even prom.
The first chorus floats in the air. He sings it softly against your hair, breath warm on your temple. "I used to spend my nights out in a barroom... Liquor was the only love I'd known..."
Your throat catches. You're stunned by how beautiful he actually sounds.
"But you rescued me from reachin' for the bottom... and brought me back from bein' too far gone..."
"You're as smooth..." he sings, "as Tennessee whiskey..."
He pulls back slightly, giving you a crooked, dreamy smile. "Isn't it great? 'Tennessee Whiskey'—and we're dancing in Tennessee..."
You squint, brow arched. "Uh... we're in Utah."
His head tilts, confused.
You can't hide your laugh.
"Right," he says, memory returning. Then he laughs—and it's the one that could make you fall to your knees.
"You're drunk, Tom"
"No, i'm not," he grins
You play along and match his swaying rhythm. Tom's voice stays steady through the haze of whiskey. He keeps singing—every lyric, every slow syllable of "Tennessee Whiskey" like it's sacred. His voice isn't perfect. Rough around the edges, raw. But it doesn't matter. Because he's singing to you. And he still sounds beautiful.
Eyes on him. Heart soft and open, basking in the quiet warmth of him. The way he holds you close. The way he doesn't look at anything else but you, like nothing in the world could distract him now. You don't speak. You don't dare ruin it. You let the song speak for both of you.
Then the solo guitar break hums in, slow and sultry.
And suddenly, without warning, he spins you fast under his arm.
"Tom—!" you gasp, surprised, stumbling in your own feet.
But he catches you with a grin. Your laugh comes so easily it startles you. A giggle. The kind you haven't felt in what seems like forever. It bubbles up and slips out, light and real and happy.
Tom looks at you and smile like he's just won something. "There she is!"
Your mouth falls open, cheeks flushed. "You're so drunk!" you laugh.
"Little bit," he admits. "Still know what I'm doing though." He winks.
The song swells again, reaching the last chorus. He pulls you in closer, one arm wrapped around your back, the other guiding your hand over his chest and holds your hand above his beating heart. Like he needs you to feel his heartbeat, so you'll know it's all real.
His heart thuds steady beneath your palm. You smile, trying to savor every second.
You smile. Eyes up, full of warmth. "I didn't know this song."
He breathes your name. "Y/N..." His voice is almost a sigh. "This song is you."
The melody swirls around you, sweet and aching. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight like he's afraid to open them and wake up without you. And you realize—
He's not just singing.
He's confessing.
Every lyric. Every word. It's everything he feels.
"You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey..." his finger softly pushes away your hair. "You're as sweet as strawberry wine..."
Your heart sears in your chest. Your hand, the one on his chest, curl into his shirt. "Tom..." you mutter
"I love you," he says, like it's been breaking him. "I've always loved you, Y/N. Even when I shouldn't have. Even when I promised I wouldn't. Even when I knew better.... I love you." he shakes his head like he can't deny it anymore.
Your heart cracks wide open.
And after a beat, you find words to reply him.
"You hide it so well," you whisper.
Tom shakes his head. Hands still holding you close—one on your back, the other holding your hand at his heart. "I thought it would keep you safe. I thought if I stayed away, you could breathe."
"I can't," you confess. "Not without you."
He exhales sharply, pulling you tighter against him. His voice drops low, velvet and torn.
"I see you in every damn thing. I hear your laugh when the wind blows. I smell your shampoo in the trailer, and I'm not even sure how. It's like you haunt me—sweetly, cruelly." He smiles. Like the kind that shows you've been breaking him by your absence.
Your lips tremble. "Then stop running. Be here. With me."
"I want to. God, I want to."
He leans in.
And this time, when his lips brush yours—soft, slow, reverent—you don't stop him.
The kiss isn't desperate. It isn't fast.
But it sears. His mouth moves with aching reverence, like he's afraid to break you. Like he's starved.
It's months of longing poured into one quiet moment, in a nearly empty bar in the middle of nowhere.
You stay there—swaying, kissing, breathing together—until the song fades into silence.
Until it's just you and him.
And the soft echo of I love you still lingering in the air.
———
Taglist
@katluke23-blog
@anima-patronos
@tom-cruiseisalegend
@sdrose93
@kujolin12-official
@ashdyh321
@sabsthedoll
#tom cruise#tom cruise x reader#tom cruise fanfiction#tom cruise smut#pete maverick mitchell#tom cruise fic#tom cruise x female reader#ethan hunt#spotify#fantasize series#Spotify
89 notes
·
View notes
Text

⚔︎ Chapter One: The Longhorn Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, Age Gap, 18+ only Word Count: 16.8k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: graphic violence, blood, bar fight, underage drinking, drinking under 21, alcoholism, implied child abuse, implied CSA, stabbed by pool cue, hitting with bottles, male/female fight, threats of violence, there's just so much violence in this series, homeless character, food insecurity, murderous thoughts, murderous intent, very strong language, This is the most tame chapter moving forward btw, can only think of one other that's this chill, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: And so it begins... Surprise dropping to celebrate my birthday. Thanks so much for reading!
prev || masterlist || next
The Longhorn didn’t sit so much as it slouched—just off Highway 87, somewhere between Amarillo and Canyon, like a half-dead dog that hadn’t figured out how to lie down properly. It looked slapped together from scrap and bad intentions: walls patched with corrugated tin, tar smeared in ugly gobs over leaky seams, warped boards nailed by someone with more liquor than judgment. The wind didn’t bother whistling here—it groaned, a tired old man dragging chains through its guts. It wasn’t much to look at, not even enough to mock. But it didn’t give a damn. Never had. It was as much a fixture as the sunburnt sky and the stretches of withered land it squatted on. It simply was, and had been long enough that no one could remember a time it wasn’t.
It was July 18th, 1990, and the heat in South Texas had stopped pretending it was part of the weather. It was punishment. The kind of brutal, mind-numbing heat that didn’t beat down on you—it crawled up inside, found the tender spots, and stayed there. The sun poured itself across the land like molten brass, draining the world of color until everything looked cooked. Bone-white sky. Rust-red dirt. Yellow grass scorched to ash. Even the road gave up—blacktop rippling like oil on a skillet, the edges of the highway blurring into a hallucinatory shimmer. The mesquites had folded into themselves, brittle things waiting for death, while the cacti stretched wide and thick, crawling over the far side of the highway.
But the Longhorn didn’t blink. Its porch sagged in the middle like a drunk passed out halfway through a fall, the planks beneath it creaking with each gust of wind. Boards had been replaced without reason or rhythm, patched like wounds with scraps of whatever could be nailed down. The windows weren’t windows anymore, just grimy lies with more filth than glass, fogged over with years of grease and cigarette smoke until they were better at keeping secrets than letting in light. Above the entrance, a twisted chunk of tin swung halfheartedly from rust-choked chains. The lettering—once proud—was chipped to near-oblivion, “The Longhorn” barely decipherable in the right light. Below that, a bleached cow skull dangled crookedly, one horn snapped clean off, the other yellowed and worm-bitten.
But it wasn’t the look of the place that got you—it was the smell. The stink hit you like a sucker punch. Hot grease that had gone sour, diesel baked in the heat, leather soaked in sweat and left to rot. Stale beer that had melted into the wood decades ago and never left. Underneath it all, something sharp and chemical, like industrial cleaner that didn’t clean so much as announce its failure. The kind of stink that settled into your skin, your hair, your lungs—and lingered, no matter how long you scrubbed.
The parking lot was more suggestion than surface—dust, gravel, and spiderweb cracks that split like lightning strikes through dried-out earth. A few trucks sat there like bleached carcasses, sun-blasted and peeling, their windshields so caked in grime they looked frosted over in filth. Heat waves shimmered up off their hoods like steam from a dying engine. The trucks weren’t abandoned, just forgotten for the moment. Their owners were inside, soaking into the shadows, becoming part of the walls, drinking like they didn’t expect the next round to taste any different than the last.
Inside, it wasn’t any cooler. Ceiling fans turned with all the urgency of molasses, creaking like they hated their job. The air moved just enough to spread the heat around evenly. Smoke stains marbled the ceiling, the walls stained a nicotine yellow so deep it looked baked in. Lightbulbs flickered from overhead like they were considering retirement. Everything was faded. Everything was slow. Nothing was clean, and nothing wanted to be.
The air was thick—cigarettes, old beer, something decaying in the background like a warning no one bothered to heed. Something had died back there. Maybe a rat. Maybe something with a name. The jukebox gasped out a tired Waylon Jennings song, skipping and sputtering like it was coughing through the lyrics. It didn’t matter. No one was listening.
Behind the bar stood Ellis Clifton—tall, broad, a man who looked like he’d been built, not born. His skin was burnished bronze, like metal worked under the sun, and his face was stone, still and solid, except for his eyes. Those eyes moved like they had all the time in the world. Ellis didn’t waste words. Ellis talked like molasses ran in his veins, but when he did speak, no one dared interrupt.
The name on the deed belonged to Frank Dickman, but Frank hadn’t been seen in half a decade. Rumor said he’d gone soft in the head, wandering around Sabinal with a Bible and a blank stare. His daughter, Betty Anne, was still figuring out if she wanted to sell the place or just wait for time and termites to do the job for her. Ellis kept it going, because it was the only thing he had ever done well. Before this, he was a ranch hand, and he wasn’t about to go back to chasing cattle and eating dust. Not when he had his boots planted behind a bar that needed him more than anyone else ever had.
The regulars were stitched into the furniture. Ranchers with bark for skin and hands that looked like they’d lost fights with barbed wire. Truckers with road-glazed eyes who stared past everything like they were still watching mile markers flash by. Old rodeo men who still walked with the pain of a thousand falls and wore championship buckles to remember the time when they mattered.
The women were jagged, loud, and weathered by hard years. Lips stained red, lipstick feathering into the cracks at the corners, eyes sharp from squinting through too many lies and cheap sunglasses. They wore jangling bracelets and too much perfume, their laughter hard and half a second too late. Their stories didn’t change either. Same soap-opera misery, same whispered grudges, same bad jokes chewed down to the gristle. The only thing that shifted was who was saying it, and how drunk they were when they did.
Far corner, near the window no one bothered looking through—not because the view was anything special, but because everyone knew better. There was no sign on that booth, no rope to keep people out, no brass plaque to explain its gravity. It didn’t need one. Some places earn their boundaries the hard way. People just knew. That booth belonged to a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard, a man whose silence could clear a room better than a shotgun blast. He didn’t ask for space. He was the space.
Taehyung Kim. That’s what he said when people asked—not that many did. But names in this part of Texas had a way of bending around the truth, and Taehyung collected his share of nicknames like shadows collect dust. The one that stuck was Snake Charmer, whispered more often than spoken, and never, ever said to his face. Juan, his Mexican friend, had been the first to say it out loud—said Taehyung had a way with men, with moods, with danger, like he could whisper something terrible into the world and it would listen. It fit. Not because he looked like a threat—he didn’t—but because that was his trick. Lean and still, calm like dusk before a wildfire, slow like a fuse you don’t see until your eyebrows are already gone. He didn’t look dangerous. And that’s what made him dangerous.
He first rolled into town a decade ago, young enough that he shouldn’t have been drinking, old enough that nobody said shit about it. There was something in his stare—flat, quiet, heavy—that made men older than him reconsider their words and shift their stance. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just was, like some goddamn force of nature wearing skin. He came and went over the years, like a storm system that couldn’t make up its mind, and every time he came back, someone ended up across from him in that corner booth. They’d talk. Or they wouldn’t. They’d sit for ten minutes, or an hour. Sometimes they walked out together, looking changed in the kind of way that made you wonder if they’d sleep again. Sometimes they didn’t walk out at all. Sometimes their names showed up on the news. Other times, their names just stopped getting said.
When Taehyung came into the Longhorn, the temperature changed. Not the heat—that stayed, clinging to your skin like wet gauze—but the air, the tension, the vibe. It went still, like the room was holding its breath. Voices dipped. Conversations thinned out. People suddenly remembered their drinks were worth studying. No one offered him a beer. No one asked why he was there. He didn’t want company. He didn’t want attention. He wanted the booth. He wanted the door in his line of sight. And he wanted time to tick the way he decided.
That night, he wore black. He always did. A western shirt with thin red piping, neat but lived-in, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the white scar curling like a worm from his wrist to his forearm, and the silver watch that never ticked. His pants were clean, creased like he cared. His boots, scuffed at the heel and toe, looked like they’d seen more road than the trucks out front. On one finger, a turquoise ring; on his pinky, a plain silver band—old, worn smooth, the only thing he still wore from his brother Namjoon, a man who’d once been something before the world took it from him.
He didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around like he was sizing anyone up. He just sat. Still. Pinned to the leather seat like gravity worked a little harder on him. One hand cradled a glass of scotch, the liquid already gone lukewarm. In front of him, untouched, a shot of tequila. Next to that, a sweating glass of water leaving a wide wet ring on the wood that made his jaw tighten every time he looked at it. He drank slow, if he drank at all. Everything about him was measured.
Above the bar, the clock was lying again. It always had. Plastic molded to look like brass, hung crooked since ’78 when Ellis put it up and never bothered to fix it. The second hand twitched every few ticks like it had arthritis. The minute hand sagged like it knew it was running late. But Taehyung didn’t look at it. He didn’t need to. He knew. The kid was ten minutes late. Exactly ten. Not enough to make it personal yet, but enough to speak volumes.
Tardiness wasn’t neutral in his world. It was communication. A statement. It said something about respect, or the lack of it. It said something about fear, or its absence. Being late meant one of two things: you didn’t understand what you were walking into, or you did—and didn’t care. Either way, it wasn’t smart. Not with him. Once, maybe, Taehyung might’ve let that kind of thing slide. Back when he still believed in second chances and the redemptive power of mercy. But that man burned out somewhere far from here, in some booth like this one, in a town that doesn’t get mentioned anymore.
He moved, just a little—so little it could be missed if you weren’t watching close. His right boot creaked as it dragged an inch forward. His knee bent slightly. A casual observer might call it relaxed. But they’d be wrong. Taehyung didn’t relax. He readjusted. He calibrated. He made the necessary shifts to maintain control. The scotch caught the yellow light overhead, glowed like old honey, and stayed in his hand as if the feel of it mattered more than the drink itself. The ring from the water glass kept spreading, a slow, wet insult he couldn’t stop seeing.
The ceiling fans above groaned in their lazy, lopsided circles, stirring the same stale cocktail of cigarette smoke, hot breath, and old secrets that had been hanging in the Longhorn since the '70s. The air moved, but it didn’t get better. Voices still murmured in pockets around the bar, but they came out slower now, hushed and cautious, like the words were watching their own backs.
Taehyung’s eyes moved through the room with that slow, sweeping stillness of someone who never looked rushed but missed nothing. He saw the guy at the bar, the one with the nervous lighter—snap, flick, snap, again and again. He saw the woman across the way tapping her fingers on the tabletop in a rhythm that didn’t match her mouth. And he saw the two brothers hunched in the back booth, not speaking but clearly angry at each other—one of them slamming his boot against the floor just a bit too hard, making sure the other felt it. Taehyung didn’t need to hear what any of them were saying. Bodies always spoke louder than mouths.
He’d given the kid twenty minutes. That was the unspoken line in the sand. Not a rule—those were too flexible. Anyone worth meeting knew better than to cross it. Show up too late, and it wasn’t a mistake—it was a message. It meant you thought you could get away with it. It meant you thought you had leverage. At twelve minutes past, Taehyung began tapping his thumb against the side of his glass. His patience was wearing thin.
Then the cowbell above the door gave out its signature death rattle—dry, cracked metal on wire, like bones tumbling inside a soup can. It had sounded sick for decades. No one remembered the last time it rang clean. Still, it worked. The room reacted as one—spines stiffened, mouths shut mid-sentence, a card half-drawn from a deck froze like it was afraid of the outcome. Forks hovered, cigarettes paused just short of lips. Heads turned slow, like livestock catching a scent they didn’t like. First the men, instinctive, sizing up whatever was coming through that door. Then the women, slower, more surgical. Women at the Longhorn had learned early the difference between looking and being looked at. One was defense. The other, liability.
Standing there was a girl.
She stood in the doorway like a dropped match—small, sharp, a flicker of something that might catch fire if given the right wind. Maybe eighteen. Maybe younger. Hard to tell through the grime and the glare of the beer sign behind her, lighting her up in flickering blue like a ghost in a neon fog. One foot inside, one out, caught in that thin moment between flight and arrival. She looked like the road had tried to eat her and only half succeeded. Her blue hoodie hung loose and sun-faded, collar stained with sweat and something darker. Sleeves shoved up past the elbow, arms streaked with dirt, maybe blood. Hair yanked back with a shoelace. Clothes clung to her wrong—too tight where they shouldn't be, too loose where it mattered. Jeans torn and dragging. One boot held together with duct tape, the other torn up and covered in mud. A duffel hung off one shoulder, canvas worn to threads, the strap frayed like a wound that wouldn’t close.
She stepped inside. The door swung shut behind her with a groan that matched the floorboards swallowing her footsteps. The temperature didn’t change, but the air did. Taehyung smelled her before she got halfway to the bar—hot pavement, bad gas station coffee, motel shampoo, and the ghost of somewhere worse. She didn’t drop her gaze. She scanned the room with the kind of look that had nothing to do with hope and everything to do with survival. She wasn’t looking for help. She was counting exits. Taking stock of threats. Her eyes swept past the men and women and smoke without sticking. Not even the ones who leaned a little forward, trying to catch her eye like a hook.
Near the jukebox, an old-timer—face cratered like a busted moon, grin decades past its expiration date—gave her a smile he probably thought was charming. She didn’t blink. She didn’t stop. She moved through the Longhorn like a needle through old leather—clean line, no hesitation. Straight toward the bar.
The duffel hit the wood with a thud that turned heads. Ellis Clifton, mid-pour, froze. The whiskey overflowed, a thin trail running down the side of the glass, pooling at his fingers. He didn’t move. Just watched her. He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. She climbed onto the barstool without looking around, folding in on herself. Elbows on the bar, shoulders hunched, eyes down just enough to make herself smaller. Anyone with eyes could see the girl did not want to be noticed.
But the Longhorn didn’t let things slide past unnoticed. Not when they walked in like they were dragging ghosts behind them. The place remembered. Not in a conscious way—no scribbled notes or whispering walls. Just something quieter. A sense that it was all being filed away somewhere under the floorboards.
Taehyung still hadn’t moved. The scotch sat beneath his hand, glass fogged with sweat, the warmth of his skin still sinking through it. He wasn’t staring—nothing that crude—but his attention had tilted. His eyes tracked her the way a hunter watches the wind. Not locked, but fixed all the same. Still as stone, still as shadow. He hadn’t twitched. Hadn’t even adjusted his seat.
She wasn’t the one he was here for. That part was obvious. But there was something about her—something that stepped outside the lines. The way she moved. The way she held space like she didn’t need permission. She didn’t look around, didn’t perform for the room. She sat like she was casing the joint without trying. And that, more than anything, snagged his interest.
She was cute, sure. He could admit that to himself. Had the kind of look that might’ve turned his head a few years back—too young to carry the weight she wore, too old in the eyes to pretend she didn’t. But Taehyung wasn’t twenty anymore. He didn’t chase pretty. He didn’t chase anything. Not unless it bled.
If this were another life, another night, maybe he’d have stood. Maybe he’d have crossed the floor and offered a drink she didn’t ask for. But not tonight. Tonight he was here on business. And something told him that if he so much as sat too close, the girl would gut him with her eyes before she even thought to reach for a weapon.
Still, he didn’t look away.
Two stools down, Waylon Cordell stirred—if you could call it that. He moved like something arthritic and forgotten. Waylon had been part of the Longhorn longer than the termites. He was the living, breathing equivalent of a beer stain—permanent, unpleasant, impossible to scrub out. His gut hung heavy over his belt, his scalp patchy like peeling wallpaper. Red veins mapped across his cheeks, skin shining with the wet gloss of cheap bourbon and cheaper regrets. He turned his head toward her like it took effort and leaned in.
“Well now,” Waylon said, his voice dragging the syllables like they were coated in syrup, thick with phlegm and the kind of back-bar bourbon that didn’t burn clean. “Ain’t you somethin’. Let me buy you a drink, sugar.”
His grin came apart in real time—one side curling around a yellow tooth that didn’t quite fit, the other hanging slack beneath a sagging eye that always seemed a second behind the rest of his face. Whatever charm he thought he still carried had long since expired, dead and buried in the same dirt as his last three marriages and any self-respect he might’ve once owned. He dropped his elbow to the bar with the, leaned in heavy, dragging the reek of sweat, sour booze, and hopeless years into the space between them. He didn’t move his feet. Didn’t ask permission. Just inserted himself, claimed the air she was breathing like he was entitled to it.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink or shift or shy away. Just turned her head toward him with that same mechanical smoothness she’d used at the door. Her eyes met his, and in them was no fear, no discomfort—just a kind of quiet, calculating clarity. Like she was already writing him into the margins of a plan, mapping his bulk, his range, how long it would take to move if she had to.
Then she smiled.
It wasn’t the kind of smile you returned. It wasn’t warm, or soft, or anything close to an invitation. It was a ghost of something long dead, summoned up like muscle memory, a reflex fired off from somewhere deep beneath the hard-set lines of her face. But it changed her. Briefly. Like stormlight cutting through clouds—quick, sharp, gone. Behind the grime and road-dust, underneath the brittle tension of her jaw, something softened. And in that blink of surrender, there was the faint suggestion of who she might’ve been once. Not innocent, not untouched, but maybe not always carved out of survival. Maybe, a long time ago, before the bruises learned how to fade faster than the memories, before silence became sharper than screaming—maybe she had known softness. Maybe it had been stolen. Maybe she had given it up. Either way, what remained now was just the echo.
Taehyung saw it. That flicker. That shape her mouth made and how it changed everything about her face for half a second. Her usual edge—tight, defensive, braced for impact—smoothed out just long enough to show the shape of the weapon beneath it. Not innocence, no. But the memory of it. And it struck him then, unexpected and uninvited, that she was beautiful.
“Hello,” she said, voice rough like gravel under a tire, worn thin but steady.
Waylon’s grin widened. Too drunk to notice the razor behind her calm. Too slow to see the trap already set. He leaned closer, his gaze already drifting lower like gravity was dragging his thoughts down with it. He didn’t see the way her jaw tightened beneath that smile. Didn’t see how her hand hovered just above the bar. He was the kind of man who’d spent his life mistaking survival tactics for flirtation. The dumb ones always did. The dangerous ones, too. Waylon managed to be both in the same breath.
At the other end of the bar, Ellis Clifton set a bottle down with a dull, deliberate thud. Heads turned. Cards paused. Dice sat still where they landed. Even the jukebox, halfway between songs, gave up and went quiet.
Waylon hesitated. He blinked—slow, wet, and confused—then turned, sluggish, toward the source of the weight pressing against him.
Ellis didn’t speak at first. Just kept wiping that same glass, slow circles etched into the shape of habit and second chances. His hand moved like it had its own memory, but his eyes—they were locked on the girl now. Steady, thoughtful, drawn not to the bruises or the grime but to the way she held herself. Too still. Too deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of stillness you get from fear. It was the kind of stillness you get when the walls are already closing in and you’re figuring out which one to punch through. She looked too young, sure, but not in the skin—that could lie, caked in dust and road-sharp edges—but in the way her shoulders carried weight like they’d been braced since childhood. In the way her gaze scanned the bar without moving her head. In the way she sat like a chair might break beneath her or turn into a weapon. She didn’t belong here. She belonged somewhere with clean sheets, central air, warm coffee, and the kind of silence that wasn’t earned through violence. But Ellis had been in the Longhorn long enough to know what belonged didn’t always get to stay.
His wife used to look like that. Back when they were seventeen and something in her flinched when people got too close. It had taken months to get her to stop checking every door twice. Years before she stopped tensing at raised voices. And here was this kid—this dusty, carved-up girl—carrying that same silent alarm in her bones. Ellis knew the type. Knew what they needed, too. And he knew Waylon Cordell even better. Knew that slow, boiling temper that made every room a match waiting for a spark. He didn’t want to scrape anyone off the floor tonight, least of all a girl who’d already survived more than Waylon ever could.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said, voice cut low and flat, a sound with weight. “Gonna need to see some ID.”
She turned toward him like she was moving through water. No twitch. No panic. Just that careful stillness again. Her movements weren’t slow because she was afraid—they were slow because fast meant fear, and fear drew predators. She turned like someone who’d been prey before and knew speed didn’t save you. Her eyes opened a little wider, just enough to read innocent if you weren’t paying attention. Her mouth parted like a lie was about to fall out, soft and practiced. Then came the mask. That fragile, feminine tilt of the head. The breath caught just short of trembling. The helpless look girls wear when they’ve been taught that survival depends on making other people feel needed.
But Ellis saw through it. Not because she was bad at it—hell, she was damn good—but because he’d seen it too many times. That wasn’t fear, not really. That was muscle memory. That was calculation. She wasn’t scrambling—she was adjusting. Choosing a different play from the same worn book. Not a girl bluffing her way out. A girl trained to weigh every angle. And that meant something—something important.
Taehyung hadn’t moved from his booth. Still leaned back, fingers loose on the scotch glass, the tip of his thumb resting just above the base like a conductor holding time. His body gave nothing away, all muscle memory and quiet patience—but something inside him had shifted. Subtle. Mechanical. Like a camera lens narrowing its aperture. Not interest. Not pity. Focus. He was reading her now. Parsing her choices, her posture. The smile that lived only in her mouth and never touched her eyes. The angle of her shoulders. The refusal to give Waylon the full turn of her body. She wasn’t playing the scared girl—she was playing the smart one. She’d picked Waylon because she knew exactly what to expect. Not safety. Predictability. That made her dangerous. Taehyung had seen it before—in cold basements, strobe-lit clubs, and safehouses where nothing was safe. This girl didn’t flinch. She calculated.
Maybe the scene would’ve held. The fragile balance. The illusion of harmless tension. Maybe she could’ve kept Waylon strung out on his own assumptions for another few minutes—long enough to slip the hook. But then Waylon slapped the bar.
It came down like a wet slap to the face of the room. Loud. Crude. Designed to be heard, to remind everyone that Waylon Cordell still thought he mattered. The wood rattled under his palm, sticky with decades of spilled liquor and sweat. His grin curled into something rotten.
“Come on, Ellis,” he slurred, words dragging behind the bourbon. “She’s with me. My treat. You know how it is.”
Ellis didn’t answer right away. But the Longhorn did.
A pool cue hit its slot like a bullet casing. Chairs shifted as boots planted. Someone near the back put down his fork like he’d lost his appetite. And the jukebox—already half-dead—gave up the ghost completely. The only thing moving was Ellis’s rag, slow as ever, like he hadn’t heard a thing. But his jaw was set now. Shoulders tight under that oil-stained flannel. He was calculating too, same as her, just older. More tired.
“Rules are rules,” Ellis said finally, and the grit in his voice scratched like sandpaper on steel. “I ain’t gettin’ caught up with the law for ya, Mr. Cordell.”
Waylon blinked. His face twitched like a computer error—couldn’t process. He didn’t get it. Couldn’t. He’d coasted through life like a dull knife, cutting nothing clean but always expecting someone else to do the sharpening.
“What the hell you talkin’ about?” Waylon said. “Since when do you care about IDs, huh? You served that kid from Tatum Creek with the busted nose and no shoes.”
“That kid,” Ellis said, folding the rag and setting it down like punctuation, “was sixteen, scared, and left me a ten-dollar tip. He didn’t grab no one, and he didn’t act like the place owed him a favor. He drank his Coke and walked out. You?” He leaned in, voice lowering. “You’re a liability with a mouth.”
Taehyung’s glass tapped the wood. Once. Then again. Then a third time. Not a threat. Not a countdown. Just the sound of time thickening.
The Longhorn knew tension the way a dog knows storms. Not through the sky, but through the bones. And this storm was coming in close. People could feel it. You didn’t need a forecast when your teeth ached and the floor started to hum.
Y/N felt it too. Not fear—she’d buried that years ago, left it behind with the taste of metal and the sound of sirens. This was a different sensation. A shift. A recalibration. Like gravity had tilted and her center of balance had moved with it. Her spine lengthened. Her breath slowed. Hands flat on the bar, elbows loose, body not braced but prepared.
Waylon didn’t see it. Couldn’t. Still too soaked in his own sweat and stale ego. He leaned in again, breath thick with smoke and sour mash, thinking he was about to get what he wanted.
“C’mon, Ellis,” he tried again, voice fraying. “Me and the little lady—hell, we might even—”
Taehyung looked up.
Nothing moved on his face. No twitch. No warning. But his eyes—those eyes—cut through the noise like a scalpel. Cold. Clean. He didn’t see a bar. He saw math. Angles. Time. She wasn’t waiting to be saved. She was waiting to move. He’d seen it before—in Havana, in Marseilles, in motel bathtubs under red lights. This wasn’t a girl in trouble. This was a weapon not yet drawn.
Waylon slapped the bar again—this time with the weight of someone used to getting his way. The sound cracked, louder now. Ugly.
“Just give me the fuckin’ drink, Ellis!” His voice was breaking. “I’ll deal with her if she gets too frisky.”
Everything stopped. The room exhaled into silence. The pool table held its breath mid-break. Dice stayed in stasis, fingertips still curled around them like they were sacred. The men in the booths, who’d been half-watching with the passive attention of wolves pretending to nap, turned fully now. One of them, eyes shaded by a trucker cap that hadn’t been clean since the Clinton years, let out a slow whistle between his teeth. Another—older, lean, hollowed out by desert years and harder work—shifted just enough for the glint of metal on his hip to catch the light. No one made a move, but the bar had already turned.
Ellis didn’t blink. His hand, once circling the same glass like a man scrubbing his conscience, froze flat against the wood. Not clenched. Not flexed. Just still. And that stillness held something heavier than sound.
“Say that again,” he said, voice soft as worn gravel. “So I can make sure I heard it right.”
Waylon blinked slow, like his brain was swimming through bourbon. His eyes darted from face to face, expecting support, finding none. Even the jukebox had abandoned him—still stuck in its own silence like it didn’t want to be part of what came next.
“I didn’t mean nothin’,” he muttered, all that confidence leaking out through the cracks in his tone.
“You never do,” Ellis replied. “That’s the problem.”
Y/N shifted. Subtle. Not a flinch—she didn’t flinch. Just realigned. Like a hinge settling into place. Chin up. Shoulders squared. Not tensed. Not bracing. Ready. Her hands didn’t tremble. They waited. And that waiting felt louder than any threat Waylon had ever heard.
Ellis drew a breath. Long. Deep. It tasted like smoke, dust, and hard choices. He let it out like a man resigning himself to a job no one else would do. His eyes closed—not out of fear, not weariness. He’d seen this before. Hell, he’d lived through it. Too many bars. Too many girls. Too many Waylons who didn’t know when they were one bad sentence away from being a headline.
He thought about his Tina. Before she stopped twitching. Before Ellis learned how to speak without volume. That memory, tight and uninvited, rose in his throat like smoke from a backdraft. He looked at the girl again—at the weight behind her stillness, the gaunt sharpness in her cheekbones, the grit pressed into the corners of her mouth—and he knew. She hadn’t eaten in a day. Maybe longer. Probably hadn’t had clean water either.
So Ellis reached for the bottle.
The shot hit the wood with a low scrape. He slid it to her without flourish. With his other hand, he reached under the bar, pulled out a chipped glass, and filled it with cold water from the gun and set it beside the shot.
She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t nod. Just kept her eyes locked on Waylon like she was watching a rabid dog decide whether to bark or bite.
Waylon, still drunk on ego and sour mash, saw the drink and mistook it for victory. He grinned, sloppy and wide, and grabbed the bottle like a trophy. Sloshed it over the lip of a knocked-over coaster and settled into the stool beside her with all the grace of a landslide.
“So,” he slurred, sliding closer, breath hot and damp, “what brings you ’round these parts?”
She turned.
“I’ve had a shitty few years,” she said. Her voice didn’t tremble. It carried the weight of every night she hadn’t slept, every bruise she’d earned, every hallway she’d walked where the floor threatened to fall out from under her.
Waylon laughed. That stupid, wet, snorting kind of laugh that men like him thought counted as charm. “Shit, girl. Welcome to the club.”
She didn’t respond. Just watched him like he was weather.
Ellis slid the shot glass again. Louder this time. A knock, not a suggestion. Like a judge tapping the gavel and daring the room to argue. Waylon reached out to pour himself another, but his hand missed the mark. Liquor sloshed across the bar and down the front of his shirt. He didn’t notice. Didn’t care. Just pushed the bottle toward her like it was a gift, like this was his moment.
“To you, sweetheart,” he said.
She didn’t toast. Didn’t look at him. She took the bottle with calm, calloused hands, poured a clean shot, and knocked it back like she’d done it a hundred times. No wince. No fanfare. She set the glass down like punctuation.
Then she reached for the water. Held it in both hands for a beat too long. Looked at it not like she was thirsty, but like someone who hadn’t been allowed to need anything in a long time. Like the glass itself meant something more than hydration. She drank it slow. Not cautious—deliberate. Like her body knew this was the only clean thing that might touch her that night. Every swallow quiet, drawn out, reverent.
Behind the bar, Ellis watched her the way a man watches a candle burning too close to a curtain—nervous, conflicted, unable to look away. His jaw was tight, stomach turning slow and steady like gears in an old clock. He’d seen plenty walk through the Longhorn who didn’t belong, but none quite like this. She didn’t need help. That much was clear. But she hadn’t eaten. Probably hadn’t slept either. And Ellis had the sick feeling that if he didn’t give her something tonight—one small kindness—she might not live long enough to ever ask again.
So when Waylon reached for the bottle again with all the grace of a drunk reaching for relevance, her hand was already there. Calm. Still. But firm—an unspoken line drawn across the bar. She didn’t yank it back. Didn’t push him away. Just stopped him, expression unreadable.
“Appreciate the drink,” she said, voice flat.
Then she stood. Boots hit the floor like punctuation, heavy and grounded. She didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. The bottle hung loose in her hand, balanced perfectly. She was almost to the door, nearly free of the moment, when the word came flying at her—petty and sharp and desperate.
“Bitch.”
She didn’t stop. Just tilted her head a little, like a dog catching a new scent. Her shoulders shifted, subtle and slow.
Thick fingers—greasy, unsteady—wrapped around her wrist with a sloppy kind of force. Her arm jerked, not from the pressure, but from the audacity of it. She froze. Not in panic—but with a focus that came from somewhere far worse than fear. Her breath slowed, her jaw locked, her shoulders squared. Every inch of her body had gone still in that dangerous way predators do just before they strike.
From the booth, Taehyung tapped his glass and watched.
Waylon leaned closer, breath sour with booze and rot. “No way you walk out with that bottle,” he muttered. “Not without givin’ me something.” His grip tightened. His thumb dug in. His other hand found her waist, fingers clumsy and sliding.
“You came in lookin’ for trouble,” he said, thick and breathless. “Guess you found it.”
Her knee came up in a blur—fast, brutal, and perfectly placed. It slammed into his gut just beneath the ribs with a sick thud. His breath left him in a choked grunt, spit trailing from his lips. He bent forward like a folding chair. Before he could even process the pain, her fist followed. Hard and clean, it cracked across his face with a sound that turned heads—sharp and wet. His cheekbone lit up like a struck match, and his nose exploded in a rush of red that painted his chin and shirt.
He staggered, blinking stupidly, hands to his face—not to protect, but to understand. He clipped the edge of a stool, lost balance, and hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of himself in a grunt that silenced what little noise had been left in the room.
She stood over him, unmoved. Her breathing was calm, her stance balanced. Blood dripped from her knuckles in slow, thick drops. The bottle still hung in her hand, not raised, just present. She didn’t speak. Didn’t make a show of it. She just watched him writhe, one leg kicking against the sticky floor, face smeared red, groaning like he couldn’t figure out how things had turned. She waited. Not for applause. Not for backup. Just to see if he’d try again.
In the booth, Taehyung leaned forward. Slow. His elbow slid across the worn surface, casting a flicker of green from the neon sign across his forearm. His eyes tracked her movements—posture, grip, breath. He wasn’t surprised. There was no awe in his gaze. Just understanding. Like he’d seen this before. Like he knew exactly what kind of history shapes that kind of silence.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t gloat. Waylon whimpered—small, pathetic, a broken noise that crawled out of him like a surrender. She gave him a slight nod. Barely a tilt of her chin. That’s enough.
Then she turned.
The bottle swung gently at her side, catching slices of fractured light from the buzzing sign overhead. She didn’t step over him. She stepped around him—like you would a puddle of something you didn’t want to track through the house. Her walk didn’t change. Her pace didn’t rush. It was the walk of someone who knew this was done. Over. Handled.
She passed the bar like a ghost that bled warmth on contact, dragging silence behind her. Ellis hadn’t moved since the shot hit the counter—still as driftwood in a tide he knew better than to fight. The regulars stayed rooted to their stools, eyes following her like they were afraid to admit they were watching. No muttering, no whispers, no shift of cards or low jokes. The Longhorn had gone dead quiet, as if the bar itself held its breath. Her boots thudded soft and steady against warped floorboards, each step deliberate. Her shadow stretched long behind her, thin and sharp across blood, tile, and cracked linoleum. The jukebox stuttered, caught in the throat between tracks. A neon sign near the door fizzed once—bright blue, then nothing. It popped and died with the faint sigh of something old giving up.
Waylon coughed. The sound shattered the tension, sliced through the hush like a beer bottle through a windshield.
“You fuckin’ cunt!” he barked, voice shrill and breaking, ugly with rage.
He rose in a flurry of blood and slick hands, using the bar to haul his weight up, knocking a stool out of the way with a violent scrape. He stood swaying, shirt half untucked, breath snarling out of his busted nose. Red smeared his chin. The room didn’t move. No one intervened. Ellis didn’t twitch. The towel in his hand hung limp now, soaked and forgotten. His face stayed locked in that same blank calm that only came from long exposure to hopeless things.
Taehyung was no longer lounging. The slow, silent watcher had shifted. Elbows on the table, shoulders forward, posture coiled. His eyes had changed—no longer curious, no longer detached. He wasn’t watching a girl anymore. He was watching potential.
Waylon didn’t see it. He never had. All he saw was blood on his shirt and laughter in his head that wasn’t real. He saw mockery. He saw her walking away. He lunged.
He grabbed her arm and yanked hard. Her boots slipped on the slick spill of liquor. She hit the ground on her knees, the breath punched out of her with a sharp gasp between clenched teeth. He loomed over her, reeking of fury and rot, his breath hot on her ear. “Come back here, bitch,” he hissed, voice thick and low. “I ain’t done—” His hand clawed at her shirt, and that’s when the bottle moved.
She didn’t hesitate. Her grip shifted and the glass cracked down across his wrist. Bone met glass. Glass won. Waylon howled and stumbled, clutching his arm, face twisted in shock and pain.
She was on her feet before the noise finished echoing. Two sharp breaths, two quick steps, and she vanished into the shadows past the pool tables, disappearing into the darker end of the Longhorn, where the lights were low and neon signs barely clung to life. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. The rage behind her boiled like oil on flame. The heat of it rose off the ground. Taehyung tracked every step. His body looked relaxed, one arm casually stretched across the booth like he was just another drinker killing time—but the lie stopped at the shoulders. His eyes had never left her. Not since the door. Not since the first shot. Not since the moment she dropped Waylon like a sack of potatoes.
It wasn’t beauty that caught him. It wasn’t even her power. It was her usefulness. She moved like a weapon. There was no panic in her steps. No hesitation. She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t ask what the job meant, only what it required. Taehyung had seen men like that. Rarely women. Rarer still with that kind of calm.
Then Waylon screamed.
“COME HERE!”
It sounded broken. More animal than man. All throat, no thought. Chairs scraped out of his way as he stomped forward, boots slick with liquor and blood. Glass crunched beneath his soles. He shoved tables, knocked over a barstool. The Longhorn didn’t move to stop him. No one did. Not Ellis. Not the regulars. Not Taehyung. The air pulled back. The room tightened, bracing.
She reached for a pool cue, her eyes squinting as the older man ran at her.
The sound it made—when it cracked across the side of Waylon’s skull—was almost too clean. Like a piece of wood splitting in winter air. He froze. Eyes wide, mouth open, confusion replacing fury. Then he buckled, knees giving way beneath him. He dropped, landing with a weighty thud that shook the floor.
She stood over him, cue in hand, breathing slow and even. Her grip didn’t loosen. Her feet stayed planted. Taehyung never blinked.
Waylon laughed. It was a thin, sick sound—somewhere between a wheeze and a sob. “You gotta be shittin’ me…”
She didn’t wait. The second swing was harder, sharper. She brought her full weight behind it, the cue slamming down across his arm. Wood cracked. The stick flew from her hands and clattered across the floor into the dark, out of reach.
Waylon howled, not from shock this time, but real pain. Raw, honest agony.
“I’m done with this!” he bellowed.
Waylon went for her again, and their bodies slammed into each other. Her shoulder hit the ground first, then his elbow cracked against a chair leg. They rolled in a tangle of limbs.
A pool ball knocked free and danced across the tile. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then still.
The cue splintered beneath them—wood snapping, splinters flying. He landed on top, breath hot and ragged. His knee jammed into her hip. An elbow ground into her shoulder. His face hovered inches from hers, twisted in fury, mouth a stink of blood and whiskey.
She didn’t scream. Her knee drove up into his gut. He gagged.
She shoved hard, rolled, scrambled. Now she was on top, one hand pressed to his chest, the other gripping a jagged shard of cue stick, holding it just above his throat—close. Not touching. But the threat was unmistakable.
Her face was a mask of bruises and blood. Her lip was split, one eye starting to swell. Hair stuck to her face. But her eyes stayed cold. Focused. She didn’t blink.
“You shouldn’t’ve called me a cunt,” she said, voice flat.
Waylon spat, blood streaking down her boot. He grinned through it. “Not rude if it’s true. You ain’t tough. You ain’t nothin’.”
His hand shot up, gnarled and fast, tangling deep in her hair and yanking like he was trying to rip the past out of her skull. Her head snapped back with a raw, guttural sound—part pain, part rage—body jerking with the sudden violence. Her grip slipped, control blinking out like a lightbulb catching a surge. His boot lifted and struck her in the ribs with its heel. She flew, weightless for a half-second, then crashed shoulder-first into the floor with a fleshy thud. The breath was torn from her lungs, her back arched, her mouth filled with the sharp copper burn of blood. For a second, everything tilted. Ceiling lights swam above her, distant and warped, the world yawning sideways.
But she got up.
Waylon tried to rise too, but his knees weren’t listening. He pushed up and swayed, arms shaking, breath like steam escaping a cracked pipe. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and blood and whatever fight was left. He stood there, trying to remember how to be a man again, trying to pretend he had control. But it was all gone.
Across the bar, Taehyung sat motionless. One hand near his untouched glass. Posture loose but unreadable, all shadows and stillness. But his eyes told the truth. They hadn't moved since the first punch. He wasn’t watching a bar fight anymore—he was watching a test unfold, watching a decision unravel in blood and breath. Not judging. Not intervening. Just witnessing.
Waylon reached for a stool.
His fingers curled around the seat, knuckles red, blood-slicked. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth creaked. His shoulders twitched. He lifted the stool overhead, wobbling under the weight of it. His eyes were wild now, unfocused, the way animals look when cornered. His breath came short and shallow.
“COME ON, BITCH!” he roared. “Let’s see that kung fu shit again!”
He swung.
She dropped. Just folded like a hinge. The stool arced wide, missed by inches, and exploded against the wall behind her. The impact cracked plaster, sent wood flying. A shard spun into the jukebox. The beer sign sparked once, then fizzled out with a soft hiss. And she was already moving.
One sharp pivot. Her boot snapped sideways, low and fast, catching the broken stool still clutched in Waylon’s hand. It knocked it loose, sent it spinning across the floor, where it skittered under the jukebox with a shriek of metal and wood.
Waylon howled and charged. He didn’t think. His hand found her wrist. Yanked hard. And that was it.
The broken cue still in her other hand came up fast. She didn’t swing. She drove it straight into his arm, just above the elbow. There was a sound—wet, wrong, thick with resistance. Muscle splitting, cartilage groaning. Blood sprayed, bright and sudden, like something had burst.
Waylon froze. Mouth open. Silent. Then the scream hit, all at once—high, raw, animal. It tore from his throat like something alive. Blood gushed from the wound, hot and red, speckling her shirt, her arms, her face. It soaked into denim, streaked across skin. She didn’t flinch. She stepped in closer.
Her hand pressed against the base of the cue, and she shoved. It slid deeper. Flesh parted. Waylon’s eyes went glassy, knees wobbling. One hand tried to find the shaft, clawing at it like it might disappear. The other flailed, seeking purchase on nothing.
She dropped to one knee beside him, quiet, smooth, no wasted motion. Her knee pressed into his ribs, pinning him. One hand braced the cue, the other hovered above his chest like a promise. Her face was close—calm, blank, surgical.
When she spoke, her voice was low, carved from something old and cold. “You’re right,” she said, no tremble in her tone. “I am a cunt.”
A drop of blood fell from her hand, landing on the pale fabric of his shirt.
“But you were still rude.”
Her palm settled gently on his chest, the cue trembling faintly between them. She didn’t press. Everyone in that bar knew if she leaned in, he wouldn’t get up.
Then a voice cut the silence, low and deliberate. Smooth like oil, sharp like broken glass. “Some people,” it said, “aren’t worth killing for free.”
Her hand didn’t move, but her head turned. She stayed crouched over Waylon’s broken body, jeans soaked at the hem, shirt clinging to sweat and blood, arms streaked with bruises that hadn’t even started to bloom yet. Her lip bled in a slow trickle down her chin. Hair stuck to the sides of her face.
The low light from the busted sign caught her face as Taehyung stepped into view. She looked up at him. When he knelt beside her, his shadow stretched long and heavy across Waylon’s broken form, swallowing him up in its blackness. He reached out his hand, offering it to the girl. His fingers brushed over hers. She hadn’t even realized how hard she’d been holding onto the cue until his warmth broke through it. Her knuckles were white, her hand rigid. He didn’t try to take it. It was then that Y/N realized exactly what she was about to do.
The broken cue slipped from her grip, falling with a dull clink to the floor, spinning once before settling in a patch of blood. Taehyung didn’t pull his hand away. She met his gaze.
There was no softness there, no patronizing comfort, but no judgment either. His eyes held something that she sometimes saw when she looked into the mirror. He gave her the faintest smile, so slight it barely existed.
“Take my word for it,” he said, voice low, calm, firm in that way only truth could be. “He’s not worth it.”
She didn’t respond, but her breath shifted—slower now, more controlled. Her shoulders dropped the tiniest amount. Behind them, Waylon whimpered.
It was a pathetic, high-pitched sound, too soft for a man his size. He clutched his arm with both hands, blood pumping down his side in thick pulses, soaking his shirt, pooling beneath him.
“She... she was gonna kill me,” he stammered, voice full of disbelief, wet with panic. “Jesus, man... if you hadn’t—if you hadn’t showed up—” He coughed, deep and rattling, like something was trying to crawl out of his chest. “You’re a... a fuckin’ lifesaver.”
Taehyung looked at him. “Leave.”
Waylon nodded, jerking his head like a puppet with frayed strings. He moved to push himself up, grunting with effort, face twisting with each inch like his body hated him for trying. He reached for a stool, missed, cursed, then tried again. No one helped. No one moved. He didn’t look at her, but he made the mistake of glancing at Taehyung.
Whatever he saw there cut straight through him. His eyes dropped fast, shame folding him in half. He turned and staggered toward the door, one hand clamped to his ruined arm, the other dragging along the wall. A dark trail followed him—thick, uneven smears of blood across the wood that would stain. The cowbell gave one half-hearted jingle. The hinges moaned. The door slammed behind him as he left.
Behind the bar, Ellis gripped the sink like it was all that kept him upright. The towel in his other hand hung limp, half-dried glass forgotten in his grip. Sweat had begun to line his forehead, beading along the hairline. His face was tight, jaw locked, lips pale. The long, exhausted resignation of a man who knew he’d remember this one and it would follow him to his dreams tonight. His wife would be horrified if he told her what happened that night.
The jukebox tried to come back—gave a stutter, a spark, then died again. One last cough of sound, then silence.
Taehyung rose without a drop of fear, like he hadn’t just stared down a man bleeding out on the floor. This wasn’t the worst he’d seen. Maybe not even the messiest. Just another page in a book already full. His coat brushed against splinters and glass, the hem dark with spilled beer and blood, dragging through the same grooves worn into the wood by years of too many boots and too many regrets.
At the bar, he didn’t pause. His voice cut through the room—quiet, level.
“Two damp towels.” It wasn’t a request.
Ellis blinked like he’d just remembered his body, ducked down without a word, and came back with two thick towels—still hot, still smelling faintly of bleach and age. They were stained already. Nothing clean stayed clean here. He handed them over in silence.
Taehyung took the towels and turned back to the girl. She was still on the floor, knees pressed into wood that had seen too many nights like this one, grain dark with sweat, beer, and blood that no mop ever reached. Her hands sat in her lap—bloodied, open, trembling just enough to betray the cost of what she’d held in. Her shoulders were slumped. Each breath she took was uneven, dragging in through grit-lined lungs and slipping out like glass.
She looked wrecked, but her eyes were clear.
Taehyung knelt beside her without a word, his coat folding around him, his presence settling into the space without disruption. He moved with that same quiet intention he’d carried since the beginning, because nothing ever surprised him anymore, and this girl had managed to.
One towel he held out. The other he brought to her temple, pressing it against dried blood with a kind of care that told her that he’d done this before. There was no hesitation in his touch. She didn’t flinch, didn’t lean away. She let him clean her face without any fuss.
When he offered her the second towel, she took it, gaze never leaving her hands. She wiped them slowly, mall, grinding motions, circles, pressure and pause. Like she’d done this before, maybe too many times, and never gotten clean enough. It made him wonder who else’s blood she’s had to clean off.
Taehyung didn’t speak. Just kept at it—behind her ear, along her jaw, down her neck. The bar around them didn’t make a sound. No footsteps. No glass clink. Just smoke rising, blood dripping, and the low hum of tension bleeding out into stillness. Her elbow still wept crimson in slow, steady drops that soaked into the wood.
“I wasn’t going to kill him,” she said, voice thin and stretched but not shaking.
Taehyung didn’t answer immediately. He folded the towel neatly, blood inside, and placed it by her knee. Then he looked at her fully—her torn lip, the bruises blooming dark across her cheek, the red coating her knuckles, and the eyes beneath it all. Calm.
“Maybe not,” he said after a beat. “But if the wind had changed... you would’ve.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t nod either.
Taehyung kept his eyes on her. Trying to place her. She had the stillness that came after chaos, the kind that wasn’t taught but burned into your bones. She carried a certain calm about her that he knew he carried with himself. He had a few years on the girl and had managed to get over the rage she carried along the way, but he remembered a time when he made the stunt she pulled that night look like child’s play.
He held out a hand—palm open, fingers loose. There was a smear of blood across the base of his thumb. She stared at it.
“Taehyung,” he said. His voice was low, even, patient.
She didn’t take his hand right away. Her eyes moved over him slowly, methodically. She took in the details—his collar, slightly crooked like he didn’t care much for appearances. The thin scar over his knuckle, healed badly. The boots, expensive once but worn down with miles. His face was unreadable. Not cold. Just still. Not inviting, but not closed off either. And then she reached forward.
“Y/N,” she said. “Y/N Y/L/N.”
Taehyung nodded once. “Well, Y/N,” he said, dry, “you don’t strike me as someone who drinks Jack by choice.” His chin dipped toward the busted bottle still bleeding into the cracks of the floor. “How about something you actually like, sugar?”
Her eyes followed the gesture, then slid back to him. A brow lifted.
“You offering because you feel bad?”
He breathed out—close to a laugh, but not quite.
“Not unless I should. I’m offering because I feel like it.”
She studied him. “Nothing more?”
“Nothing less.”
Y/N didn’t speak right away. She traced the edge of the towel, thumb moving through blood caught in the seams of the fabric. Her jaw worked slightly. Her gaze flicked to the door—out of instinct—then back.
“Margarita,” she said. “On the rocks. No salt.”
That earned her a smile. A real one this time. Slow, uneven, like the muscles hadn’t been used in a while. It made him look younger, more handsome and boyish.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Taehyung said. “Though I like the salt.”
Taehyung tipped his head toward the corner booth he’s been sitting at since he got there. It crouched in half-shadow, half-flicker, backlit by a dying COLD BEER sign that stammered through its last few breaths in twitching red and blue. The letters didn’t glow so much as tremble.
Y/N rose without a word. She crossed the room unbothered by the stares, her limping not stopping her from holding her head up high. When she slipped into the booth, the vinyl groaned beneath her and gave way slowly.
Behind the bar, Ellis’s shoulders rolled like they ached, his hands shook but he didn’t fumble. Didn’t speak. He didn’t look their way. Just reached for the bottles without another word. Two glasses—one rim salted, one bare. Lime dropped in hers with a heavy thunk. Ice cracked. Liquor poured. He tried his best to think about how lost the girl looked earlier rather the the blood staining through her clothes.
He had said Waylon didn’t know when it quit. It was only a matter of time before something like that happened. Ellis just never expected it would be from an emaciated little girl. Or that a pool cue would be involved.
Taehyung returned with both drinks in hand, boots whispering across the sticky wood. He set her glass down with the kind of care that made noise unnecessary. The glass kissed the tabletop, condensation already forming in a slow ring.
“No salt. On the rocks,” he said, and then lowered himself into the booth. One arm draped across the seat, legs stretched out, weight sunk in. The booth shaped itself around him.
Above, the neon sputtered—red, blue, red again—washing their faces in bruised light. Shadows crawled across their cheeks and hands, flickering over old scars and fresh cuts. The drinks caught the color too, fractured beams glinting off the surface.
Taehyung swirled his drink and stared into the cloudy green like it might offer him a better story than the one they were already in.
“Looks like antifreeze,” he muttered, then took a sip and grimaced. “Once had the real thing. Shack outside Baja. Bartender looked ninety. Said the tequila was older than him. Dust in the air. Gunfire on the horizon. Best night of my life.” He stared at his drink again. “This tastes like piss with lime.”
Y/N sipped hers and flinched like she’d been hit again. Her mouth twisted, tongue curling against the aftershock. “Christ,” she muttered, swiping at her lip with the back of her hand. “It’s a good thing I don’t care about what I’m drinking.”
Taehyung laughed. Not a breathy sound or a polite exhale—laughed, real and cracked and full. She didn’t react beyond another sip. She drank again anyway. It didn’t taste better the second time.
They stayed like that for a while—no rush, no questions. Just two people sitting in the smoke-thick silence of a bar that had seen too much and cleaned too little. The jukebox, somewhere behind them, fizzled out into static, then gave up entirely. Blood dried into the floor behind them in slow, rust-colored stains, and the air thickened with the weight of everything that had happened—and the things no one said out loud.
Flies had started surrounding the pools of blood.
Taehyung leaned back again, his posture loose but grounded, one arm slung along the booth, the other hand near his glass. He didn’t speak right away. He let the silence hang. Let it wrap around them like smoke.
Then: “What you did back there—clean.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t grin. Just looked at her and let the words land. “Thought you’d freeze. Or fold. Most people do.”
A beat. Then something in the corner of his mouth pulled tight—not a smile. More like the shape of respect. Dry, edged.
“But that?” he said. “That was magical.” He paused, voice dropping half an octave. “And yeah. Looked cool as hell.”
Y/N didn’t lift her head. Didn’t blink. Just stared into the bottom of her glass like there was something in it she hadn’t found yet. Then she tilted it back and drained the rest in one motion. The ice clinked, then settled.
Taehyung watched her, still as a man waiting on a trigger. He looked at her like someone might look at a coyote pacing just beyond the edge of the firelight—half curious, half cautious, and fully impressed.
“How old are you?” he asked, flat.
“Nineteen.”
No pause. No flicker of doubt. Just truth, clean as a cut.
He nodded, no change in expression. No raised brow. Just cataloguing.
“Where you from?”
“Alabama.”
“You don’t sound like Alabama.”
She shrugged—left shoulder only, just enough to be called motion. “What’s it supposed to sound like?”
Taehyung shut his eyes for the length of a breath, just long enough to drag a picture from the dirt. He didn’t need the details—not names or places or dates. Just enough to sketch the edges. Dusty roads the color of sunburnt skin, trailers bleached pale by heat and regret, dogs sleeping under rusted-out cars that hadn’t run in years. A girl sitting barefoot on a porch with her knees pulled up, staring out past the treeline like she already knew everything behind her was poison. A place that didn’t need bars to keep you in, just silence thick enough to choke. A girl who didn’t cry, didn’t shout, just waited for the first excuse to leave—and the second not to come back.
“You leave on your own?” he asked, still watching the past unfold behind his eyelids.
She nodded.
“How far’d you get before someone tried to stop you?”
“First night.”
Taehyung leaned back. He rested against the booth, mind already trying to plan out the rest of the conversation. The girl either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was analysing her like this. Wouldn’t have mattered either way.
“Nineteen,” he muttered. “Alabama girl with no accent, walks into a bar in Texas, and stabs a man with a cue. Am I supposed to believe that?”
She tilted her glass, watching the ice melt into weak liquor, the way someone might study blood swirling down a drain. “You’re the one asking.”
Taehyung let out a short breath, more ghost than laugh. “You any good at poker?”
“Never played.”
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to.
He studied her then, not to figure her out, but to understand the edges she was carved with. “Could’ve fooled me.”
She took another sip, winced like it bit back, swallowed anyway. “I get that a lot.”
“Why Texas?”
Another shrug. “It was west.”
His eyebrow arched. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the truth. I want California. Heard there’s stuff there.”
“What kind of stuff?”
Her gaze lifted, just slightly, like the word itself had weight. “Stuff I ain’t seen.”
He took a slow sip, face unreadable as he swallowed. The taste didn’t improve. He grimaced, set the glass down with a dull, hollow thud. His fingers tapped once against the rim. Then stopped.
“You ever kill someone before tonight?”
“Yes.”
That made him pause.
“Would you have killed him, too, if I hadn’t stepped in?”
She didn’t rush her answer. Didn’t posture. Just swirled the last inch of her drink, watching it settle, then lift again. “Maybe.”
Taehyung didn’t blink.
“You sure?”
She tilted her head like an animal would. Her ponytail slid over one shoulder, damp and matted with sweat, blood, and road dust. The neon above them buzzed once, flickered red, then blue, and back red again. Then her eyes met his, full-on, steady.
And she asked, without hesitation: “Do you want it to be?”
Taehyung didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But something in him stilled. A gear locking into place. He saw it now—not the scrapes or the broken skin, not the way she kept one foot metaphorically planted like the fight might start again. It was in her stare. That terrifying calm that didn’t come from practice. It came from origin. From blood. From birth. It was violence that had never needed translation. A reflex, not a strategy. She didn’t think in pain. She thought in reaction.
She wasn’t broken. She was built like this.
His mouth twitched. Just a flicker. Barely there. The closest he got to smiling.
“Okay, Alabama,” he said, voice low, laced with dry recognition. “You win this round.”
She didn’t nod. Didn’t answer with a smirk or a glance. Just drained the last of her drink in that slow, resigned way people take medicine they know won’t help. The glass hit the table a little off-center, left a faint ring in the sweat pooled beneath it, and stayed there like a held breath.
“I’ll get you another one,” Taehyung said, already half-turned.
“Okay,” she replied.
He flicked his fingers toward Ellis, who understood without needing to. Five minutes later, the bartender returned—one fresh margarita, no salt, lime hanging limp on the rim. Y/N didn’t thank him. Just picked it up and took a long, unbothered swallow.
Silence followed. The jukebox fizzled out into static.. Blood dried in curling stains across the floorboards, blackening into something permanent. The flies continued their buzzing.
Taehyung leaned in a little, elbows on the table. His voice came lighter, almost casual—something slipped under the door instead of knocked out loud. “You into kung fu flicks?”
She didn’t blink, didn’t lift her head much, but something in her eyes shifted—fast, subtle. A flash of recognition. Not quite warmth. Not quite nostalgia. But it stirred the dust.
He saw it. Grinned a little. “The old ones,” he said. “Bootlegs. VHS copies with the tracking lines jumping like crickets. Dubbing so bad it felt like it was from a whole different movie.”
Something broke loose in her chest—a sound that might’ve been a laugh in another life. Rough, breathy, unfinished. “Yeah,” she said, voice uncoiling. “Used to wake up early for ’em. Local station ran ‘em before cartoons. Half the titles were wrong. Didn’t matter.”
She smiled. Small. Crooked. Disappeared before it could mean too much.
“Had five tapes,” she said. “Played ‘em till the reels stretched out. Could quote half of Drunken Master before I could spell my own name.”
Taehyung didn’t speak. Just watched her remember. He liked the way her eyes lit up.
“The dubbing was garbage,” she added, quieter now. “Voices didn’t match the faces.” She took a sip. Winced again. Same bitterness, same fire. “I didn’t care. I was hooked. I read about the styles. Cranes, tigers, mantis. Probably bullshit, but it was fun.”
Her voice dropped. She drank again. It tasted like chemicals and broken air conditioners, but she got it down.
“People thought I was weird,” she said, finally looking at him. “Didn’t say it. But I knew.” A shrug followed—left shoulder only. “Then Jason Mathers tried to grab me in gym class.”
Taehyung’s brow arched slightly.
She smiled again. This time with teeth. “Popped his shoulder out of the socket.”
He laughed. It caught high in his throat and dropped low in his chest, like it hadn’t been used in a while. A few heads turned toward the sound, then looked away just as quick.
For a second, the bar seemed to relax. Even the ceiling fan gave one low groan and spun to a stop. The jukebox didn’t even try to resurrect itself.
She sat back, glass nearly empty, knuckles torn open, lip split. Jaw bruised. But there was something in her posture that hadn’t taken damage. Something behind her eyes that still burned—not like a wildfire, but like a pilot light that never went out. Defiance in its purest form. Not loud. Not reckless. Just unwilling to die.
Taehyung saw it. Sat with it. Leaned back slowly, keeping his gaze on her. He’d seen killers. He’d made a few. Broken more. But this girl wasn’t forged yet. She was still fire and metal, not finished into anything. A knife in the middle of becoming. He could feel it in how she held still. Not with fear, but with control. Like she knew her edge and didn’t care who else did.
“You’re not Jackie Chan,” he said, voice low, something dry threading through it. “But for someone raised on warped tapes and bad years, you’re ahead of the curve.”
His smile came slow. Uneven. Genuine in the way most things aren’t anymore.
Then Taehyung leaned in again, elbows settling on the table. His rings caught a flicker of the busted neon light overhead, purple and sickly, cutting across the knuckles of a man who’d learned more with his fists than most did with their mouths. His voice dropped.
“I’m gonna tell you something,” he said. “But first—” He didn’t blink. “If it leaves your mouth, even once... there’ll be consequences.”
Y/N didn’t blink. Didn’t ask what kind of consequences. Didn’t twitch like someone about to bluff. She just nodded once.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she said.
And Taehyung, who didn’t believe in many things—especially not people—believed her.
He watched her a second longer. She wasn’t tense. Wasn’t performing. She just was.
“Good,” he said. He leaned in just a hair more. Not enough to break distance. Just enough to change the temperature between them. Close enough she could smell him—burnt whiskey and sweat-soaked denim, the sharp tang of powder and metal, leather baked by the sun, the stale bite of something mechanical. “Because if you talk,” he said, voice low but clean, “I’ll kill you.”
She didn’t move.
“You ever made good on that before?” she asked, swirling her glass, ice clinking.
He raised a brow. Let the question hang.
“Once or twice.”
She didn’t dig deeper. She leaned back just slightly, enough to let her spine breathe, let her ribs remember where they were supposed to sit. She studied him. Not the boots. Not the scars. The man. The shape of him beneath it all.
“What did you see in me?” she asked.
He rolled one shoulder. His leather jacket creaked.
“Something familiar.”
She waited.
His eyes dropped to her hands—blood cracked in her knuckles, skin tight over bruised bone, muscles still twitching like they hadn’t gotten the message yet.
“I’ve seen tough,” he said. “And I’ve seen a room full of pussies with their chests puffed.” His eyes met hers. “I can assure you, you’re the former.”
He drew a circle on the table with one ringed finger. Voice low, but steady.
“What you did to Waylon... your body got there before your mind even caught up.”
She let that sit. Felt it settle. Then gave a slow nod. She did not think about these things.
“Yeah,” she said. “Guess it did.”
“Where’d you learn it?”
Her eyes stayed on his.
“Life. You hit first, people stop testing you. Eventually.”
He nodded. Like someone who’d heard it said before, or maybe said it himself, a long time ago.
She watched him a moment longer.
“Doesn’t scare you?”
His head tilted slightly. One brow low.
“Should it?”
She looked down at her drink. The ice was all but gone now.
“Most people either try to fix me,” she said, voice quieter, “or they run.”
He lifted his glass. Raised it halfway.
“I don’t fix people,” he said. “And I don’t run from shit, Alabama.”
She raised hers to meet his. The glasses touched with a soft clink.
Outside, the wind kept scraping leaves across the roof. A semi moaned down the blacktop, its lights flashing through the window and gone before anyone could blink. The jukebox sputtered once, gasped, and then Patsy Cline’s voice crawled out—ragged, beautiful, dragging heartbreak behind it like a rusted chain. Y/N thought about her mother. “Crazy” had been one of her favorite songs.
Taehyung didn’t speak right away. Just stared into his glass, letting the tequila spin slow and sullen, like dirty runoff circling a drain. His hand stayed loose on the rim, thumb dragging against the condensation like he could wear a groove into it if he tried hard enough. His eyes didn’t blink, didn’t flick, just watched the swirl like it had something honest to tell him. And then—finally, like a match catching wind—his voice cut through the stillness.
“There’s people out there,” he said, not with cynicism, not with envy, just with the weight of knowing, “who keep things simple. Fix trucks. Run registers. Marry the first person who smiles and never ask why they stopped.” He looked up. Met her eyes. No smile. No sell. Just locked in. “And then there’s people like me,” he continued. “Maybe like you.”
Y/N could not tell if she believed him or not, but something about him made her second guess her hesitation.
“We live under things,” he said. “Behind gas stations. Under bridges. In the spaces polite folks pretend don’t exist when they say grace. The cracks in the system that people cover with prayer and tax returns.” And she still hadn’t spoken. Just listened. She knew about those things more than most people realized.
“I run a crew,” he said. “We call ourselves the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad.”
He waited a beat, watching her. Most people laughed at that part. It was a litmus test—see what the smile meant, if it was fear, disbelief, or just nerves. She didn’t laugh. Her face didn’t even twitch. He almost smiled at that.
“Stupid name,” he said, and his mouth curved a fraction. “Friend picked it. I kept it after he died.” He threw the last of the tequila back, slow, savoring the burn. Then set the glass down with a slow spin, watching it turn. “We’re contract killers.”
He watched her—not her face, but the way her body held the silence. That stillness. That self-control. That rare breed of calm that didn’t come from peace but from the kind of pain that teaches you to breathe around a scream.
“You want someone gone? We make that happen. Two hundred grand gets you in the door. More if they want peace of mind along with the body.” His eyes narrowed. “They’re trained. All of them. But they blend. No one expects the girl in beat-up sneakers. Or the busboy with a lisp.”
He leaned forward. The neon buzzed above, flickering against the metal of his rings. His voice dropped, low and certain.
“I’m not a pimp,” he said. “We don’t sell bodies. We sell death.”
She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Her fingers just tightened on the glass.
“I train them,” he went on. “Me and the ones who’ve lasted long enough to matter. Knives. Guns. Close quarters. Vanishing. Walking away clean. No flare. No loose ends.”
Then softer, “How to end someone with your hands—and still remember to feed the dog before midnight.”
Still, she didn’t move. Just held the glass like it might anchor her. And maybe it did. He reached across the table and gently rested his hand on her forearm. His thumb traced a line, just once. She looked at him. He could see she was measuring him up.
“I know where you come from,” he said. “That kind of pain doesn’t show much. It sits in how you breathe. How you stop asking for anything you don’t think you deserve.”
He gave her arm the smallest squeeze Then pulled back, let the distance return. All the while she watched him with that same blank expression on her face.
“You didn’t crack,” he said. “You came out sharp. As sharp as all the others did.”
He leaned back. The booth let out a soft groan. His gaze didn’t leave hers.
“What I’m offering isn’t revenge. It’s not justice. It’s not a fucking redemption arc.” His voice was sandpaper now, worn down to the grain. “It’s a life. Real. Dirty. Paid in scars and years you don’t get back. That’s the cost.”
She traced the condensation ring on her glass.
“You’ll see the world. Make real money. And yeah—you’ll kill people. Most will deserve it. Some won’t. Tough shit.” He spun his glass one last time. Then let it stop. “It’s not clean,” he said. “It’s not easy.” Then, softer. Lower. “And it costs everything.”
He lifted his hands, palms up, empty. He wasn’t selling. He was showing her what the road looked like. Nothing more.
“Your name. Your past. Every person who thought they knew you—gone. You get a codename. You start over.”
Then he stood. The booth gave a tired creak beneath him, the table shivered under the shift in weight, and her glass wobbled in its condensation ring. Taehyung stepped out with that same unfazed grace, boots silent on the warped floorboards. His hand came down on her shoulder, firm and hot to the touch. She didn’t look up.
“I’m going outside,” he said, voice flat. “There’s a cherry-red ’67 Mustang behind the ice machine.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement. Didn’t reach for her gaze. His own was already turned toward the door.
“If you’re in,” he said, “go left. Get in the car.” A pause. “If not... go right. No hard feelings. You won’t see me again.”
And then—just as quiet, just as strange—he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Quick. Dry. Not romantic. Could’ve meant goodbye. Could’ve meant nothing. Could’ve meant everything.
“Fifteen minutes,” he whispered.
Then he walked away. No backward glance. Just the whisper of the door swinging open, the groan of old wood under practiced boots, and the Longhorn folding around the vacuum he left behind.
She didn’t watch him go.
She stayed right there. Elbows on the table. Palm pressed damp against the warm glass. Her eyes unfocused. The drink wasn’t cold anymore, and when she set it down, it landed off-center with a small, definitive click. It wasn’t loud. But it was enough.
The bar breathed again. Like something had let go. The jukebox stumbled back to life, vomiting up Willie Nelson. Laughter rose from the back—too loud, too sudden, trying to shake off the static that still clung to the walls. A cue ball cracked. A chair scraped. The fan above ticked once. Then again. Spinning. Moving. Like life wanted so badly to pretend it had never paused.
But for her, nothing had started moving again.
She hadn’t broken. She’d just... shifted. A slow click back into place. A truth she hadn’t known was off until it corrected itself. It didn’t hurt. It was relief. Like breathing through your nose after years of congestion. And now her brain was ticking through its lists again.
Find food. Something fried. Don’t taste it. Start a fight. Win it. Don’t bleed. Take a drink. Leave it half-finished. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t ask. Don’t explain.
Then one more line. Slipped in like it had always been there.
Join a crew of contract killers?
It should’ve felt absurd. Surreal. Something from the wrong end of a bad dream. But it didn’t. It sat right next to the other rules, like it had always been waiting for its turn.
She let out a breath—short and jagged. There was too much blood in her mouth. Too much silence in her chest. Too much of this one day shoved into the same body she’d been dragging around for nineteen years. The bar’s light was slanted now, cut into ribbons by grime-streaked windows. The dust caught in it hung like ash. She watched it float.
Somewhere in her mind, her mother’s voice cracked through, scratchy and cigarette-shredded.
The world don’t care about your feelings, girl. It’s gonna keep turning whether you like it or not.
Funny, she used to laugh at her mother. Call her stupid. Crazy how much her mother was right about the world.
And her thoughts spiraled back to fists and bone, to the grip of a cue stick, to the clean contact of knuckle on jaw.
This wasn’t a decision. Not really. It was just the next thing. A step she’d already taken without realizing it. A door she’d already passed through. She leaned back into the booth. Vinyl squeaked, stuck to her bare arms. She folded them tight across her chest.
Her jaw set. Her eyes dropped. There, etched into the table, were initials. Faded. Carved in shallow. Maybe ten years old. Maybe older. A scar in the wood no one had ever bothered to sand down. Her reflection sat beside it, faint in the gloss—just a suggestion.
They used to call her an old soul. Like it was a compliment. Teachers. The old ladies at church. Rhonda Portnoy with liquor on their breath and too many stories that never ended right.
No one ever asked what it cost to know too much too young. Maybe she was deep. Or maybe they just didn’t want to look long enough to see she was drowning. Her eyes burned. She blinked them dry—twice.
The Longhorn still stank. Of sweat, beer, bleach, old fry oil. But under it—she could still smell the blood.
What the hell just happened?
She already knew. Even if her bones hadn’t caught up.
A man had walked in. The kind who didn’t need volume to make people listen. He didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t promise rescue. He’d promised a life. Maybe not a safe one, but it was more than she’d had going for her.
And she hadn’t flinched.
What filled her now wasn’t fear. It was interest. It lived in her chest like smoke behind a locked door waiting for a crack.
She reached for her glass again, out of muscle memory. Swirled what was left. It shimmered like a coin tossed into deep water. No answers there. She drank it anyway. The burn barely registered. Her hand was steady.
Willie kept singing. The cue ball cracked. Somebody laughed too loud. The fan overhead ticked on, blades slicing the air with lazy threat.
The Longhorn had moved on, but not her.
Something in her had shifted. Slid into place. And the ache that followed wasn’t a wound. It was release. She felt light. Like she’d stepped out of her old skin and hadn’t quite landed in the new one yet. The girl she’d been was fading fast. Just static now.
One step left and she was gone.
She didn’t move. Not yet. But the voice inside—the one that never screamed, never rushed—was speaking now.
Walk left.
Toward the door. The gravel. The Mustang behind the ice machine. Toward the man who hadn’t lied. Who hadn’t asked for anything but the truth of who she already was. All she had to do was stand.
Could I actually do this?
Because this wasn’t instinct. Wasn’t heat. This wasn’t defending herself. This was choice. A step you didn’t come back from.
Taehyung hadn’t sold her a dream. He’d shown her a blade. This is the life. Take it or don’t. He’d said she had the eyes for it. And he wasn’t wrong.
There was something awake behind her eyes now. The low hum she always carried had risen—quiet, sure. Like a machine warming up after years at rest.
Sick? Maybe. But it felt right.
She’d always known she was off. Not cracked—just tilted. Enough to make teachers cautious, the old bitches from church quiet, other girls keep their distance without knowing why.
She used to kneel on threadbare carpet, rewinding battered kung fu tapes until the ribbon whined. Not for fantasy—for form. Breath, stance, control. The blade under her pillow wasn’t a a made up fantasy, it had been a promise to herself. A promise she’d never acted on.
She never told anyone about the dreams. Not about hurting people. Not about blood. Not about killing her father. Not her mother, too tired to listen. Not the church girls, all soft smiles and sharp whispers.
But she remembered the fire that took her daddy from her. Remembered the nights before it—his shadow in the doorframe, the silence after. She was seventeen when she walked barefoot into the dark, half-packed bag in one hand, his truck keys in the other. The moon spilled over her shoulders like it was waiting for her to speak. She didn’t.
She never looked back. But she thought about that night every day.
And when she couldn’t go back, she started hitting other men. The ones who leaned in too close. Who mistook silence for weakness. Who brushed her arm like they owned it. She didn’t flinch anymore. She struck.
She got good. Because no one expects the punch from the girl who doesn’t raise her voice. Not from the reverend's good little girl who went to church three times a week and spoke on Sundays.
Now here she was. Slumped in a cracked booth that stank of bleach, beer, and too many bad nights. Lip split. Fists aching. Warm drink gone. No sirens. No screaming. Just stillness.
Nothing had changed. Except everything had.
She stared at the ring her glass left on the table. Traced it once. Faint green glow from the beer sign above caught in the condensation. It looked like an answer. Or maybe a door.
That flicker still burned. The one that lived deep in her chest, behind the ribs, where no drink could drown it. The one that lit up not in fear, not in rage, but in the clean, quiet snap of bone under knuckle. It was still there. Low. Steady. Waiting. Like a pilot light in a dark house. She could ignore it for a while, maybe even forget it—but it never went out. Never really dimmed. And now it was humming. Calling.
Six minutes, maybe seven had passed. She hadn’t moved. Barely breathed. But the thought that had cracked her open when he left hadn’t faded. It had taken root. Sent feelers into her ribs. Started to grow.
What kind of person wants to kill?
Not one who’s good. But she’d stopped pretending to be good somewhere around thirteen. Maybe earlier. Good had been ripped out of her the day the belt came out of its loops, the jingle waking her up out of her sleep.
Ten minutes.
What if I said yes?
A Mustang parked behind the bar like it had been waiting since before she was born. A man she didn’t know, not really—but somehow, he’d seen her clearer than anyone ever had. No questions. No promises. Just a job. A life. Violence that meant something. Hurt that paid.
Right was more of the same. Dead towns with names she forgot before the motels gave her keys. Fights in alleys and parking lots that ended in bruises and nothing else. Rotating faces. Static nights. Cheap whiskey and cheaper exits. Right felt like a story she’d already finished, flipped closed, and tossed aside. It didn’t feel real anymore. Just a rerun on a broken screen.
She didn’t move. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. Her pulse murmured in her ears, each beat a warning or a countdown—she couldn’t tell the difference. Her fingers tapped against the tabletop, quiet and relentless. The ring left by her glass still glowed faint under the beer sign, warped and uneven. She reached out and touched it, pressed her fingertip to the cool wet rim, like it might tell her something.
It didn’t.
She said it anyway, under her breath, to herself, to the moment, to the whole damn weight of it.
“Fuck.”
Then she stood.
The chair scraped back hard, loud in the hush that followed. Heads turned. A glass froze mid-pour. Cigarette smoke spiraled up, caught midair. But no one spoke. No one stopped her. She didn’t look at them. Didn’t give a single glance. Let them stare. Let them guess. They’d already stopped mattering.
Her bag hung from the hook beside her, the same frayed canvas thing that had followed her from shelter to shelter, couch to cot. She grabbed it without flinching, swung it over her shoulder, felt the strap bite into her skin. It was heavy with places that never held her, but it tethered her. Always had.
She walked through. Past the jukebox bleeding out some slow, sad country tune. Past the cracked stools and stained bar and the men too far gone to lift their heads. She didn’t look back. Not once. She walked like she’d already left. The door was just a formality.
Outside, the heat punched her full in the chest. Thick. Wet. The kind of southern night that clung to your ribs. She paused on the warped porch, boards groaning beneath her boots.
To her right: the same spiral. New towns. Same lies. Rotting from the inside. Same weight, different grave.
To her left: gravel crunching under old tires. A red ’67 Mustang parked under a crooked streetlamp, dust dulling its lines. And him—Taehyung. Leaning back against the driver’s side door like he’d never been unsure of anything in his life. Coat loose. Boots crossed. Eyes watching, steady as midnight.
She didn’t hesitate. One breath. Then she turned left.
Right on time.
The Mustang didn’t sparkle like she expected it to. She crossed the gravel like it was a bridge, not a road. Her shadow stretched long under the lamp’s sickly flicker. She stopped at the fender, turned toward him, met his gaze head-on.
Chin high. Shoulders square. Spine tight and straight.
“Okay,” she said.
No tremble. No emphasis. Just fact. Like she’d known she would say it all along.
Taehyung nodded once. “Of course you do.”
He pushed off the Mustang with that same lazy grace, unhurried and unbothered, and opened the driver’s side door. The creak of it echoed across the lot. She stepped around the front of the car, dust catching on her boots, gravel crunching like bones underfoot. Her hand found the passenger handle, and for a second she just held it.
The roar came out of nowhere—engine high and desperate, headlights screaming white across the dark. A truck barreled into the lot too fast for the space it had. Tires locked. Dust exploded in plumes. The whole lot filled with the sound of friction and panic and that awful skidding pause that always came right before something crashed.
But nothing crashed.
The truck slewed to a crooked stop like it was throwing a tantrum. The door flung open before the dust even settled.
Out came a boy. Mid-twenties. All sweat and noise and denim swagger. Cowboy hat pulled low, shirt stuck to his spine, boots worn past style into utility. He moved with a kind of reckless confidence that didn’t come from experience—it came from never being hit hard enough to change.
“Taehyung! Shit—sorry, man!” he called, jogging toward them. “I lost track of time!”
Taehyung didn’t move. One hand still rested on the door. His silhouette didn’t shift. But something about him changed. The unbothered ease Y/N had come to know was melted away and in its place was a man with sharp eyes and tense muscles.
Y/N didn’t wait. She slipped into the passenger seat without a word. Shut the door. Rested her elbow on the frame and tapped her fingers against the glass in a slow, even rhythm—tick, tick, tick.
The guy noticed her then. Slowed mid-step.
“Oh,” he said, dragging the vowel like he wasn’t sure what he’d found. “Didn’t realize you had... company.” His eyes lingered a beat too long. Smile tried to form, didn’t stick. “Didn’t know you had a lady friend.”
Taehyung closed her door. A quiet, measured push. Then he turned toward the boy.
“She’s not company,” he said. His voice didn’t rise, but it filled the air like smoke. “She’s taking your place.”
The guy blinked, smile cracking at the edges. “What?”
“You were late,” he said. “She wasn’t.”
The guy laughed, too fast, and it broke in the middle. “Come on. Her? I was late, yeah, but—”
“Thirty minutes,” Taehyung said, flat as pavement. “And fate doesn’t wait.”
He reached the driver’s side and stopped. One hand on the handle. The other hovered near the fold of his coat—casual, almost lazy, but close. Deliberate.
“I don’t run a boys’ club,” he said. There might’ve been a smile there, buried under steel. Or maybe just the ghost of one long dead.
Color crept up the other man’s neck, flushed and hot. His fists curled like he didn’t trust his own fingers. His jaw locked. He was building toward something he couldn’t carry.
“Wait. Just—”
Taehyung didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
“There’s a gun ten inches from my right hand,” he said. “How close is yours?”
The guy froze. You could see the thoughts rearranging behind his eyes. Anger giving way to math. Math giving way to fear. Then, finally, defeat.
He stepped back. Shoulders loose now, but not relaxed.
“Fine,” he muttered, like it was the last word he had in him.
He turned and yanked open the truck door. Slammed it like it owed him something. Peeled out hard, tires screaming again, dust rising in a curtain behind him as if trying to cover the embarrassment.
Then silence returned.
Taehyung slid into the driver’s seat without a glance. The door thunked shut with that same clean, heavy sound. Leather groaned. The engine turned over—growling awake like something half-feral and starved.
Inside, it smelled like sun-baked leather, old metal, and something harder to name. Heat. History. Maybe a stale pack of Newports. The Longhorn blinked once in the mirror—neon twitching like a dying eye—then slipped away, swallowed by dust and distance.
Taehyung rested one hand on the wheel. The other on his thigh. Just a man doing what he was built for.
“You ready?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him. Just kept her eyes stitched to the road as it unspooled in front of them—blacktop like a scar across the desert’s pale skin, long and cracked and endless, the kind of road that never really took you anywhere, just farther from what came before. Her hands sat locked between her knees.
“Does it matter?” she asked.
Next to her, Taehyung’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. Just a flicker, a shift in the lines of his face. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The answer was already in motion. He dropped the Mustang into reverse and the tires crunched over the gravel like brittle bone. The gear clicked into drive, and the car moved forward, slow at first, then steady.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t say goodbye. There was no last look at the bar behind them, no sentimental drag to the rearview. The Longhorn blinked out behind them like a cigarette going dark in an ashtray—smoked down, used up, done.
By the time the Mustang hit third, the world behind them was gone.
The wind cut in hard, dry and wild, tangling her hair and slapping it against her face. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t tuck it back or smooth it down. Just let it whip and twist and get in her way like it belonged there.
Taehyung’s voice slid through the hum of the road like gravel dragged across glass. “You ever been to Mexico?”
She turned her head a little, enough for him to see the slope of her jaw, the shape of her mouth. “No,” she said. “But I’ve seen all of Texas. Different towns. Same ceiling.”
He gave a short laugh—low, real, and rough around the edges. “I love Mexico,” he said. “Didn’t grow up there. But it’s where I figured out who I was.”
Fourth gear clicked in like a final decision. The Mustang stretched out, engine dropping into a deeper, meaner hum. The road ahead unfurled in shades of gray and heat. The desert didn’t welcome them—it just made room. Wide, flat, indifferent.
“Mexico’s messy,” he said. “But it’s free. Less noise. Fewer eyes. You want to vanish, you do. You stay vanished.”
He let that hang. No sales pitch. No persuasion. Just another truth left lying in the space between them.
“I bought a place there in February,” he said. “Hilltop. Nothing fancy. Just quiet. No neighbors. No questions.”
He looked over, just a glance. Not searching for approval—just checking for signal. “Think you’d like it.”
She didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Her fingers curled against the inside of the door. He saw it. Knew she was anxious, but didn’t press the issue. The girl would get over that in time.
He shifted again, and the Mustang eased forward like it was being pulled by something older than maps. Fences blurred by. Power lines strobed overhead like broken film. The desert slipped past without memory. No towns. No signs. Just the land and the dark and the feeling of being farther and farther away from anyone who could spell her name.
The moon climbed up behind them, casting everything in that bruised kind of light. It touched the side of her face, the curve of her cheekbone, the line of her throat. She didn’t notice. But her shoulders loosened—barely. Just enough to tell someone paying attention.
He was. He caught it. Said nothing. Just nodded to the night like it had answered something for him.
“You’ll like it,” he repeated.
Still, she didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. Silence filled the car. Worn in like an old jacket. Engine noise. Wind. The occasional rattle in the dash. The Mustang didn’t ask questions. It just ran.
She didn’t fidget. Didn’t twist in her seat or look out the window for meaning. Just sat there, jaw tight, hands quiet, eyes locked forward. She didn’t know what was coming—not the killing, not the weight of it, not the cleanup or the silence that follows after—but if she did, if some part of her already understood what kind of blood she was signing up to wear, she didn’t flinch.
She just rode.
Taglist: @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @futuristicenemychaos @cranberrycupcake @mar-lo-pap @wannaghostbts @solephile @paramedicnerd004 @stargirl-mayaa @calmyourtitts7 @bjoriis @11thenightwemet11 @screamertannie @everybodysaynoooooo
#bts#bts fanfic#bts fanfiction#bts fic#bts x reader#bts fics#bts smut#bts x y/n#bts x you#bts x fem!reader#taehyung x y/n#taehyung x reader#taehyung x you#taehyung x oc#park jimin#jung hoseok#min yoongi#kim namjoon#kim taehyung#kim seokjin#bts assassin au#bts enemies to lovers au#bts angst#bts fluff#assassin taehyung#assassin reader#taehyung smut#taehyung series#taehyung scenarios#taehyung angst
97 notes
·
View notes
Text
Rivers of Light || part 6 ||
(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.)
All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here.
Another part so soon? Little restful weekend on the sofa and some words came out of it.
Max has been counting Bastiaan's existence in days so far. There aren't enough of them.
Part 6.
Max doesn't look at Cyril or Daniel once they're inside Cyril's office. He concentrates on settling his baby instead because he doesn't think that Bastiaan has been startled awake before. It's another new experience in his short little life. Every day comes with lots of new things to learn. Max would have liked it if being scared was something that had come later, though, and not now. Never, maybe. He kisses Bastiaan's head again, and Bastiaan snuffles closer. He's always happier in Max's arms.
"That's better, isn't it?" Max tells him. "You know where you are now. With Daddy."
"How old is he?" Cyril asks. Max looks up. Cyril's standing by the sofa and armchairs over by the window.
Max has been counting Bastiaan's existence in days so far. There aren't enough of them. "He was born on the 24th."
"Last month?"
Max nods. He kisses the top of Bastiaan's head again. Suddenly he wants to cry too.
"Sit down," Cyril says.
Max can't cry now. He hasn't cried in a very, very long time. He swallows it down. Sits on the sofa. Focuses on his baby, holding him away from him so that Bastiaan's little feet touch Max's knees. Bastiaan makes little steps against Max's thighs. Max smiles at him, so that Bastiaan can only see that Max is happy, not that he's falling apart and seeing people he hasn't seen since that day he smashed his car into the side of the track and destroyed his life.
Cyril sits down in the armchair next to Max. Daniel, confident and joking, has already taken charge of the coffee machine on the credenza, and is talking up his coffee making skills as he presents Cyril with a latte he's made by putting in a pod and pressing a button. He doesn't ask if Max wants one, so he hasn't forgotten everything about Max in the years they haven't seen each other. Instead he opens a little fridge, and comes out with a can of Coke Zero in one hand and a lemon San Pellegrino in the other.
"Either of these catch your fancy, Maximus?" He's trying to make Max smile. Daniel used to do this when they were doing media and Max couldn't find the face he was supposed to put on to look like he was enjoying himself.
Max is thirsty. "Is there water? As well as the Coke?"
Daniel leans over the fridge again and comes back out with a chilled bottle of still water. He pours Max a glass of water, then another of the Coke, and slides them across the coffee table. Then he makes himself a coffee from Cyril's machine.
"What's his name?" Cyril asks, holding his hands out. "And can I hold him?"
Max doesn't know how to hand his baby over. He's too used to it just being the two of them. "It's Bastiaan," he says awkwardly holding him out. "His name's Bastiaan."
"A good name," Cyril says, and he takes Bastiaan from Max, saying "Hello, Bastiaan. It's very nice to meet you."
Bastiaan looks decidedly non-plussed. That's two people he hasn't met before who have held him today. Bastiaan won't remember the hospital, or the couple of appointments he's had since coming home, but apart from those his life has been Max, and very occasionally, Celine dropping by. Now he has Daniel making stupid faces over Cyril's shoulder, then Cyril settling the baby into his lap so Bastiaan can see Max. Except he probably can't because Max is sitting a bit far away and Bastiaan can't see very far yet. Max leans in and smiles at him, staying close until Bastiaan's little frown starts to turn up at the edges.
"That's my baby," Max says, to Bastiaan, but Daniel says, it is.
"It's good to see you, Max," Cyril says. "We were all worried about you after your accident. Are you all recovered?"
"Yes," Max says, because he hasn't seen a doctor about his leg since before he left his dad's, but it's okay. It doesn't hurt anymore. The swimming helped. "Everything is good." He doesn't let Cyril say anything as Daniel sits down on the other side of Max on the sofa with his coffee. "I want to come and drive for you."
"I don't have a seat for you," Cyril says gently. "I've got Daniel and Nico."
Max shakes his head. "I know. I don't mean now. I mean— I could do the sim. I could do anything."
"What about Red Bull?"
"I don't drive for them anymore," Max says, staring right at Cyril without blinking. Red Bull had replaced him in the seat within days of his accident. When Max was finally at home and able to listen to things even if he couldn't look at screens, his dad had played him a clip of Christian saying, We can't wait for Max to recover. We need someone permanent in the seat if we're going to keep performing at this level. We can't wait for Max to get better and have it just be Daniel fighting for points. They'd brought Carlos up from Toro Rosso, reneged on their deal to loan him to Renault at the end of the season, and signed him for Red Bull in Max's place. Max kept hearing his dad yelling on the phone, then, weeks later, Max's position in the Red Bull driver programme had been terminated too.
"Okay," Cyril says. "Isn't it too soon? This little one—"
On cue, Bastiaan starts to cry again. He's trying to chew his little fist. Max's hungry little baby. Max reaches for him, plucks him back from Cyril's arms and into his own. "Okay, baby," Max says. "I'll feed you and then you will be more comfortable." He looks at Cyril. "I will need somewhere to change him and feed him."
Cyril nods. "Hélène will take you." He comes with Max to the office door, and Max gets the changing bag from under the pushchair as Hélène stands up from behind her desk. She takes him down one floor to a room with a sliding vacant/engaged sign on the door. She explains that this room is for parents that need to express milk while they're at work. There's a lock, so Max won't be disturbed.
Max nods. He goes inside, locks the door, sits down in the chair and hugs his baby. This was a mistake. He isn't ready. He wants to be at home with his son. He's still having to wear pads in his underwear for the fucking gunk after giving birth. His tits hurt all the time, and wearing the stupid compression sweat top thing is gross and painful and sore. It smells a bit whenever Max takes it off, but he only has the one of them so he has to wash it in the sink overnight if he wants to wear it the following day. He doesn't bother with it when he's at home alone with Bastiaan; he can leak all he needs to. But he and Bastiaan are just starting to learn about each other; Max isn't ready to stop.
He opens his changing bag one handed, and gets out the little travel changing mat, laying it out on the carpet. He puts Bastiaan down on it as he pulls off his t-shirt and unzips the compression top. It's left little lines across his skin. His nipples are sore, but it's better when the compression top is off. At least with the door shut he can feel a bit more comfortable. He takes down Bastiaan's little leggings and changes his wet nappy. He's running out of wipes but maybe there will be a shop in the airport that sells them. Or Daniel won't mind stopping with him to pick some up on the way.
Bastiaan cries during his change. He doesn't like the little cold wipes. He wants to be warm and dry and in Max's arms. He's hungry, his fist going to his mouth. Max tries to hurry up but he can't be as fast as Bastiaan would like. In the end, he gets Bastiaan's leggings back up and his top back down, his cardigan buttoned back up, but the room's a bit cold so Max pulls the little blanket out of the bag to cover Bastiaan with as he feeds.
Then Max settles himself in the chair, strokes the corner of Bastiaan's hungry little mouth with his finger, and helps him latch on.
It's a while before Bastiaan's finished feeding. He needs another nappy change, because babies are not good at being economical with nappies, and that takes even longer. By the time Max finally gets back upstairs with a newly settled and sleepy baby, it's been over half an hour. What was he even fucking thinking, coming here like this? He's not reliable. He can't focus. There's a baby where there used to be racing. He wouldn't hire him if he was in Cyril's shoes. His dad certainly wouldn't. He's fucked it up, and there's nobody to blame but himself.
Daniel and Cyril are both looking at Cyril's computer when Max comes back in. There are papers spread across the desk.
"Ah," Cyril says. "Daniel tells me you flew in together. When are you flying back?"
"In the morning," Max says.
"Excellent," Cyril says. "You will come to dinner tonight? We're hosting Daniel, we would love to host you and Bastiaan too."
"What," Max says stupidly.
"Dinner," Cyril says. "Where's your hotel?"
"I haven't got one," Max says, but doesn't say he was going to spend the night in the airport. Max hasn't got any money. There had been lean periods growing up — his dad had been better at spending money than he was at earning it at times — but this is the leanest. He should have planned better, but he hadn't. He'd run. His dad had tried to hurt his baby, so Max had left, and he hadn't left with the right documentation to get to his money. It doesn't matter. He has his baby. He doesn't need all the money he had.
Cyril glances at Daniel.
"I'll see if I can get a family room at my hotel," Daniel says, getting his phone out of his pocket.
"I haven't got a seat for you," Cyril says, and Max's heart sinks. "But you knew that. I also think it's too early to get you back into a car of any kind, even the sim. You should just be with this little one."
Cyril's not wrong. Being with his baby is all he wants right now, but that's not a long term plan. Max is used to working when he doesn't want to. He's used to working through the pain. And he's got a baby to support now.
"But I think I'd be an idiot if I didn't get you into our Driver Programme," Cyril goes on.
Max's head shoots up.
"We can get you in the sim later in the year," Cyril says. "We'll pay you from now, obviously, the remainder of your paternity leave. I'd be an idiot to let you go somewhere else. Red Bull's loss is very much our gain."
Max has to hold on to his baby to stop his hands from shaking.
"It won't be a driver's salary," Cyril warns. "Or anything close. But we'll get you in a car and see what that means for the reserve list later in the year. Get you into our programme. I'll have an offer drawn up this afternoon and we can talk it through this evening." He pauses. "It'll have an exclusivity clause. You won't be able to talk to any other teams after you sign it. And it will require us to get sign off on those crash injuries before we get you in a car."
Max doesn't want to talk to any other teams. He wants a way back in to racing, any way, and if he's got one then he doesn't have to talk to anyone else. "Yes," Max says. "Okay."
"I heard you're a tough negotiator," Cyril says, smiling. "We'll have the offer on the table tonight. You can do your worst after that."
Max barely remembers how to be that version of himself. He's been underwater far too long. He nods.
"It's not a promise it'll come to anything," Cyril says. "But we'll retain you until we can get you in a car. See what happens then. You're a race winner, Max. We'd be stupid not to see what you can do."
Max feels dazed. He drinks the rest of his water. Doesn't listen when Daniel starts talking to Cyril.
Bastiaan wraps his little hand around Max's finger, holding on tight. He might be the only thing rooting Max to the ground.
For a minute, Max just breathes. In and out. In and out. A chance. He can turn it all around with a chance. He breathes.
Just for a second, a moment, a breath — Bastiaan's mouth curves up into a smile.
#my fic#maxiel#rivers of light#the mpreg train is leaving the station#(again)#fic fic tumblr fic#honestly it's been a good week for getting some words out#writing just for me
140 notes
·
View notes
Text
more hearts than mine
Frankie Morales x Female Reader
summary: Frankie promises you he’s not going anywhere.
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. no physical description of reader, no mention of her age, reader has both of her parents, reader has a little sister (15 and unnamed), reader has a close relationship with her family (cannot say i am writing this from experience oop), reader is from a small, unnamed town somewhere in the midwest (state not specified), established relationship, mention of ex-boyfriend, mentions of alcohol consumption, reassurance, fluff, smutty themes towards the end but no smut.
word count: 2k
a/n: this was not planned and very spur of the moment. i think i needed a palette cleanse from writing so much joel. it’s my first time writing for frankie but i like the way it turned out. <3 i it’s 3 am, i wrote this in an hour and it is not proofread, so please excuse any errors. this is based on a song called more hearts than mine by ingrid andress.
“It’s late,” you worry. “Where could they be?”
Amused, your mother watches you anxiously pace back and forth in front of the dining room table. “My darling, can you please relax? They probably hit some traffic on their way back home from the lake. I bet you anything those two will be walking through the front door any second now,” she assures you. At that precise moment, her cell phone vibrates on the table, the loud buzzing noise garnering her attention. She picks it up and raises her eyebrows in complete surprise. “Oh. Or maybe not. Your father just texted me and said they’re stopping for a couple of drinks at the bar. He says not to wait up for them.”
Halting mid pace, you whirl around and stare at her.
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope.” She shows you the text. “See?”
“Jesus,” you mutter. Shaking your head, you drop down into the chair across from hers.
“That’s a pretty good sign. Don’t you think so, honey?”
It is because your father taking your boyfriend out on a fishing trip and then taking him to his favorite bar for drinks afterwards means that their time alone together has gone well. But, even though your father had clearly taken a liking to him, he won’t ever show it. Sure, he’ll buy him dinner and he’ll buy him drinks, he’ll check his tires and take a look underneath the hood of his pickup truck to make sure everything looks good, but he’ll do it with a scowl on his face and a standoffish attitude.
“He hates me, baby. Your old man hates me,” Frankie declared after his first dinner with your family. You had both arrived in your hometown that same evening after a gruelling, sixteen hour drive to the midwest. Despite being exhausted from the trip, he’d put his best foot forward for them—he’d charmed your mother and your little sister, had them both wrapped around his finger by the time dessert had been served. But your father, oh he had been much harder for him to win over. “He barely said two words to me all night.”
“My dad doesn’t hate you,” you swore to him, rubbing a soft, soothing circle into his broad back. “Do you want to know how I know that?”
“How?”
“Because he poured you a drink.”
He’d snorted. “What, and that means he likes me?”
“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves,” you joked with a giggle. “It’s still too early to tell if he likes you. But one thing is for sure, he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t break out a bottle of whiskey for someone he hates, Frankie.”
Sighing, you lift your legs, pulling your knees up to your chest.
Poor Frankie. He’s probably spent the better part of the whole day just trying to figure him out.
“I like him,” your mother says after a minute. “I like him a lot.”
“What a coincidence,” you grin. “I like him a lot too.”
She laughs. “I’m serious! He’s incredible, darling. He is so handsome. He’s sweet. Seems like he’s got a really good head on his shoulders—”
“Are we talking about Francisco?” Your sister walks into the dining room with can of Dr. Pepper in one hand and her cell phone in the other.
“As a matter of fact, we are.” Your mother smiles. “Isn’t he great?”
“He’s kinda perfect, actually.” She takes a casual sip of her soda and raises an eyebrow at you. “I have to admit though, I’m afraid to get attached to Frankie. You know, after what happened with Jake—”
You wince at the mention of your ex-boyfriend’s name.
Your mother hisses her name, angrily.
“I’m just saying! When he broke up with you, it’s like he broke up with all of us. It sucked.” She shrugs, adding, “I mean, even dad was sad about it for months. Wasn’t he, mom?”
“Don’t you have a paper to write?” Your mother glares at her.
Your sister starts towards the staircase, but stops and glances over her shoulder. “I like Frankie,” she tells you, smiling wryly. “And I really hope he sticks around.” With that, she disappears upstairs.
Sighing heavily, your mom turns to you. “Don’t listen to her. She’s only fifteen, she doesn’t know any better. She doesn’t understand what happened—”
Pushing away from the table, you stand up.
“I’m going to take a walk,” you murmur. “I need some fresh air.”
“Hermosa?”
You stir at the sound of Frankie’s voice.
“Baby. Hey. Wake up.”
“Mm?” you mumble sleepily. “Frankie, what are—ow!”
You groan when he switches on the lamp on the beside table. Rolling over, you bury your face into your pillow.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, chuckling softly. The twin sized mattress squeaks, dipping as he somehow squeezes himself beside you on your childhood bed. He’s staying in the guest room down the hallway—you parents, who were incredibly old school, had insisted the two of you sleep in separate bedrooms during your stay. Draping his arm around you, he leans down and nuzzles into the side of your face. Even with your nose buried in your pillow, you pick up the scent of sunscreen mingled with beer. “Just wanted to tell you I’m back home.”
Lifting your head, you blink furiously until your blurred vision stabilizes.
“What—what time is it?”
“Eleven.” Frankie’s cheeks and nose are red, sunburned from having been out on your dad’s boat all afternoon. You’re willing to bet he’d forgotten to put the sunscreen on his face. Even though you’d warned him a hundred times not to forget.
“What?” You sit up, prompting him to do the same. “It’s eleven and you only now just got back?”
“Your old man took me to Gordon’s,” Frankie explains, referring to one of the only few bars your small town had to offer. It was the place where you would meet with your old high school friends to catch up with each other whenever you were home visiting. At some point this week, you would be sitting in a booth at that old bar with them, introducing Frankie, and squirming when they began to tell him embarrassing stories of all those crazy nights from your senior year. “We went in with plans to have a couple beers before coming home, but then we ran into some of his buddies there. He introduced me, they bought us more drinks, and we played a game of pool. Your dad whooped my ass, of course.”
“How did fishing go?”
“Great. Y’know, once he stopped looking at me like he wanted to throw me overboard.”
You let out an amused huff. “He would never.”
“I don’t know. That man is pretty hard to read.” Frankie reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together. “One minute we’d be talking, shooting the shit while we waited for the fish to bite, and the next he would look at me like he was seriously thinking about pushing me off his boat and into the water.” He squeezes your hand, a deep laugh rumbling through his chest. “I spent all goddamn day with him and I still can’t tell if he likes me yet or not.”
Lifting his hand, you press a tender kiss to the back of it, a sweet token of affection.
“He likes you, Frankie,” you murmur against his skin. “I know it. My whole family likes you. Except my mom—”
He stiffens. “What?”
“She loves you.”
Frankie turns to you. Despite your smile, he can see the hint of concern in your eyes. “Baby, what’s the matter?”
You hesitate.
After what your sister had said earlier that evening, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d made a mistake and brought him home too soon. You and Frankie had been together for about six months now, and besides having a drawer of your things at his place for when you stayed overnight, you two hadn’t really sat down to talk about what the next step in your relationship would be—you and Frankie hadn’t discussed the possibility of a future together. Truth be told, you had never felt the need to question him about where this was heading. You’d been perfectly content in allowing things to unfold between you without putting any kind of pressure on yourself, or on him. At least, up until now, you had been content.
You’d been silly to think bringing Frankie home to meet your family wouldn’t be all that big of a deal, that it wouldn’t make you consider what came next. But you had forgotten how easily your mother falls in love, how quickly your little sister can form an attachment, and how your father, despite being rough around the edges, feels every heartache you go through as if it’s his own.
You think back to when your previous relationship went down in flames, you remember the helpless look on your father’s face whenever he would see you crying. “I never liked him,” he’d said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey over ice. But that had been a lie. He’d seen him as the son he never had. He lost something, too. Your whole family had to heal from that loss along with you.
Part of you is afraid that it could happen again.
“Amor?”
Frankie’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
You glance down at your hand in his. “Frankie, the last thing I want to do is scare you off,” you start to say, a nervous edge to your tone. “Or put any kind of pressure on you to give me anything more than what you have already given me. But now that you’ve met my family, I can’t help but worry a little bit.”
He frowns. “What are you worried about?”
Sighing, you confess, “My last relationship—it didn’t end very well, Frankie. My family loved him, adored him the way I can see they’re already starting to adore you. When he broke up with me, he broke more hearts than just mine.” You force yourself to look up, and meet his gaze with a wistful smile. “I guess there’s a part of me that’s scared it’ll happen again.”
Frankie’s dark brown eyes soften. “Oh baby, there’s no need to be scared. That’s never gonna happen.”
“How can you be so sure it’ll never happen?”
“Easy, because I love you. And I know you love me.” He reaches over with his free hand and he cups the side of your face, his thumb grazing over the soft skin of your cheekbone. “I’m in this for the long haul. I wouldn’t have driven sixteen hours across the country with you to come meet your family if I wasn’t. I’m serious about you—I’m serious about us, baby.”
Frankie leans in, gently pressing his mouth to yours in a chaste, but sweet kiss.
“Do you wanna know what I see when I look at you?” he mumbles against your lips.
“What do you see?”
“Mi futuro,” he tells you. “I see my future.”
Warmth blossoms in your chest. “You do?”
“I do. Believe me, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, and so is your family,” Frankie grins. “Your dad is gonna have plenty of opportunities to contemplate throwing me off his boat and into the lake.”
You giggle as he kisses you again before trailing his lips down to your neck. “Frankie,” you say his name warningly as he pushes you onto your back. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he says innocently, positioning himself on top of you. He plants his hands on either side of your head and dips his head, nipping lightly at the tender flesh over your pulse point. “How thin are these walls?”
“Francisco Morales, no, you are not fucking me in my parent’s house, not in my childhood bedroom—”
His bulge brushes against your thigh and you gasp.
“Guess I’ll head back to the guest room, then,” Frankie murmurs, feathering one last kiss onto your neck.
He starts to climb off of you and your hands shoot out, curling around fistfuls of his shirt to stop him.
“I can be quiet,” you whisper, biting your bottom lip. You take one of his hands and guide it underneath the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing to the apex of your thighs. “Can you?”
“Hermosa,” Frankie groans, running a finger along the damp cotton of your panties. He slips it beneath the fabric, his blood rushing south when he meets your slick folds. “God, I fucking hope so, or else I’ll actually end up at the bottom of that fucking lake.”
divider credit to @saradika 🤍
#fic: more hearts than mine#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x f!reader#Frankie morales x female reader#frankie morales#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales drabble#frankie morales fluff#frankie catfish morales#francisco morales x reader#francisco morales x you
409 notes
·
View notes
Text

One For The Money
Zayne x Non MC x Caleb
TW:
self-depreciation, smut, fake dating trope, emotional manipulation, HEA, named MC and OC to help the flow and characterization, smoking, cigarettes, substance abuse, alcohol consumption, alcohol abuse, neglect, MDNI
Summary:
It was a mistake. Taking that deal was a dangerous mistake. But it was the perfect way to make Zayne finally notice me in all the ways that mattered most. I just didn't think I would be pulled into Caleb's gravity at the same time.
Word Count: 2062
Finished || Ongoing
Chapter One->Chapter Two->Chapter Three->Chapter Four
Chapter Five->Chapter Six
One For The Money - Chapter 7 - bhaalistbabe - 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]
X: it was nice talking 2 u
X: maybe movie nite sometime?
It's been an hour, maybe more, since I read his messages. How was I supposed to respond to that? Genuine friendship. Something I hadn't had in possibly my entire life. But here was Xavier holding out an olive branch of something sacred and pure. No hidden agenda, and ulterior motives. Just something to bring comfort and companionship.
And then there was me. Something akin to a skittish cat he might have seen in an alleyway. Too scared to lean into a friendly hand and take a chance.
What was I supposed to do with this?
It feels like suffocating if I think about it too long. Like that moment when you take off on your bike down a steep hill as a kid. A rush of adrenaline at first before the fact that you're going to inevitably crash sinks in. When all you can do is grab the breaks and hope for the best. That maybe you won't get thrown over your handlebars and go face-first into something that would hurt worse than the impact from a crash.
Nights like these were the worst. When I'm left alone with my thoughts and the reality of my life kicks in. How fitting it was that I carried the grief of my dad's absence while Cash carried the weight of our mother's gradual decline. Tried to tell myself that it was his turn. I had carried it my entire childhood, after all. Shielding him from the reality that our mother was something else. Anything but a mother.
Forcing myself to my feet, I go to the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of 151 out of the cabinet and taking a drink straight from the source. There's a knock at the door before I hear the sound of a key unlocking it.
Cash enters with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He runs a hand through his hair, tossing the bag on the couch.
"You're drinking?" There's an undercurrent to his tone that I ignore. Something like concern or worry that came with the crease in his brow. The way he watched me like I was a wild animal he was scared to approach if he wasn't cautious enough. "Iris, it's three in the afternoon. Don't you think it's a bit early to be picking up the bottle?"
I raise the bottle of 151, tilting it when it touches my lips as if to initiate a cheers. "It's five 'o' clock somewhere, right?"
"God, at least pour it in a glass. And is that—"
"Rum? Why yes it is, big brother. Join me won't you?"
"Isn't that—"
"What mom was drinking the day dad left?"
"I was going to say bottom shelf."
He meets me at the island between the living room and the kitchen. Fingers curling around the marble. His mouth pressing into a thin line. Cash was studying me like he would someone he wasn't sure he could trust. The way he did when we were kids and he didn't know what to make of Zayne just yet. When our mother first started dropping me off on Josephine's doorstep so she could drink herself into a stupor. Or when I would beg to spend the night at Zayne's to have a night of peace.
"Don't look at me like that, Cash."
"Like what? I'm just looking at yo-"
"Like you don't trust me. It's just rum. I'm not going to-"
"Get pissed drunk and not remember anything the next day? Don't lie to me, Iris. I know you better than that."
"I'm not mom, Cash." There's a dangerous undercurrent to my voice. Something dark and ancient. Something long since buried that was threatening to surface.
Rage.
Denial.
Panic.
It has many forms.
It carries many names.
"But you will be if you keep doing this to yourself." His voice is softer now, but still holds the edge it did before.
My eyes narrow. A sob burning its way up my throat.
"Don't. Don't you dare say that like you know a fucking thing about mom."
"I'm not the one who ran away now am I? I'm the one who stayed behind to-"
"You and I had entirely different childhoods, Cash! Look at us! Yeah, you stayed behind to sweep everything mom burned to the ground under the rug. Congratulations! You want a trophy for that?"
"Yeah? If we grew up so different then why don't you tell me what it was like. Since I'm clearly so wrong here. Enlighten me, baby sister."
Tears stream down my cheeks as I throw back another drink. Already almost emptying the bottle at this point. "You grew up playing basketball with Caleb. Played games with McKenna and went off to Aerospace Academy. You were the golden boy. Doted on. Meanwhile I-"
"You chose to stay in the house! That was your choice! Why am I being crucified for being a kid?"
"So you didn't see mom passed out in the kitchen! I stayed inside as long as it took for the paramedics to get to the house. I woke up seeing mom on the kitchen floor and had to call 911 so she wouldn't choke on her own vomit, Cash! I was protecting you from seeing her at her worst so you didn't-"
"Run off like dad did?"
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. "Look at me and see mom. Because we both know that's why dad never looked back."
"Iris….you know that's not-"
"True? Yes, it is. Even I can see her when I look in the mirror, Cash. It's just easier for us both if we accept the truth for what it is."
He turns to grab his bag from the couch. Slinging it over his shoulder again before turning over his shoulder to give me the look of a puppy who had been kicked. I hated that look. It was the same one everyone gave me when I tell them how I grew up. I guess some things never change. Even when we grew up under the same roof. Connected by blood.
"For what it's worth, sis… I'm sorry you were the one who did that. It should have been me."
Then he leaves with the click of the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn't late by any means.
Not when he was so used to getting home at well past midnight. Streetlights were just starting to turn on all throughout Skyhaven. Even from his penthouse tucked away from the rest of the floating island, he could hear the laughter and banter of would-be lovers down below.
While he scrolled through his picture gallery on his phone. Back pressed against the mattress of his bed. Legs hanging off the side and a bottle of Jack in one hand. Every picture had her in it one way or another. Her face lit up with a smile that could bring any man to his knees. Chocolate hair done in curls floating down her back.
Caleb felt sick.
Like he was watching their childhood through eyes that didn't deserve to see her anymore. And maybe she had been right. Maybe she didn't need him anymore. The thought left him with a sharp pain in his chest. Or maybe it was the burn from the alcohol. He wasn't really sure anymore. Didn't want to know the reason why he felt sick to his stomach at the very idea of another man making her light up the same way he used to be able to.
His phone vibrated in his hand. Just as his thumb swiped to a picture of her in his Aerospace jacket. He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
And there was a picture of Iris on his phone instead of her. Hair still pink but considerably lighter than it is now. Falling down to her waist in soft waves. She was on her knees, facing a window and the soft glow of the sun accented the freckles that danced across her shoulders. Made the pink in her hair just a little brighter than what it was faded to. It was an old picture. One she had sent him and told him to set as her ID in his phone.
Her name flashed across the screen; Pixie.
"Isn't it a little late for you to be calling, Pix?" He tried to sound irritated. But it was hard when his cock twitched at the sound of her voice.
"C'me over." Her words slur together.
"What? You sound drunk."
"Did I sutter? I 'aid; c'me oooover, 'Leb."
"Have you been drinking?" He pauses as he checks the time on the alarm clock on his nightstand. "It's only seven."
There's an even longer pause on her end of the phone. Like she's thinking or trying to process what he said.
Then a loud crash. Glass shattering.
"Shhhhit!"
"You alright there, Pix?"
"Rum. My rum, 'Leb! It broke." Her voice breaks when she answers. It sounds like she's about to cry.
"You're drunk. And you called me to come over. Listen, why don't you-"
"No, no, no, no! Just…c'me over, yeah?"
It was a bad idea.
Caleb knew it was.
But it didn't stop him from grabbing his keys from the nightstand.
"Fine. But only to make sure you don't kill yourself."
Then—silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he gets there, the door is already unlocked. All he had to do was push it open. Music could be heard all the way in the breezeway.
And she's in nothing but an oversized black shirt and panties. Dancing in her kitchen like she had an audience to impress and using a bottle half full of some kind of alcohol as a microphone. Bright pink hair pulled half-up and feet bare. She looked carefree. Like she hadn't just called him not even an hour ago practically begging him to come over.
Albeit drunk.
She's singing. Quite loud. Lost in her own world.
And it takes him a moment to stop staring. Caleb moves forward, putting himself in line of Iris and the kitchen island. Deftly taking the bottle from her hand and taking a drink of it for himself. It tastes sweet. Like apple pie. But burns on the way down his throat.
"Is this moonshine?" He tries to call over the music.
"Wha-?"
"I said—for the love of fucking god, can you turn this down? My eardrums are bleeding!"
Iris giggles with a shake of her head. "No can do, buckaroo!"
He runs a hand through his hair, leaning in so his mouth is next to her ear. "Is this moonshine?"
She nods. "Sure is! You want some?"
Caleb doesn't give her an answer. Glancing down at her phone before grabbing it to turn down the music that was bluetoothed to it.
"Hey!" Her lower lip juts out in a pout.
"I can't even hear you with that blaring in my ears."
"Mood killer."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm not sure how much time has passed between the decision to call him and when I begin to slowly sober. There's still a fair amount of moonshine in my system. But I'm a little more coherent now at least. The room still fuzzy from the sheer amount of alcohol I drank and my skin feels warm. Like I had a fever.
I wasn't even sure why I called him instead of Zayne.
But it was too late now.
Caleb sits at the island. Elbows propped up and his knuckles under his chin. There was something in the way his tank top clung to him that hummed to me. Has his arms always been this massive? Surely, this was the making of the Fleet's training. Even my brother seems sulkier now than when he was in the DAA with him.
"So, are you going to tell me why you wanted me to come over? Or are you just going to stand there and stare at my arms all night?" His tone is smug and I want to shove him off the stool he sits on.
"'m not staring." I sound pathetic.
"Sure you're not."
Instead of dignifying that with a proper response or rebuttal—I shove the bottle of moonshine in his face. "You need my level."
He quirks a brow at my drunken statement. "You mean I need to be on your level?"
"Whatever. Drink."
#love and deepspace#lads#caleb lads#lads caleb#lnds caleb#love and deepspace caleb#xia yizhou#l&ds zayne#zayne love and deepspace#li shen#zayne lads#lads zayne#lnds zayne#love and deep space#loveanddeepspace#love and deepspace zayne#caleb lads fanfic#zayne lads fanfic#non mc x caleb#non mc x zayne#non mc reader
56 notes
·
View notes
Text
Old Chevy 𓃒



modern Billy x farmers daughter reader
Billy teaches you how to drive stick in his truck on the way to the farmers market.
part 2 of Ice Cold Lemonade
note; this au is less modern modern and more like 100 years after the series— you can picture whatever you like, but I see it as the mid to late 90’s!
prev | next
“Busted ass, stupid ass, stinkin’ ass..” You sound like a fourteen year old while you kick rocks (literally) away from your worn leather boots.
Your car wasn’t starting. thank god it was at home and not on the road, but a fucked car didn’t suit your schedule all that great. It was another sweltering day, New Mexican sun beating down on your exposed shoulders while you made your way down the gravel lane that led from the farmhouse to the road.
What bullshit, you thought, looking up from your shadow and scanning the property through squinting eyes for your father. Your car could’ve used a new alternator last month. Maybe your dad spoiled you, but you’d argue that a working car wasn’t hardly a prissy want.
Especially when he was the one encouraging you to head down to the farmers market and get him some apple preserves. So much for that, you get ready to disappoint as you step up behind your father. His favorite flannels covering his broad back, that old hat still on his silvering hair, same as it’s been since 87’.
The hires are spread out a bit, but all within his view in the cattle pen. There’s only a handful, going about branding the batch of calves you recall bottle-feeding seven months ago. You were pretty sure the photograph, taken on your father’s Kodak, was still pinned on your cork board.
One was handling the cattle, guiding them out of the smaller pen and into the great wide field to graze again, one wielded the hot iron and the others, the burlier two, kept the animal itself still and calm as was possible. The last man was leaning against the fence beside your father, shoulder to shoulder with him, and you could smell the Marlboro lites from yards away.
Maybe you weren’t paying attention, or you were fuming so hard the steam coming out of your ears clouded out his recognizable build. But one second you’re tapping on your father’s back and the next, the ranch hand leaning on the fence looks over his shoulder just the same as your father does.
Billy, again. Flashing that easy smile, again.
You’d feel a little warm in the cheeks even if the sun wasn’t kissing up on your face. You’d seen him around once or twice since that day you poured him lemonade, but from a distance that wobbled in the heat. Jesus, did he look better up close. He needs a shave, and that navy hat shades his eyes as they dart no lower than your shoulders— maybe he’s scared, seeing as your lug of a father is right next to him.
“S’posed to be quitting, daddy.” You remind your father, reaching over and plucking the lit cigarette from twixt his fingers. You hear a chuckle from Billy, but when you cast the cigarette in his fingers a look, he drops his hand from the wooden fence.
Your father sighs heavily, shakes his head at you like he’s been doing since you were old enough to speak snark. “Old dogs n’ new tricks, lil’ thing.”
“Speakin’ of old dogs..” You begin, putting on the sugariest smile you can manage while squinting the sun from your eyes. It comes out more of a scowl. “Nancy’s busted.”
“Busted?” Your father sighs again. He sounds like an old, lazy hound when he sighs all weighty like that, you think.
Billy cuts in, brows lifted while his lips part over his teeth. “Nancy?”
“My car,” you explain, not so sweetly, finally daring to look right at him. He’s got a look on his face, not bewildered but surely a little confused, the guy’s never seen you frustrated. Well, he oughta get used to it. He hums, and you find yourself wondering if he’s got a girl name for his own car. You peel your eyes off the man. “It’s gotta be the battery, daddy. Can I take yours?”
Your father shakes his head, his hand scratching at his bearded chin while he grumbles, “Naw, naw. She’s been actin’ up too. Don’t wantchu breakin’ down on the highway, bug.” He shrugs his shoulders at your huff, theres an almost regretful frown on his sun-dried face.
“Well, where y’need t’be?” Billy interjects again. He shifts on his feet and, looking down, your eye catches his Marlboro in the dry grass just under his boot. Jesus, you hope the way you threw his belt a look on the way up wasn’t too obvious.
“Farmers market,” you hum, crossing your arm across your ribs and pulling your lips taut. The other hand shades your eyes. Billy turns down his lips in a way to say why not? “I can bring ya.”
There’s an eagerness in his voice that calls a puppy dog to mind. Your guardian angel must be looking down on you right now, ‘cause you’ve never felt so lucky. You turn to your father expectantly, apparently so does he, because Billy continues to him, “I got my Chevy just in the lot. It ain’t no thing, if s’okay with you, sir.”
Your father presses his lips, lifting his shoulders. “Ion see why not.”
“Perfect!” You can’t help feeling giddy, throwing your arms ‘round your father to say thank you for lending you a car. And, well, you supposed a thank you for lending you Billy.
“Don’t you get in trouble none,” your father tells you with a sturdy hand on your back, his eyebrows raised and a faint grin playing at his lips. Billy’s already stepping behind you, in the direction of the lot. Over your shoulder, in a less affectionate tone, your father calls, “Drive safe. Look out f’her.” More of a warning than a request.
Billy nods, that meltingly charming grin splitting his face as he tilts his hat to cast a better shadow over his eyes. “Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout us, sir.”
Sir. Mister. you’d have to poke at him later for that. It was laughable how a man wrapped ‘round your finger scared such manners into Billy. Or, you wonder, maybe that’s just him, with or without his boss over his shoulder.
“Bye, daddy.” You squeeze your father’s arm before following Billy out to the workers’ gravel lot across the property.
Second you’re next to him, he shoots you a boyish grin furthest from that sweet politeness he had around your father.
The pair on this guy!
You technically started it.
“Is that a clutch? Billy, do you drive manual?”
Billy eyes you as his left boot punches said clutch, his hand shifting the stick up a gear as that stare regretfully changes gears too. He watches the tachometer and once he’s worked out whatever stupid math an ancient car as this needs, he turns his attention back to the girl in his passenger seat.
“What’s wrong with it?” Billy chuckles, his brows raising at you. You lean forward to fiddle with the radio, but he shakes his head. “Busted. Got some CDs in the glove.”
“Oh, you’re ancient!” You gasp, popping the little lever on the glovebox and rifling through the CD cases. Tom Petty. Bruce Springsteen. Steely Dan.
Sublime? You pop that last one into the open cd slot, below the broken radio. Atleast you knew Billy hadn’t been completely under a rock for the past ten years. “You makin’ fun of me, woman?” There’s such a laugh in his voice that you couldn’t help the smile creeping up on yourself.
“Well, who drives stick anymore?”
“Cool guys.” Billy huffs, mocking offense. You pull your feet up on the seat, eyes running up your chauffeur. His sleeves were rolled, a smart looking navy that maybe wasn’t so genius for New Mexican summer. Naturally your eyes were drawn to the vein running from the back of his hand up to his forearm, his toned bicep hanging lazy while he rested one hand on the top of the wheel. There’s a slight sheen on his forehead and neck, dark curls are sticking to his nape and suddenly you aren’t cursing the heat so bad. Billy was so handsome it physically hurt to look at the damn guy. “Me.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re a cool guy.” You smile to yourself, turning the radio up so that you can hear Santeria come on the speakers. Billy scoffs.
“You don’t know how?”
“Who does?”
Billy looks appalled at this. Suddenly he’s pushing that ruddy clutch again and shifting to a lower, lower gear until you come to a stop on the shoulder. Not like there was anybody else on the road right about now anyway. “What’re you doing?” You draw your brows as Billy pops his door (which, you noticed still had crank-roll-up windows) and walks around the hood of the car. When he makes it to your door he leans through the open window, his forearms on where the glass comes up, with a devilish smile that makes you feel like a fool.
“We’re gonna get you straight.” You had rolled— cranked, more like, on this ancient ass car— the window up on him, just enough to get him laughing and opening your door.
So, you figure it was your own fault for bringing it up. Billy’s scooted over on the bench, leaning close with a strong hand on the center console and watching your boots to make sure you’re hitting the clutch at the right times. He’s tapping on the faded numbers along the shift. “You wanna push the clutch when you’re switchin’, and pull this to a higher gear. See? We wanna be on ‘bout a 5, on this road, but I don’t want you crashin’ my baby. So you’re gonna bring it up t’four.”
“Four’s.. what?” You furrow your brows as you press on the gas. You’re slowly rolling up to ten mph on the speedometer when Billy’s grunting, “switch gears.”
“I don’t get it,” you huff, already pissed off with this hunk of metal. Billy shakes his head, grasps your wrist around the shift and pulls it back. You hear some kind of shift and click.
While you’re reeling from the warm, rough callouses of Billy’s palm over yours, he’s tapping a little gauge beside the speedometer on the dash. “This’s the—“
“Tachometer, I know that.” Billy raises his brows at you while you maintain 15 mph so you don’t need to switch gears again. You can’t help but smile at the you wanna learn or are you gonna keep being snarky? look, one that you’ve been collecting since you were a little girl. Like a damn gymnast collects medals.
“Okay, well. When it rolls up to three, you gotta switch again.” Billy raps on the glass again and you nod, listening to Bradley Nowell rasp about how “daddy’s got a new 45.!” on the radio. Your eyes dart between the empty road ahead of you, the mirror of the same desertion behind you, and the agonizingly handsome man right next to you.
You shake your head, eying the little white 3 on the gear shift. “So much to be keepin’ track of.” You mumble. Billy hums in agreement. Considering how to word your next jab, you watch the speedometer roll on up to 22, 23, 24 mph, hit the clutch and push on the gear shift again. Too much fucking work, you wanna complain, but it’s not actually the worst thing. In fact, you might just be enjoying yourself, with Billy leaning all close to you, reminding you when to switch gears, his cologne mixed with the pine-tree air freshener hanging off the mirror making your head swirl.
But you can’t resist making fun of him, just a little. “so y’know, dying on this hill don’t make you cool. Just makes you hardheaded!”
“Baby, I can be both.” Billy drawls, you can’t help a giggle bubbling from your lips. What were you, a teenage girl? Well, you weren’t that far from it, you supposed. Nineteen was still teenage. Besides— baby? When you glance over at Billy he’s grinning at you so broadly you feel like you’re looking straight into the sun. The hot, bold, charming sun. You’re realizing how close he’s leaning now, his chest less than half a ruler away from your shoulder.
“Switch,” Billy cuts into the moment, discards his hat and throwing it up on the dash. Which, speaking of it, had a little plastic Jesus perched by the window. You never took him for religious. You do as he says without checking either of the mouthful-ometers. 4th gear.
You tilt your chin to the little figurine on his dashboard while you speed up, going a solid 45. “Plastic Jesus?”
Billy looks over at it like he almost forgot it was there. “Oh, yeah. Was my ma’s.” That explained it.
“Kinda like the song.”
“Exactly like the song.” Billy chuckles, sitting back in his seat and pushing a hand through his hair to fix how his hat matted it down. You think that if you look over at him, you’ll probably crash this truck.
There’s a silence, and you sit in it comfortably, but every inch of you wants nothing else but to know everything about him. You wanna ask his favorite color. You wanna know his favorite food, set it on the windowsill and wait until he saunters up and asks for a slice, just so you can smile and flirt like you didn’t make it for him. Maybe it’s just a little crush, but you’ve never had this feeling— like you can’t get enough, like you gotta get more. You wanna know him. And you haven’t wanted anybody to know you so much as right now.
“You’re doing great, firecracker.” The pet name brings a stupid big grin to your lips. You turn your cheek to look at him— finding that he’s already looking at you. “So, you wanna take back all that talk ‘bout me and my manual?”
You hum, pretend to mull it over while you slowly release the gas, pushing the clutch and going down a gear to make a turn. You eye him, and he nods simply to tell you that you’re doing fine. “Not really.”
“Ahh, I see how it is.” Billy laughs, resting his elbow out the window and rubbing his stubbled jaw with his free hand. “Bullheaded woman.”
“Don’t you forget it,” you giggle, letting Billy remind you to shift down another gear to roll into the gravel lot of the farmers market.
You make him carry all your paper bags, wander around the market with you while you judge the best tomatoes and juiciest corn. Your father had planted apple trees along the house, so you ignored the fruit stall. Fondly, you remember sitting up in the boughs of the tree, munching on the closest apple and throwing the core far as you could, convincing yourself you were gonna spread the orchard. You had just learned about Johnny Appleseed in school, and your father listened to you retell the story over dinner patiently as a man could be.
For a moment, you caught yourself watching Billy collect the stalks of leeks you sent him for, his brow furrowed in concentration as he judged the bunch. You wondered if he’d be the type of man to listen patiently to your rambling. If he’d be the type of man to climb that old apple tree with you, and indulge your silly tradition of tossing the apple cores. You shake it off, and find the apple preserves your father loves, Michigan jam for yourself.
When you meet back up with Billy, he wordlessly lifts the paper bag you were cradling. He shoots you that charming grin over the three bags he’s carrying now. the ass really was a gentleman. “All done?” You hum in agreement, watching him shift the bags to one arm and fish his keys out of his jean pocket. He hands them to you.
“Jesus, Billy.” You turn the keys over in your fingers. Not battery powered— good old fashioned, stick-it-in-the-lock keys.
“What?”
Billy steps to the back of the Chevrolet to lay the groceries in the flatbed trunk, among the spare tire, toolbox, and navy blue Carhartt jacket. You click the keys into the slot on the drivers door, shaking your head and laughing lightly. “The key lock? How olds this car?”
“Why don’t you mind your business n’ get in the passengers seat, firecracker,” Billy huffs, though there’s no bite in his voice— in fact, you see a boyish grin on his face in the rear view mirror while you shuffle across the bench to the passenger side.
When you get back on the road, you lay your feet up on the dash, the heel of your boot beside the plastic Jesus by the windshield. Billy drives a hell of a lot smoother than you had, like he knows this car better than his hand. He put in a different CD earlier, Neil Young warbles Harvest Moon while you cruise down the open road.
For a moment, you can picture this being your life. Driving home from the farmers market with Billy, his old music on the speakers quiet enough that you can still banter about nothing real serious, his attention split between the tachometer, clutch, road and you.
It’s easy to forget that your father would kill him and then you. Maybe that’s what made it so exciting, riding in his passenger seat. His fingers flex over the top of the wheel, his smile easy and utterly earnest when you tell him, “I like this truck. I think I’ll need a ride more often.”
“Anytime, lil’ miss. m’ at your service.”
#ranchhand!billy x farmersdaughter!reader#ice cold lemonade#billy the kid#tom blyth#billy the kid x reader#billy the kid fanfiction#billy the kid x you#billy the kid 2022#billy the kid modern au#modern billy#william bonney#william h bonney#william h bonney fanfiction
60 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hello, since then I have been reading your postings for reader x eltingville and so on. I think they're amazing in writing and catching their personalities I enjoy your posts ♥️♥️ If it's not too much trouble, I did find your parent posts with the Eltingville Club interesting. I wanted to know your thoughts on how they might respond to the more difficult parts of parenting. For example having to ground their child or handle tantrums things like that
sorry if this came out too formal or something like that I got really nervous 💔
( YES I LOVE THIS
"So little yet takes up half the bed."
Josh as a dad dealing with his little girl’s tantrum over wanting to sleep in his bed:
Josh is the kind of dad who thinks he’ll lay down the law but crumbles the second he hears sniffles. The moment his daughter starts crying—full-on meltdown, little fists balled up, tears down her cheeks, saying, “But I’m scared, I don’t wanna sleep alone!”—he’s totally thrown off his game.
At first? He tries to argue like she's another adult:
> “Kiddo, we’ve been over this. Your bed is your bed, and my bed is my bed, okay? That’s the system. There’s a system.”
But she just cries harder. And Josh—who can barely regulate his own emotions—starts pacing. Muttering. Maybe rubbing his temples like, God, this is happening again.
> “You can’t manipulate me with crocodile tears. This isn’t the Wrath of Khan, I’m not falling for it.”
But then she pulls out the big guns: trembling lip, reaching for him with tiny arms. Maybe she says, “But I feel safe with you,” and that’s it. He’s toast. His heart does a full-body cringe.
Cue dramatic sigh and grumbling as he throws back the covers:
> “Fine. But just for tonight. And no kicking me in your sleep this time. You elbowed me in the spleen last week.”
Then, as soon as she curls up beside him and drifts off? He softens. Quiet. Protective. One arm loosely draped around her without even realizing it.
Later, he’ll tell someone—
> “I’m not going soft. She’s got this Jedi mind trick thing. It’s psychological warfare.”
But he’ll sleep better with her there. He always does.
—
"Its not poison its a fairy potion."
Jerry handling his daughter’s tantrum over bad-tasting medicine:
The meltdown starts fast—her little face scrunching up as she shouts, “No! It’s yucky! I hate it!” and maybe even kicks the cabinet where the bottle is kept. Jerry flinches at the noise, nearly spilling the dose on the floor.
> “Okay, okay, sweetie—please don’t—let’s not break the furniture, that’s teak—”
He tries to reason, to plead:
> “You have to take it. You’ve got a fever, and I already called the pediatrician, and I can’t not give it to you—please don’t make me call again.”
But when she starts to cry? Jerry breaks into a sweat. His hands start shaking. His brain is racing—he’s imagining CPS kicking down the door, “Eltingville’s Least Liked Club Member Denies Medicine to Child,” and then—
Idea. His voice shifts, awkwardly adopting a whimsical tone like he’s never done a magic trick in his life but he’s trying.
> “Wait, wait—hang on a second. This isn’t just medicine. This is… um… Fairy Potion. Yeah. Straight from Queen Mildew of the Night Grove.”
His daughter blinks at him, sniffling. He’s surprised it worked even that much, so he doubles down.
> “It’s very rare. Only given to brave little girls who’ve proven themselves worthy by surviving… broccoli night. Which you did. With honors.”
He grabs a clean measuring cup like it’s a chalice, pours in the thick purple goo, and solemnly hands it over.
> “One sip, and you’ll get temporary powers of—uh—dreamflight and… itch resistance. And probably something sparkly. But only if you drink the whole thing.”
She’s skeptical. But she’s also five. So she drinks it, grimacing through the taste.
Jerry gasps theatrically:
> “Did you feel that? I think you’re glowing. We better tuck you in before you start levitating.”
And she giggles. It works. He nearly cries from relief.
Later, he’ll stand at the sink, washing the cup, quietly muttering to himself:
> “God. That was exhausting. I’m not cut out for this. I need flash cards or—something.”
—
"But you promised."
Epilogue Pete with his daughter throwing a tantrum because he won’t play dolls with her:
She’s been begging for twenty minutes while Pete’s trying to fix a busted remote. Wires on the table, screwdriver in hand, but over her shrieking? You’d think he was refusing her water in a desert.
> “I said I don’t wanna play dolls without you! You promised! You promised!”
Pete flinches like she just took a bat to his kneecap. He rubs his face with both hands.
> “Kid, come on. I just got home, my back’s killin’ me, and I don’t know if I got the emotional range to be ‘Princess Glitter Sparkle’ right now, alright?”
But she’s already red in the face, crumpling onto the carpet, letting out this shrill “I’ll never be happy ever again!!” that hits him right in the soul. He stares at her. Swears under his breath.
> “Jesus, you're dramatic. You been watchin’ your mother’s telenovelas again?”
She doesn’t answer. Just sobs harder, clutching her Barbie like it’s the corpse of a fallen soldier.
And that’s it. Pete slams the screwdriver down and mutters:
> “Goddammit. Alright, alright—fine. Lemme just—gimme a sec.”
Cut to two minutes later: he’s sitting cross-legged on the rug, looking utterly dead inside, with a plastic crown too small for his head and a Ken doll shoved in his calloused hand. His daughter perks right up like nothing ever happened, suddenly cheery.
> “Okay, Daddy, now Ken’s in love with the fairy queen, and you gotta make him say something romantic!”
Pete groans.
> “Ken’s got commitment issues, baby. I dunno if he’s ready for all that.”
She glares at him, tiny arms crossed.
Pete sighs again. Deeper. Resigned.
> “…Fine. ‘Ya eyes are like two diamonds in the dark, shinin’ right into my soul or whatever. I’m losin’ my freakin’ mind over here, fairy queen.’”
His daughter bursts into giggles like it's the funniest, most romantic thing she's ever heard. Pete stares at the doll in his hand like it just insulted his lineage, then flicks its molded hair.
> “This guy better appreciate you. I had a social life once, ya know.”
But he’d do it again tomorrow. And the next day. Because his principessa runs the joint.
-‐-
"Beauty and the beast—literally."
Epilogue Bill Dickey with his daughter throwing a tantrum because he didn’t tell Mom (you) she looked beautiful after her makeover:
You finally walk out of the bedroom—hair done, lipstick perfect, dress zipped up without a single snag. You've got your heels on. Your daughter gasps. She claps her hands like you’re a fairy godmother emerging from a transformation sequence.
And Bill? He’s on the couch in a stained “Man-Thing vs. Swamp Thing” T-shirt, shoveling cold lo mein into his mouth, barely glances up.
> “Yuh-huh. You do that yourself? Let’s go, I’m starvin’.”
You shoot him a look. Your daughter does more than that.
> “DADDY!!”
He jumps like she set off fireworks under his ass.
> “Jesus Christ, what now?!”
> “You didn’t say Mommy looked beautiful! You’re supposed to say it! You’re being MEAN!”
> “She knows she looks good! What do you want me to do, serenade her? Paint a mural? She’s my wife, not friggin’ Aphrodite!”
But his daughter’s already halfway to a meltdown. She’s got a tight grip on her My First Makeup Bag and the same look in her eye he used to get when some jerk at the comic shop said “Star Wars” was better than “Star Trek.”
> “If you won’t say it right, I’m putting makeup on you!”
> “No, you’re not. Don’t even—HEY! Don’t open that—you get that mascara wand away from me!”
Cut to Bill, slumped in a chair with a face full of blush and sparkles, eyeshadow up to his eyebrows, and lips painted in a wobbly red mess like he lost a fight with a circus clown.
He looks directly at you, dead serious:
> “If you take a picture of this, I swear to God, I will burn every photo album in this house and salt the earth.”
Your daughter beams. She’s got lip gloss on her forehead and zero regrets.
> “Now say Mommy looks beautiful or I’m putting glitter on your comics!”
Bill lets out a guttural sigh, throws his head back.
> “Fine. You look beautiful, okay?! Like you walked outta one of those perfume commercials with the whispery French voice and the dead-eyed anorexic model falling into a pool.”
Your daughter pauses, then nods. “Good. Now kiss her hand.”
> “What is this, Les Misérables?! I—ugh, fine.”
He kisses your hand dramatically, muttering:
> “This is what I get for raising a drama goblin. You’re both outta your minds.”
But as soon as she's not looking, he gives your hand a little squeeze. And when your back is turned, he saves the lipstick-stained napkin like it’s part of a collector’s set.
---
#eltingville epilogue#the eltingville club#eltingville fanart#epilogue josh levy#epilogue bill#epilogue pete#epilogue jerry#eltingville boys as dads
66 notes
·
View notes
Text
Broken Dreams | Part 1 (Robert "Bob" Reynolds [the Sentry] x Reader) Thunderbolts*
Warnings: mentions of mental health, drugs, abuse.
I had a difficult childhood from the start.
When I needed someone, no one was there – so I learnt to be there for myself, that’s how it always was.
Dad was off with the army and when he came back nothing was the same, he wasn’t the person he used to be, he was a shadow; a shell of his former self and was so heavily scarred he couldn’t function.
Much like me.
Mum was an assassin known as the midnight emperor and never learnt how to look after anyone, let alone a baby.
You see, dad wasn’t my dad at all, no- he was my stepdad if you could call him that.
He’d drink like the bottle was endless and smoke these cigarettes with such a specific smell I can almost recall it, but I only remember because he put them out on me, scarring my skin in so many places.
They both abused me, dad, psychologically and mum, physically.
My older sister vanished like a ghost.
I don’t blame her.
Mum wanted to make a ‘mini me’ of herself, something she drilled into me “I want to be proud of you” and she’d have me doing all these insane tasks or “missions” as she liked to call them.
Mum had me because I was one of her cruel ‘missions’, ‘have sex with your target and use the young one as leverage’.
So many times, I wish I knew who my real dad was but other times I was at peace with the uncertainty of knowing as if he was anywhere near as repulsive and ghastly mum was, there was no hope of a family reunion.
I wasn’t like them, until I was.
When they were around me all they’d do was fight, not just verbally, no, they’d fight like when the aliens took over New York and the Avengers were attacking; plus, they’d throw stuff and make a tip of the house that I, of course, had to clean up or no food for the day.
They’d lock me in cupboards, particularly mum, for hours to see how long I could cope, especially with them fighting in the background.
Or when she would pour boiling water over me when I would apparently be ‘sulking’ or ‘not get my own way’ or even better when she’d tie me down and purposely cut my nails too short.
I remember her telling me “You’re different, you’re not like the others y/n”, and that’s the only memory I have, all the rest fade to black like my emotions.
A glass smashed across the room, causing me to flinch – I was gonna get out of this household if it was now or never.
Don’t come near me, stop it, stop.
Everything paused.
I flinched and then woke up, I was living in an alternate reality, it felt so real.
What happened.
My mum came up, “did you have one of those dreams again’, she asked politely.
“Yeah… I guess I did, um. Sorry, I’m uh, really sorry” I stammered.
“Well, I brought you breakfast, sorry it isn’t the best, I ran out of-“.
“Thank you, p- please don’t apologise, sorry. Ah, now you’ve got me doing it” I said anxiously.
Mum wasn’t bad, she was my biggest support.
I did have a sister, but she just vanished after the blip, we don’t even know if she was alive or missing or otherwise, a fate we wouldn’t like to think of; before the blip she was scarce at the best of times.
It was dad who was the bad guy- that dream, the one with the assassin parents, that wasn’t me, it was one of those dreams slash premonitions or whatever they are.
It happens all the time, sometimes at night, other times early in the morning; it’s like some sort of all consuming void, it’s just bleak and dreary.
It started out with these dreams that I’d get consistently, the same ones over and over on repeat like Groundhog Day, about my mum, about my dad, the sister I barely knew, it would all come back, especially one about this guy I don’t know- although I’ve only seen him from afar.
“Darling, I think you need- “mum started to say.
“NO. I DON’T need help! Leave me alone” I yelled and everything started vibrating, before it all went black.
A room with floorboards and what looked like and attic appeared before me, there was a guy that appeared too.
He had shaggy longish brown hair and blue eyes and was handsome with a visible jawline.
It was him.
The guy that always appears in the dreams? I don’t even know what to call them, visions? It’s a work in progress.
“hey” he said quietly as he played with some sort of puzzle.
“I don’t know why I’m here, while you’re existing in my head” I said anxiously.
“Well, ah, y- you’re in m- my house um” he stuttered.
“I get this feeling” we both said in synchronicity.
“woah” I said breathlessly.
I find him kinda cute, oof.
“My uh, my name’s Bob, well Robert – technically that is but yeah, call me Rob- I mean Bob” he said fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
“I’m y/n. How is this happening? Do you know? Can you control this?” I asked, feeling shy all of a sudden.
“Woah, woah, woah. I- um… I don’t know. I get these spells-“he continued by I interrupted.
“Me too. My mum said it’s-“I paused
“Ever since you did the trial? Me too- “he was saying before agitated voices started up from what it sounded like downstairs.
“This happen often?” I asked awkwardly.
“Yeah. Through my childhood a lot. Things weren’t okay and they don’t seem to be now. How fun.” He sighed.
I felt my chronic pain kick off and the feeling started, the voices downstairs stopped, and I could read into their mind, the ‘pain they were feeling was too much that humanly possible to handle’.
“You- you made it stop” he gasped.
Everything about this was weird but the weirdest was that you were fighting the feeling and focused on it, so that he didn’t have to feel it.
“Woah, a- are you okay? Y- you’re s- s- shaking a lot i- mean so am I, I shake a lot, sometimes it’s because I’m nervous or because- “he paused, “sorry I’m talking too much again” he rambled.
The weight of the world felt like it was on top of my shoulders, and I could feel the darkness rising and feeling like it was either gonna attack me, or take over.
I woke up to the sound of my mum screaming, it was a bloodcurdling scream.
Well, I guess at least it’s not me in pain for the millionth time in my life- that’s not fair.
Fuzziness overtook me until a few seconds later when I felt something red inside me, like some kind of visceral force streaming through me and I couldn’t control it; but it was definitely related to the screaming and the chaos that ensued.
My mum was on the ground, and I could see the veins and arteries popping out of her neck and face, actually, all over her body and she was convulsing.
As the feeling inside me ebbed and flowed, so did the amount of pain my mum was in.
After a while, everything stopped, and mum got up.
“What was that!? I could’ve died. I swear it’s you. Ever since you went to that drug trial, and they ruled you out as a participant. But they still did stuff to you. I can’t put my finger on it but there’s…”.
“Yes, I know, something wrong. That’s all anyone’s ever said about me mum. ‘Something’s wrong with her’, ‘she doesn’t belong here’, ‘we thought she liked being by herself’, ‘she’s not the same as everyone else’ and the list goes on” I sighed.
Just like when I was bullied and had to keep moving schools.
Just like when they said I was making the pain up for attention.
Just like when I was on the wrong medications, and I took drugs to help with it.
Just like when I was committed because I was high on a variety of pills and potions (too many to name) and I nearly jumped off a ship, or became paranoid, or whatever; you get the point.
I can’t even decide what to do, I’ve just been darting back and forth, trying to get used to this weird feeling that is bubbling below the surface, it’s- “started since you did that clinical trial, it was a dodgy place you got it done, just like a bad tattoo that gets infected” he said, knowingly.
“How did you know what I was gonna say?” I asked, exasperated.
“I didn’t, you’re overthinking too much. Now you’re thinking you can tell the future? You need to go back in” she spoke sternly.
Oh no, not again, I can’t be institutionalised.
“I’m gonna put you into the same company that did your trial, a clinic they have for people like you, who struggle. They get how it is because they did it to you; No ifs or buts.
------A/N
I hope y'all enjoyed, I loved Thunderbolts* and omg Bob is the best.
Love Marvel and this is the best thing they've brought out since TWS or maybe Infinity War.
Didn't know who to stare at more, Bucky or Bob, Or Yelena
I've put quite a lot of my experiences in this story so take it as you will but ya boi has been through some shit.
P.s there's a part 2 and 3 and I'll link them after
sending lots of love out, remember to be kind and know that something is always going on for someone - Love Bob
#avengers#mcu#marvel#thunderbolts#bob reynolds#robert reynolds#sentry#bob thunderbolts#bucky barnes#captain america#yelena belova#disney#the sentry#the void#valentina allegra de fontaine#thunderbolts spoilers#the new avengers#the avengers#love#fluff#smut#the winter soldier#marvel rivals#bucky#imagine#fanfic#fanfiction#thunderbolts*#lewis pullman#Bob
60 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝒟𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 𝐼𝓈𝓈𝓊𝑒𝓈
✧warnings: mentions of abuse, blood, daddy issues ofc but nothing sexual. Mentions of jealousy-ish
♡synopsis: Riki is your sweet boyfriend, the 2 of you have been dating for 3 years now, you've all had your days, but it seems to him you have the shittiest day everyday. Despite having moved in with him, the way you always go back to your parents home, running about doing errands for a man who always hurts you. The first man in every girl's life that should be a challenge to top off by a boyfriend or husband, was Riki's sworn enemy now.
✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧
"Sweetheart where are you off to?" Riki asked, knowing the answer full well. "I got a certificate for my final piece in art Riki... I'm just gonna show my dad-" she said with a smile as Riki sighed he hated it. How you still believe abuse is just a part of life. How you blame it all on the alcohol instead of the man himself.
All that hate doesn't just come from a bottle, he just lets out the shit he buried deep in his heart. Why won't you get that. He knew you won't listen so he just kissed your forehead "Call me if you need help ok? I'll be as lowkey as I could" Riki assured sternly as y/n nodded. She was nervous. Like a certificate is going to change anything. Art is just another useless thing about her useless existence. She wanted to go home for a different reason.
She wanted to clear out her room in that house. She wanted everything of hers to be out of that building. She wanted to be free from their grip. The abuse, the slut shaming, the hurtful words that made her cry waterfalls though she promised herself she'll never cry. Not even her mother can stand up for her, even if she wanted to.
"You think you're going to last with such a rich handsome man?!... He'll realize sooner or later, he's wasting his life on something so useless. You're a clear anomaly in our family, of course he'll leave you one day. Not even we want you... you slutty thing." Her father scoffed, as he watched her ignorantly pack her things.
"Are you even fucking listening you whore?! this is why I love you sister more." The man mumbled as you froze. SHE was the one who actually helped the family at their worst. SHE was the one who patiently put up with their crap. What did her sister do? go to a better school than you and get higher grades despite being a disrespectful spoiled rat that's what.
What's the big deal anyway? she's leaving "Fine you keep trusting that angel of yours while I go lead a successful life and get rich." she said leaving the room, the man pulling her back by her hair. Was she going to give him the reaction? no. She just silently pulled away. She looked and acted unbothered, and fuck the man was pissed off.
"you're home late- babe you ok? clearly not-" Riki helped her in, blinking as he saw a suitcase behind her "what's this about?..." he asked, feeling a little scared. was she going to leave him? "The last of my belongings... I have no reason to go ho- to my parents house." she simply said as she dragged the suitcase upstairs.
Only three weeks had passed since then, Riki wanted to believe y/n felt free and happy, but he caught her crying on multiple occasions like today. But unlike other days, where he let you get a breather, he wanted to be there for her. So he was. Her crying in his arms, wanting nothing more than him.
"So what if your daddy doesn't like you?.... You have me y/n, my love is way bigger than any man's love and you know it." He said as he kissed her forehead. It's true, all this time she's been moping over daddy hating her. When actually she has Nishimura Riki pouring his love for her unconditionally. Why waste her tears on a piece of shit when she has Riki.
✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧
This is shit bro why tf did I think I cld write fluff?....
#enhypen imagines#enhypen fluff#enhypen headcanons#enhypen reactions#enhypen scenarios#enhypen au#heeseung x reader#jongseong x reader#sunghoon fluff#sunghoon au#enhypen#riki x reader#sunoo x reader#jungwon x reader#jungwon fluff#heeseung fluff#sunoo fluff#riki fluff#jongseong fluff#jake fluff#enhypen fanfiction#enhypen x reader#kflixnet#niki imagines#kpop fic#kpop#kpop imagines#niki fluff#enhypen niki#niki
375 notes
·
View notes