#Looks like it's back to the junkyard again... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theetherealbloom · 7 days ago

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It Only Falls Into Place When You're Falling To Pieces

Summary: There are a lot of people you thought would live forever. You swore Joel would be one of them.

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ HEAVY ANGST, Fluff, Crying, Tears, Sadness, Apocalypse, Cordyceps, Infected, Major Character Death(s), Funerals, Grief, PTSD, Depression, Kissing, Blood, Morgue, Star-Crossed Lovers, TLOU 2 Spoilers,

Word Count: 7.7k

A/N: Fml. I know that you know I don’t usually write angst, but fuck man, I need to mourn and maybe so do you… God I'm so sad. Like we knew the story and how it would end for Joel. Even if you think you're ready... But I know this from experience, even if you've braced yourself, brutality like this... will hurt a lot.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Still by Noah Kahan

Joel Miller Masterlist | MAIN MASTERLIST |

WYOMING, JACKSON — 2029

The mornings were slow in Jackson. Slow in a way that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t living in the end times anymore.

Joel had a habit of waking up before you. Not out of routine or discipline, but out of muscle memory. The kind that sticks even when the world’s long since changed.

Sometimes, he made coffee. Sometimes, he just sat at the table, plucking at his guitar in soft, incomplete chords while the sun started to push through the windows. The house you shared wasn’t big or fancy. But it was warm. It was quiet. It had his coat always draped over the same chair, his boots by the door, the scent of cedar and pine from the little woodworking studio in one of the rooms.

It had Joel.

You found yourself drifting toward him more often than not. Whether he was sanding a piece of maple or trying to shape a leg for a rocking chair he swore he’d finish someday, he let you linger. You’d sit on the bench next to him, fingers curled around a warm mug. He’d hand you scraps to practice carving, smiling softly when you accidentally broke off a corner.

“‘S alright,” he’d murmur, brushing sawdust off your cheek with a thumb. “Takes time.”

Everything with Joel took time.

Loving him. Learning him. Earning the space between his heart and the pain he never quite put into words.

But the quiet in Jackson gave you time. Time to laugh with him over burned dinners, to slow dance in the kitchen when he played a familiar tune, to lay on the couch with your head on his chest while he told you about old country songs and the guitar he lost in Austin.

And it gave him time, too.

Time to lower his walls. To see you not as a danger, but as something steady—something soft he could rest in. Time to share pieces of himself he rarely offered to anyone, fragile corners he'd kept locked away.

He would look at you and think, If I were braver. If I could just say it.

He’d imagine the words on his tongue, how they’d change everything the second they left his mouth. But he wasn’t ready—not brave enough, not honest enough.

So he just looked at you instead.

And maybe you knew. Maybe you always knew.

Because he did love you.

In quiet, consistent ways. In the way he made your coffee just how you liked it. In the way he memorized the sound of your laugh. In every glance, every softened breath, every moment where he didn’t walk away.

He didn’t love you because he was lonely—Joel had long since learned how to survive in the silence.

He loved you because your light made the dark seem less like a prison and more like a place he could leave behind.

It started small.

A found thing—half-buried in the snow behind the stables. You’d been looking for spare nails in a busted old toolbox when you saw it: a film camera. Dusty, scratched up, but the click still worked. You brought it back like a prize.

Joel looked up from the guitar he was restringing, brow furrowed. “You went diggin’ around in that old junkyard again?”

You grinned, breath fogging the air. “Found treasure.”

He squinted at the thing in your hand like it might bite him. “You sure that ain’t just some broken plastic?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He watched you tinker with it all afternoon, wiping the lens clean with your sleeve, warming the roll of film between your palms to bring it back to life. You caught him staring more than once—chin propped in his hand, fingers idle on the frets of a guitar he’d been meaning to finish tuning.

When it finally worked, you snapped a picture of the sunset from your porch. Then one of his back as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up, calloused hands steady over the worn wood.

You took one of his profile too. He’d been humming low under his breath, unaware.

“Hey,” he said, catching the click. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re handsome when you’re focused.”

He huffed a laugh, but he didn’t stop you when you raised the camera again.

Later that week, you asked him for one together.

“C’mere,” you said, tugging at the front of his jacket. “Just one. You might like the memory someday.”

He looked reluctant, like the idea of being frozen in time made him itch. But he let you lead him into the light. You kissed him on the cheek just as the timer clicked. He smiled, wide and surprised and real.

The photo came out a little blurry. But your mouth was pressed to his skin, his eyes crinkled with something close to joy. You kept it in your coat pocket like it might keep you warm.

Sometimes, he came into the kitchen just to touch you.

No reason. No words. Just drawn to you like muscle memory.

You’d be standing at the counter, elbow-deep in something mundane—rinsing mugs, slicing vegetables, stirring whatever was bubbling in the pot—when suddenly there’d be a shift in the air behind you. A warmth. A quiet presence.

Then, Joel’s arms would wind around your waist, firm and steady, palms pressing low on your stomach, right through the thin fabric of your shirt. His chest would settle against your back like it belonged there, like you were meant to carry each other’s weight.

“You makin’ somethin’ good?” he’d mumble into your hair, voice rough with sleep or fresh air or maybe just the softness you always brought out of him.

You barely had time to answer before you’d feel it—his nose brushing just beneath your ear, his scruff scratching tender against your neck. The kind of touch that made the air feel thick with heat and memory.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he whispered one evening, lips grazing the spot where your jaw met your throat.

You stilled, blinking down at the spoon in your hand. “You been sniffin’ me, Miller?”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, slow and sweet, like molasses in summer. “You’re intoxicatin’, darlin’. Makes a man forget what he came in here for.”

His mouth followed the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world to worship you.

You laughed then, breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Just a soft, breathless sound that filled the space between your bodies as you leaned back into him, hips settling against his.

The laughter didn’t last long. It never did when his hands started to move—one curling around your hip, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the sink, forgotten.

You turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes, and whispered, “The stew’s gonna burn.”

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling just enough to be trouble.

“Let it.”

One night, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

It was late, storm tapping at the windows, fire burning low. You were tucked beneath his arm on the couch, legs over his lap, your hand tucked into the worn flannel of his shirt. He kissed you once, then again, then a hundred more times.

Short, sweet little things.

He kissed your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. You giggled, cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling.

“Joel,” you whispered, nose scrunched, lips twitching. “What are you doing?”

His palms cradled your face like you were something delicate. Like he’d break if he didn’t touch you just right.

“Memorizing you,” he said. Then he kissed the giggle right off your lips.

Your hands curled in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, soft and slow, lips sliding together like they belonged there.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice came out low and honest, barely above a breath:

“You’re everythin’ darlin’.”

He didn’t say he loved you.

Not with words.

But in every quiet moment, every gentle touch, every photo you took that he let you keep—he showed you.

And somehow, that meant more.

Love shows up in the quiet moments with Joel. Always has been.

Not in grand declarations or fireworks. Not in promises whispered beneath starlight or etched into stone. No, with Joel, love slips in softly—through the cracks of everyday life, in the pauses between sentences, in the silence he lets you share without needing to fill it. It’s there when the world is loud, and he chooses to be quiet with you. When everything aches and he doesn’t try to fix it—just stays.

It’s the way your hand always finds his, especially when he’s got that look about him—brows drawn low, eyes shadowed, body still as a storm about to break. You’ve come to know it well, that kind of tension that settles in his shoulders like he’s bracing against something only he can see. The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel like peace, but like he’s waiting to run or fight or fall apart.

So you reach for him.

You don’t announce it, don’t make a show of it. Just slide your hand into his, palm against his rough calloused skin, fingers curling between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Because you’ve done this before, countless times. Every time the ghosts get too loud or the silence feels too sharp. You hold his hand and he lets you, and that’s how you know—how you always know—he’s letting you in again.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just breathes out slow, like your touch takes some of the weight off, even if it’s just a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop a little. You can feel it—the shift, the surrender, the trust.

“Y’okay?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, soft enough that it could be mistaken for wind slipping through the seams of the old house, rustling the curtains just enough to remind you that the world is still turning outside these walls.

Joel looks at you. Not a glance. A real look. The kind that lingers. The kind that says more than words ever could. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there too—something quieter, gentler, something that only ever surfaces around you.

His thumb moves in a slow arc across your knuckles, and when he answers, it’s not just with words. It’s in the way his grip tightens slightly, not desperate, just present.

“I am now,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, frayed at the edges. Like maybe he’s been holding it in all day, maybe even longer. Like your hand in his unlocked something he didn’t know he needed to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You lean into him instead, resting your head on his shoulder, letting the weight of you press gently against him like a tether. Like a promise. His arm slips around you, steady and sure, palm settling at your hip. He presses a kiss into your hair—right at the crown of your head, like a seal, like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

The room around you is quiet save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the crackle of the fire. Outside, snow falls soundlessly, blanketing the world in soft white. And inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire—but from him. From this.

From the way he holds you like you’re something he never thought he’d have again. Like the simple act of your hand in his might keep the darkness at bay for one more night.

With Joel, love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to.

It just stays.

And that’s always been more than enough.

The mornings are always slow.

Time feels syrup-thick when the sun hasn’t fully crested the horizon yet, and sleep still clings to your limbs like molasses. Your body is heavy, cocooned in the tangle of sheets still warm from the man who slept beside you. The air is cool beyond the bed, but the mattress holds the echo of his heat, and it makes you reluctant to move, even as your senses start to stretch awake.

You shift lazily, one arm reaching across the bed to where Joel had been moments ago. It’s empty now, his absence a soft dip in the mattress, but the scent of him lingers—cedarwood, a trace of leather, the faint hint of salt and earth from yesterday’s long walk back into Jackson. Comforting. Familiar.

You pry one eye open, squinting into the low light. Joel’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, the muscles of his back broad and bare, catching a gentle glint from the early morning haze seeping in through the window. He’s halfway through pulling on his shirt, slow and steady, the way he always is in the mornings. A quiet man doing quiet things.

Without thinking, without even fully waking, your hand slips out from beneath the covers and finds him.

Your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist—barely a tug, just enough to let him know you’re there, still tethered to him. And then you shift closer, burying your face against the small of his back, pressing a soft, languid kiss to the warm skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

“Mmm... good mornin’, Joel,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, muffled by the skin beneath your lips.

He pauses. Still for a moment, like the warmth of your kiss stopped time. Then he breathes out, slow and fond, and turns slightly—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the corners, soft with affection, and that familiar crooked smile curves beneath the rough scruff of his jaw.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and low, like gravel soaked in honey, warm enough to melt straight through your bones.

You hum in response, already halfway to sleep again, forehead resting against his back. The bed creaks softly as he shifts, brushing his hand over your tangled hair in a slow, affectionate stroke. His thumb lingers at your temple, then trails down to the curve of your cheek, gentle and grounding.

“Go on,” he murmurs, bending down to press a kiss into your hair. “Sleep a little longer. I’ll get the fire goin’.”

You don’t answer, not really. Just let out a sigh that sounds like peace and contentment all wrapped into one. He stands slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb the blankets more than necessary, and as he moves toward the hearth, you stay curled in the warmth he left behind—your hand resting in the space where his had been, eyes slipping closed again.

You listen to the familiar rhythm of him moving through the room—boots being tugged on, the scrape of kindling, the gentle snap of a match. The softest clink of metal on stone. And through it all, the quiet knowledge that this is what love is.

Not always words. Not always fire and thunder.

But this.

These mornings. These moments. Him.

Sometimes, when the world gets too loud—even in Jackson—you find yourself gravitating toward him without a thought.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the bustle of the market, the chatter of passing patrols, or just the quiet hum of a too-long day catching up with your bones. Something in your chest tightens, overwhelmed and aching for something quieter, something still. And so you find Joel.

He’s usually somewhere close—he always is. Maybe talking with Tommy, maybe checking the perimeter, maybe just standing there with his arms crossed like he’s holding up the whole damn sky on his back again. But the moment your arms circle around his middle, everything else seems to fall away.

You press yourself into him, chest to his back, arms around his waist, and your face buries instinctively in the crook of his neck. That space between shoulder and jaw where you swear the whole world could stop and you wouldn’t mind. The smell of him hits you instantly—faint cedarwood, worn leather, a trace of smoke from the fire pit, and something else too. Something warm and steady and Joel.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or ask what’s wrong. He just lets out a quiet hum, low in his chest, and leans back into your touch. His hands find yours where they’re linked around his stomach, thumbs brushing idly over your knuckles. You feel the weight of his chin as he rests it gently on top of your head, and then the press of a kiss into your hair—soft, unthinking, like muscle memory.

It’s the kind of affection that doesn’t ask for attention. Doesn’t need an occasion. It just is.

You breathe him in like you’re trying to anchor yourself. Let your eyes flutter shut. Let the rest of the world blur into background noise.

“I missed this,” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, the words barely more than a sigh. You don’t even mean the moment, exactly—you mean the peace of it. The quiet. The him of it all.

Joel turns his head just a little, enough for the edge of his beard to scratch gently against your forehead. His voice is soft when he replies, but there’s something thick in it, something full.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs. “Ain’t gotta miss a thing.”

You shift your face closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Sometimes I still do,” you admit.

He nods once, like he gets it without needing you to explain. “Yeah,” he says, his hand trailing up to cup the back of your head. “Me too.”

And for a long moment, neither of you say anything more. You just stand there, wrapped up in each other, while the world spins noisily on around you—too loud, too fast, too much.

But here, in the shelter of his arms, in the crook of his neck, everything is quiet. Everything is enough.

Crowds were never your thing.

Too many people pressed in too close, too many voices overlapping, footsteps echoing off wood and brick. Even in a place like Jackson—safe, familiar—it could still feel like too much. You were used to being on alert, always aware of exits and shadows, always bracing for what could go wrong. Old habits from the world outside didn’t die easily.

Joel wasn’t much better with crowds. Maybe a little quieter about it, a little more practiced at hiding the way his shoulders stiffened when someone brushed past too close. But you’d seen it. The way his jaw would flex when he was trying to be polite but already had one foot out the door in his head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near his belt like he was missing the feel of his rifle.

And yet, here you were.

The town hall was full to bursting, the whole place humming with life. It was some kind of celebration—maybe a harvest, maybe a birthday, maybe people just needed a reason to dance and drink and pretend that the world hadn’t ended outside those walls. Whatever it was, it was loud. Laughter spilled from every corner. Music vibrated through the floorboards. Glasses clinked together and boots stomped in time with the beat.

You stood near the far end of the room, half-heartedly nursing a cup of water, swaying just a little in time with the song playing—more to keep your nerves from buzzing than for enjoyment. You scanned the room like you always did. Faces. Movements. That unconscious search for something familiar, something grounding.

And then your eyes found Joel.

He was on the opposite side of the room, shoulder leaning against a wooden support beam, arms folded loosely across his chest. He hadn’t joined the dance, hadn’t made a plate from the food table. Just stood there, scanning the crowd—and you knew in your bones he’d been looking for you.

When your eyes met, the noise dulled. Not all at once. It didn’t go silent or freeze like in the movies. But it faded. As if the current of the room moved around the two of you instead of through.

You were mid-sip when it happened, your fingers curled around the cool tin cup, lips barely brushing the rim. But as soon as you caught his gaze, you paused.

It wasn’t a grand thing. No sweeping declarations. Just a glance. A quiet, steady look that said you’re here, and I see you, and that’s all I need.

You tilted your head a fraction, the corner of your mouth twitching upward into the kind of smile you only saved for him—small, but true. Your chest softened. Your breath eased.

Across the room, Joel’s lips quirked into that familiar little half-smile, the one that never quite reached both corners of his mouth, but you knew what it meant. He gave a subtle nod. Nothing flashy. Nothing for show.

Just, I see you too.

You held that look for a second longer, your body still surrounded by the warmth and noise and movement of the room, but none of it really touched you. Not in that moment. Not with his gaze wrapped around you like a thread pulled taut across the distance.

And even though no one said a word, something passed between you.

You smile again, this one a little wider, a little softer. A silent message of your own: I’m not going anywhere.

And Joel’s eyes softened like he heard it loud and clear.

You hum sometimes, without even knowing you’re doing it. It just slips out—soft and low, the way wind moves through tall grass. A half-remembered tune from before the world went sideways. Maybe it was from the radio, maybe from your childhood, maybe your mother’s voice singing over the hiss of boiling water. It’s not the melody that matters. It’s the feeling that comes with it—warmth, familiarity, something that once meant home.

Sometimes, when your mind is far away, you whistle it instead. Just a few notes, carried on your breath.

Joel never interrupts. Never tells you to stop or asks you to hush. He just listens—quietly, carefully, like the sound of your humming settles something in him too. Like maybe the song is stitching him back together in places neither of you can quite name.

He’s usually out on the porch when it happens, sitting on the old wooden steps with one of the guitars he’s been fixing up. Strings stretched taut, frets worn smooth by time and hands that once knew chords. His fingers—rough and weathered—move slow and steady as he tunes it. Every so often, he plucks a string, listens, adjusts. The sun casts a soft amber glow across his forearms, painting the scars in gold.

You’re nearby. Always. Curled up with your legs folded beneath you, back resting against one of the porch posts. A blanket draped over your shoulders. You hum like peace lives in your chest and is trying to find its way out.

Joel glances up when he hears it—mid-strum, his brow relaxed, lips parted just slightly like he’s about to say something but doesn’t. He just looks at you for a moment, and everything about him softens. His shoulders drop. The line between his brows disappears. Like the sound of you is the first deep breath he’s taken all day.

“What’s that song?” he asks after a while, his voice breaking the silence like it belongs there. Low and warm, barely above the hush of wind.

You pause, the melody tapering off in your throat. Your eyes flick toward the sky, as if the answer might be waiting somewhere in the clouds.

“Not sure,” you murmur, a smile tugging lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Mama used to sing it when she was cooking. I think it used to be on the radio, too. One of those songs that just… stuck.”

Joel nods, the kind of slow, thoughtful nod that doesn’t need words to follow. He strums another chord, something soft and sweet, and leans back on his elbows.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you with that familiar flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Keep goin’. I like it.”

There’s something in the way he says it—something that makes your chest ache in that soft, full kind of way. The kind of ache that’s not about pain at all, but about being known. About being seen and loved for the quiet parts of yourself you didn’t think anyone else noticed.

So you hum again, picking up where you left off. Joel doesn’t look away. He keeps strumming, matching your rhythm now. Not quite harmonizing. Just being there with you, in it.

And for a little while, the world feels like it’s made of nothing but warm wood, old songs, and two people learning how to feel safe again.

You’re curled up together in bed one night, everything quiet except the low pop and crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. The room glows in soft amber and gold, the shadows on the walls swaying like they’re dancing to the rhythm of your breathing. Outside, wind brushes against the windows, but inside, it’s warm. Safe. Still.

Joel lies flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped loosely around your waist. You’re pressed into his side, head resting just below his collarbone, your hand lazily combing through his hair—fingertips tracing gentle, aimless patterns. His hair’s soft tonight, freshly washed and still carrying the faint scent of cedar soap and woodsmoke.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no need. Just the hush between heartbeats and the sound of Joel’s steady breathing, slow and even beneath your ear.

“I could stay like this forever,” you whisper eventually, your voice thick with sleep. Each word melts into the warmth of his skin. Your eyes are already slipping closed, lashes brushing his chest. You don’t even know if he hears you.

But then you feel it—Joel’s arm tightening around your waist, his hand sliding up under your shirt just enough to rest against your spine, warm and grounding.

“Then don’t move,” he murmurs, voice rough with tiredness and something gentler, deeper. The kind of softness he only ever shows in moments like this, when the world is quiet and his guard is down. “Ain’t no one tellin’ us to go anywhere.”

You smile into the dark, into the skin of his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady, and you swear you could fall asleep to that sound alone.

Joel shifts slightly, just enough to press a kiss into the top of your head. His lips linger there—like a promise more than anything spoken.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you,” you say, voice feather-light.

A comfortable silence settles in again. Your fingers slow in his hair, curling around a soft wave near his temple. His hand stays at your back, thumb drawing idle shapes you’re too sleepy to name.

The fire crackles. The wind hums. And you drift off like that—wrapped up in him, hand still in his hair, the weight of his love wrapped around you like a second blanket. Nothing else matters. Not out there. Not tomorrow. Just this.

Just him.

The temperature dips before the sun even brushes the horizon. The last of the daylight clings to the sky in hazy streaks of orange and violet, but the wind has already turned sharp, biting through the seams of your jacket. You and Joel walk side by side down the path back toward Jackson, boots crunching over patches of frost-laced grass and half-frozen dirt.

You don’t say much—patrols tend to leave a certain kind of quiet between you, a silence that doesn’t need filling. But you can feel the chill starting to settle deep in your bones, your fingers stiff and cheeks raw from the cold. You try to rub your hands together for warmth, but it’s useless. The wind is relentless.

Joel notices, of course. His eyes flick over to you, worried in that subtle way he is—more tension in the jaw, more silence than usual. You know he’s about to offer you his coat or tell you he should’ve brought that extra scarf.

So before he can open his mouth, you reach out and grab a fistful of his jacket.

Without a word, you tug him in. Joel stumbles the smallest step forward, surprised but not resisting. You pull until you're chest to chest, until the warmth of his body bleeds into yours. Your frozen hands slip under the back hem of his coat and find the soft flannel of his shirt underneath, palms pressing flat against the heat of his spine.

“Jesus,” Joel mutters, letting out a breath that puffs white between you, his arms automatically sliding around your waist. “You could’ve just asked for my coat, y’know.”

“But then I wouldn’t be this close,” you reply, chin tilting up, a smile tugging at your lips despite your chattering teeth. “You’re warmer than any jacket.”

Joel huffs a soft laugh, the kind that melts around the edges. He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “You’re a damn menace,” he says—but his voice is warm and low, thick with affection.

You can feel his fingers pressing into your back, holding you tighter. His nose brushes yours as he tilts his head, and then—soft as snowfall—he kisses you. Once. Then again. And a third time, his lips barely touching yours, quick little pecks that make you laugh and shiver all at once.

“Joel,” you whisper, still grinning, your breath fogging between you both.

“I like the taste of your lips on mine,” he murmurs, the words brushing against your mouth like silk. He says it like a secret. Like it’s always been true.

Then he kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pours warmth into you one soft press at a time. The world falls quiet. No wind. No cold. No patrols or gates or the threat of anything waiting in the dark.

Just Joel.

Just this.

When you finally pull apart, you don’t go far. He keeps you close, your fingers still tucked against his back, his breath brushing your temple.

You smile into his collar. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

He kisses your hair, voice barely above a whisper. “Far as I’m concerned, we can stay like this forever.”

And in that moment, time slows. Your heartbeat settles into the rhythm of his, safe and steady. Warm, despite everything. Because love—real love—isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in this. A quiet winter dusk. A jacket shared. The taste of his kiss. The way he holds you like you’re something worth braving the cold for.

Then there’s Ellie.

She was nineteen now. Strong. Sharp-tongued and guarded in the way Joel used to be. You weren’t her mother, and she never treated you like one—but she was curious about you. Distant at first. Then, little by little, she started asking questions. Sitting with you on the porch. Bringing you a book she found and thought you might like.

She and Joel… there were things left unsaid between them. You could feel it like a splinter under the skin. Something tender and unresolved.

He finally told you one night, long after you’d both settled into the quiet comfort of shared sheets and a life you thought might last.

It was after dinner. After the guitar and the laughter. After you’d kissed the corners of his mouth and pulled him into bed.

“I lied to her,” he said, voice hollow.

You blinked in the dark, still half-tangled in sleep. “What?”

Joel’s face was turned toward the ceiling. Still. Tense. “I lied to Ellie. About the Fireflies. About the hospital.”

The room chilled. Your fingers reached for his without hesitation.

“I killed them,” he continued. “Every last one that stood between me and her. ‘Cause they were gonna cut her open. To find a cure.”

He didn’t cry right away. He spoke through gritted teeth, like the guilt was a weight he carried every damn day and had never quite set down.

“She would’ve died. She didn’t know—still doesn’t really. I told her there were others. That she wasn’t the only one. But it was a lie. It’s all a lie.”

You didn’t speak. Just curled into him. Held his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“She hates me for it,” he whispered.

“No,” you said. “She loves you. She’s angry, but she loves you.”

He shook his head. Silent tears rolled into his hairline. You kissed his shoulder. You stayed up all night, fingers running through his graying hair until his breathing steadied again.

That was the last night he told you something he’d never said out loud.

The screams had long gone silent. All that was left now was smoke. Gunpowder. Blood soaking into snow.

Your boots crunch through it—through the aftermath. Bodies, both friend and foe, lie crumpled like broken marionettes. The streets of Jackson, once humming with quiet life, are now a graveyard.

Tommy had held the line at the south gate. You saw him, blackened with ash and soot, flames dancing in the reflection of his eyes as he lit up a bloater with the last fuel of the flamethrower. His scream—raw, furious—cut through the chaos like a knife. You’d joined the others in the streets, turning bullets on the infected… and eventually, on the bitten.

Some of them you knew by name.

You don’t remember pulling the trigger. You only remember the stillness afterward.

The quiet after the roar.

By the time the last runner was put down, your hands were slick with blood—some of it not your own. And when they called for the dead to be gathered, you helped. You counted.

You lost count.

They winched open the gates sometime after. You were still standing by the old greenhouse-turned-morgue, watching Tommy collapse into Maria’s arms, his body shaking with the weight of what he’d survived.

And then—

The hoofbeats. The shuffle of footsteps. The drag of something heavy behind them.

You turned.

Jesse and Ellie rode in first. Dina followed, all their faces hollowed out by exhaustion and something far worse. Behind their horse trailed a shape wrapped in canvas, dark with frozen blood, limp in the snow.

Ellie’s eyes met yours.

Red-rimmed. Wide. Empty.

And you knew.

You knew.

Your legs gave out beneath you before the thought could fully form. The cold didn’t register. Only the scream that tore out of your throat—animal, guttural. You clawed at the snow, sobbing into the dirt and ice, your lungs heaving like they were trying to break through your ribs.

“No—no—no—!” It came out broken. Like you could undo it just by denying it hard enough.

Tommy grabbed you. Held you back. His own face soaked with tears.

You screamed again. You didn’t care who heard. Didn’t care that you were on your knees in the blood and the snow with your heart ripped open.

Maria stood nearby. Hands pressed to her mouth. Silent.

The bag didn’t move.

He was in there.

Joel.

You want to tear the canvas open. You want it to be a mistake. You want to see his face, alive. Cranky. Loving. Whole.

But you already know.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. How long your sobs echo off the ruined walls of Jackson. You only know this: he felt like home.

And now home is just… gone.

They carry him to the chapel. Ellie disappears inside, Dina trailing her silently. Jesse catches your eye and looks away.

You follow the corpse. Your legs move on their own. There’s nothing left to protect now, no fight to win. You’ve survived—but at what cost?

The snow keeps falling.

And somehow, the world keeps turning.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. No birdsong, no wind. Just the thick, suffocating kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until it feels like you might shatter from the inside out. The kind of silence that doesn’t leave room for breath, or hope.

The makeshift morgue is colder than outside, colder than anything should ever be. Too sterile. Too still. Too many bodies of people you once smiled at in passing. A metal table stands at the corner of the room, and he’s there—Joel—lying beneath a white sheet that feels far too thin. Like if you peeled it back, he’d stir. Grumble about the draft. Ask where his jacket went.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t fucking move.

You sink to your knees beside the table. Wood floor biting into your bones, your hands trembling as they hover just above the edge of the sheet. Your throat burns like it’s been scraped raw from the inside out, but you haven’t said anything. Not really. Not yet.

Tommy sits down beside you, legs bent awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest like if he doesn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart right here with you.

“I don’t wanna say goodbye,” you choke out, voice so broken it barely sounds like yours. Your hands finally touch the edge of the table, and you grip it like a lifeline.

“I know,” Tommy murmurs. He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t try to fix it. Maybe because he knows there’s no fixing this.

You press your forehead against the cold edge of the metal, like maybe if you’re close enough, you’ll feel his warmth again. But there’s nothing. Only the chill of a world that kept turning without him in it.

“I needed him,” you whisper. The words break on your tongue like glass. “I still do. I need his voice—I need his arms. I need him to tell me this is all gonna be okay.”

A sob claws its way out of your chest, jagged and ugly. “He was supposed to be here.”

You think about the way he used to hold you—how his hands fit so easily around your waist, how he’d tug you close like the world outside didn’t exist. You think about his voice, low and rough, whispering “I got you, baby,” when the nightmares got bad. About the way he looked at you, like you were something worth protecting. Like you were home.

He was home.

And now he’s gone. And you’re nothing but a house with the roof torn off, standing in the rain.

“I don’t know how to be in a world that doesn’t have him in it,” you admit, tears falling freely now, soaking into your sleeves. “I was never scared of tomorrow when he was with me.”

Your head turns toward Tommy, eyes rimmed red. “How do I do this?”

He doesn’t answer. He just puts a hand over yours, squeezes it tight. It’s all he can give you, and you take it, even though it’s not the hand you want.

You close your eyes, breathing in like maybe you’ll catch some trace of him. Leather. Cedar. That soap he used when he tried to be fancy. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the dull antiseptic of this godforsaken room.

“I thought I knew grief,” you whisper. “But this… this is a whole new kind of broken.”

And it is. It’s grief with no bottom. No edges. No map. Like walking into a fog and never coming back out.

You reach up, finally, trembling fingers lifting the edge of the sheet.

You don’t pull it back.

You just press your palm over where you know his heart used to beat.

And you stay there, frozen in time, whispering his name like a prayer. Like if you say it enough, he might come back.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t.

And you know—no matter how many tomorrows come—you’ll miss him in every single one.

Because he wasn’t just the love of your life.

He was your life.

And now, all that’s left is the silence.

It’s three days later when Tommy finds you.

You haven’t spoken much since that day. Just shadows under your eyes and silence on your lips. People leave flowers near the mailbox. You go through the motions—eating when someone puts food in front of you, lying down when your legs give out—but you’re not really here.

You’re sitting on Joel’s porch when he approaches. Your knees are drawn to your chest, your hands wrapped in the sleeves of a jacket that still smells like him. It’s too big, and it doesn’t make you feel any less hollow.

Tommy stands in front of you for a moment, quiet.

Then he lowers himself to sit on the step beside you.

“I ain’t sure if now’s the right time,” he says, voice low. Rough. “But he… he asked me to give you somethin’. If…”

You look at him. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. You both know how it ends.

Your heart stops. And then starts again, slower. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope—folded and worn soft at the edges like it had been carried for a long time.

Your name is on it.

Your handwriting. Joel’s writing. It’s him. It's him.

Your fingers are shaking as you take it.

“I didn’t read it,” Tommy says, eyes on the horizon. “Didn’t wanna. Figured that was for you.”

Inside the envelope is a single piece of paper, folded once.

And a gold band.

Simple. Plain. No diamonds or carvings. Just a ring. One he probably bartered for quietly. One he probably kept in his pocket, maybe touched it when he thought about you. One he never got to give you.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The paper trembles in your hands as you unfold it. The ink is smudged in one corner—Joel had probably written it with those big hands, careful and slow. Trying to say something final in a way that didn’t feel like goodbye.

Your eyes find the first words.

Hey, baby.

If you’re reading this… then I’m not where I should be. I’m sorry.

God, I didn’t wanna write this. Been puttin’ it off for weeks. But the way this world is… well, you and I both know it don’t always give you time to say things out loud.

So I’m writin’ ‘em now.

First thing—I love you. You probably know that already. Hell, I’ve said it in a hundred different ways without ever sayin’ the words. In the way I hold you. The way I listen to you hum that song. The way I breathe easier when you’re near.

You gave me something I thought I didn’t deserve. Peace. A second chance. A home.

I hope I gave you the same.

Second thing—you’ll find a ring with this letter. Nothin’ fancy. I wanted to give it to you proper. Maybe on the porch. Maybe by the fire. Just… you and me. I had all these words planned. But none of ‘em matter now.

Just know this—I would’ve asked you to be mine. Not ‘cause I needed to prove anything. But because you already were. In every way that counts.

And I wanted the world to know.

I wanted to grow old with you. Wanted to find out what your hair looks like when it’s all grey. Wanted to kiss you goodnight a thousand more times.

I wanted all of it.

But if I didn’t make it—if you’re readin’ this now—I need you to do something for me.

Live.

Please. Don’t let this break you.

You got too much light in you to burn out now.

So wear the ring, if it helps. Or don’t. Keep it in your pocket. Toss it in the river. It’s yours, either way.

You’ll always be mine.

Forever and then some,

Joel

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until Tommy places a hand on your back, steadying you as the weight of the words crushes you from the inside out.

The ring glints in your palm, catching the dying light of the day.

You bring it to your lips, kiss it once, then curl it into your fist and press it against your heart.

“I would’ve said yes,” you whisper into the air, broken and breathless. “I would’ve said yes a thousand times.”

And the wind moves through the trees like it’s carrying the words to him—wherever he is.

Because love like that doesn’t die.

It just waits.

It lingers in the quiet. In the echo of footsteps that aren’t his. In the smell of cedar and leather that still clings to the collar of his coat. It stays tucked in the corners of every room he touched, every breath he took beside you.

You will mourn him forever. You will miss him every minute.

Your hands will grow old holding a photograph of the two of you—sunlight on your faces, his arm around your shoulders like he always meant to keep you safe. Your bones will ache with the shape of him, your soul carved hollow where he used to be.

And when your time comes, when the world fades soft and slow at the edges, you’ll go with his name dancing on your lips. A whisper. A promise.

Because some loves aren’t meant to end.

Only to be found again.

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loveinhawkins · 1 month ago

Text

“What happened to Steve?” Dustin asks.

He’s already shut the door so no-one can overhear, has left everyone else—almost everyone—in the living room. He can make out some sounds in the background: Robin, who’s still talking overly loud, valiantly trying to drown out the noise coming from the bathroom; from Nancy who’s locked herself in there, and the sound of running water only half covers up stifled, sobbing gasps—each one makes Dustin’s stomach drop.

And if he really concentrates, he can hear the quiet creak of Steve pacing in concern, and there, every other step or so, the movement stops abruptly. It’s barely a second before it starts up again, but Dustin knows when Steve’s bracing himself, knows when he’s in pain.

And there are way too many things he can’t solve—Nancy’s hidden, gut-wrenching cries are another unwelcome reminder of that fact.

So he asks again, “What happened to Steve?” because he knows, if nothing else, he can solve this.

Eddie jumps, confirming Dustin’s suspicions that he didn’t hear the question the first time. He’s sat hunched over on his bed, surrounded by scattered piles of tapes from their panicked search earlier. He looks up, blinks a couple times like his mind’s been somewhere else for a long while.

“What happened to—? Uh, why don’t you just ask Steve?”

Because, Dustin thinks, you can’t lie for shit.

He doesn’t say it, but maybe Eddie suspects something, because he mutters, “Sure, sure, okay,” under his breath and clears a spot for Dustin on the bed. He keeps dropping tapes, like his hands are too unsteady to keep a hold of them; there’s a crack in one of the plastic cases already.

Dustin sits, and then Eddie tells him. It’s not like he hadn’t guessed something kinda close to it, but the confirmation is good to have.

“So. Demobats,” Dustin says in summary, because Eddie had trailed off near the end, as if he was reliving the dive into The Upside Down all over again. He cracks a smile at the name, though.

“Cute.”

“And Steve… like, he a rode a bike and everything so he’s…?”

Dustin tries to make his thumbs up look as confident as possible. Eddie nods a little too slowly for his liking, but he’ll take it.

“Yeah, um. Hey, Dustin, does, uh, all of that…” Eddie waves a hand vaguely. “Does that, like, happen a lot? Historically?”

Dustin doesn’t need to ask what he means.

Several memories battle to reach the forefront, but what wins is Steve in the junkyard before anything had even happened, how he whistled, bat in his hands. And Dustin had firmly filed the whole thing under awesome which yeah, it was, and maybe if he keeps thinking about how awesome it was, he won’t have to think about—

“He just—he just needs someone to watch his back.”

It’s almost a non-answer because it’s true of everyone, a Party rule so obvious it goes without saying. Still, Eddie nods again, and when he rearranges the last of the tapes his hands don’t shake.

“That I can do,” Eddie says.

There’s a edge of self-deprecation to the words, like he’s saying it’s one of the few things he’s capable of, and Dustin wants to push back against it because it’s not fair. Eddie’s only at a disadvantage in that it’s like he’s joined a long-running D&D campaign mid-way through, missing pages and pages of notes, and all he’s got time to get is hastily thrown together bullet points.

The creak of Steve’s footsteps suddenly gets louder before there’s a soft knock on the door.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Come on in, Harrington,” Eddie says.

Steve opens the door. “What’re you doing?” he says casually, but Dustin can tell he’d been worried; his eyes flicker around the room as if he’s checking it’s still safe.

“Oh, just getting Henderson to work on his tone.”

A millisecond ago, Dustin had been all for whatever excuse Eddie could come up with. But now…

“My what?”

Steve laughs like this is all very funny. Dustin keeps his eyes sharp even in his indignation, takes note of how Steve holds himself as he leans against the doorway: not relaxed by any stretch, but there’s no longer the awful sense that he’s holding his breath in pain. And the bandages wrapped around him are dry, Dustin double-checks to be sure. It’s not ideal—none of this is—but he can work with it.

Meanwhile, one thing he can’t work with is baseless slander.

“I don’t have a tone, what the hell.”

Eddie heaves a sigh. “That’s exactly what someone with a tone would say.”

Dustin kicks him.

And in the middle of Eddie pretending to be mortally wounded, he sobers abruptly—must notice the same thing just ahead of Dustin, that the water in the bathroom’s stopped running.

Eddie catches Steve’s eye. “Wheeler?” he mouths.

Steve pauses. “She’s okay,” he mouths back, and then mimes with his hand, five minutes, which is absolutely not the whole story, but it’s the one they’re getting for now.

And if she needs some more time, Dustin can find plenty more sources of distraction. What he settles on is a double take that would put Drama Club to shame.

“Wow, Steve, that’s a cool vest, where’d you get it?”

He dodges Eddie’s kick.

“Tone, dickhead,” Steve returns easily, and he grins, glances over to Eddie with a wry shake of the head.

The bathroom door clicks open, and Dustin hears Robin warmly greet Nancy in the living room. Steve looks relieved, pats the doorframe a couple times before he beckons for him to be followed out.

Dustin hesitates the tiniest bit so he can keep an eye on how Steve walks. He turns back to Eddie with one last questioning thumbs up; Eddie, still a little pink in the face, smiles back and gives a reassuring wink.

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wannaeatramyeon · 6 months ago

Text

Gun Park x Reader: Feverish Confessions

G/N. 1.8k. You kindly take care of Gun. Soft. Masterlists

You were under the notion that Gun Park could not get ill.

That his antibodies also had ultra instinct and there was no virus strong enough to even consider invading his body.

But alas, you found out he was human when you discovered him unsteady on his feet, pink cheeked and sweat sheened.

"You ok?" You ask, reaching out the back of your hand to feel his forehead.

"Don't touch me," he says without any of his usual bite. That was the first warning sign.

The second one comes when he fails to dodge your grasp and you do make contact with his skin.

"You're burning up."

"I'm not."

"You're ill."

"I'm not."

"You're being a child "

"I am not."

You decide the best course of action is to get Gun home. He's in no fit state to find his own way back and Goo is no help. In fact, no one is any help at all when Gun's energy quickly drains and he struggles to stay upright.

"How fucking heavy are you," you grit out, trying to push his weight off you.

"Fuck you," Gun mutters as Goo whispers something to Kouji and he snorts.

"Poor oppa," Crystal titters, a smirk on her face, watching you both with sharp eyes.

"Fuck you," Gun now directs in her general direction.

"Yeah, fuck you all," you snap in agreement, staggering under the heft of his body.

With a strength and patience you didn't know you possessed, you wrestle him into the passenger seat of your car and drive Gun home at breakneck speed.

He murmurs, delirious fever-induced ramblings, between laboured breaths as you hum in response, keeping your attention on the road.

To your surprise, you catch him speaking your name and each time your eyes flicker to his, you find him staring at you, even if his own eyes appear glazed and unfocused.

Gun repeats your name again, like a question.

"Nearly home," you tell him as a way of comfort and seemingly appeased, he doesn't say anything else.

"All that money and you still live in a junkyard," you comment, holding on to his arm around your shoulder and the other around his waist, slowly ambling towards his shack.

"Shut up."

"I'll shut up when you don't live in a shit hole anymore."

"Shut up."

"Make me," you stop in your tracks and send a cocky grin his way.

Gun, in his weakened condition, only manages to glare back.

"That's what I thought."

"I said shut up."

Gun collapses into bed, or more accurately you try and throw him off you and hope for the best that he lands onto a more comfortable surface.

You take in his sorry state and actually find yourself feeling sympathy for him. All that money and power but when it comes down to it, who is there to look after him when he needs it? It's a lonely existence.

(Not that you're faring any better but you push that thought out of your mind.)

"Don't you dare kick me," you warn, bending to take off his shoes.

"Stop," he moans, barely lucid and you know that if he was any healthier, you would have been booted in the side of the head.

You look at him again and probably against your better judgement, decide your next move.

"I swear I'm not taking advantage of you," you say, holding your hands up to show you mean no harm and making quick work of his clothes - unbuttoning his shirt and his slacks and removing his socks.

Gun doesn't respond and he doesn't fight you. You know this looks questionable. Undressing an unconscious person is never a good sign. Except he's lying there with his flushed cheeks and clammy forehead, fringe flopping down and sticking to his face and you couldn't help but feel a surge of warmth for him.

Once he's down to his underwear, you tuck him under the covers.

You hum to yourself, feeling for his forehead again. Gun groans under your touch but he's no worse than this morning.

Gun's pantry, despite the threadbare surroundings, is exceptionally well stocked.

You know from your many outings together of his high standards though you didn't expect that he was much of a cook himself. Of course, you should have known that Gun Park doesn't do anything by halves.

After rooting through his cupboards and drawers, you find what you need. You cover a saucepan with rice and adjust water levels according to the length of your finger knuckle, seasoning it with various spices and adding ingredients from his fridge.

What you're doing for him is above and beyond. You've already assured his comfort, cooking him rice porridge is unnecessary, and you can imagine unappreciated-

However, you think of all those times you've been out with Gun and Goo, drank more than your fair share of Soju and Gun is the one who has delivered you safely home; Gun’s cruel taunts when you come back from fights with bruises and cuts and his disparaging comments even as he makes time to train you to be a better fighter; how Gun never snaps at you the same way he does Kouji, or talk to you how he does Crystal, or treat you how he does Goo and-

Well. Maybe he does deserve a little of your kindness.

An hour later, just as the sun starts to dip below the horizon and you’ve had more than your fill of doom scrolling - the rice porridge is ready.

You spoon a small bowl for Gun and set it on his nightstand.

“Who are you?” comes Gun’s croaky voice, hand shooting forward and snatching at your wrist.

“It’s me,” you say, “And be careful you don’t knock this off.”

HIs grip lessens but he doesn’t let go. “Knock what off?”

“I made you food,” you sit down on the bed next to his lying form.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why, look at you!”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, don’t be an asshole.”

Two blinks, then - “Why are you taking care of me?”

“Because!” you huff, feeling your face flush.

“Do you like me?” Gun asks, and the question is so left field you’re reeling. You don’t have a chance to respond or even collect your thoughts before he continues on in his fever haze.

“I caught a fragrance the other day that smells exactly like you. It’s odd that I know this.” He looks towards the ceiling, mind a blur of thoughts.

“When did I start to hoard these facts like a pathetic idiot? I barely know who you are, what you like and what you dislike. And yet I look at you and I can tell exactly what you're thinking."

"Can you do the same to me?" Gun turns to look at you, eyes a dull bronze and you forget to breathe. There’s a startling clarity as his gaze pierces yours.

“Wh-what?” You stammer at his sudden confession, the sight of his natural eyes leaving your sanity further hanging by a thread. Did he just- Did he mean?

“Maybe not.” The clarity fades. Gun closes his eyes and finally lets go. "Only a fool wouldn't be able to tell."

"Oh." Then you add, “Am I a fool?”

"Only a fool would like another fool."

The bowl of rice porridge is left uneaten.

You watch Gun, coughing in his sleep, and message Crystal that you won’t make it into work the next day.

That night, you’re left alone with your thoughts.

Gun’s timeworn sofa digging into your back and his jacket as a make-shift blanket keeping you warm.

It smells like him. Of course it does, it’s his. But you realise you recognise his scent too.

Gun spends the next day floating between half-conscious and sleeping. He no longer has any burst of energy to compose his thoughts or spill his desires.

You check in on him every now and then, pleased when you find his bowl empty and refilling it each time.

You hand searches for his forehead. It never fails to smooth the furrow between his brow as he murmurs your name in his sleep.

It’s sort of funny how those few words changed how you look at this man.

The other day he was a pain in your backside, and you could have sworn you were one in his too.

You’ve lost count of the amount of times you wanted to punch him for his scathing remarks, that arrogant glint in his eyes, that smirk on his face.

Yet now, those feelings don’t really lessen, but you wonder if Gun would keep smirking or would he shut up if you kissed him instead.

Crystal: Assume you’re not coming into work tomorrow?

Y/N: Sorry, Gun still looks bad.

Goo: Gun????????

Goo: You’re shacking up with Gun????

Y/N: What?????

Y/N: No!!!

Y/N: I’m not shacking up with anyone!

Goo: Liar

Kouji: Ok…

Kouji: But

Kouji: You’ve been skipping work to look after hyung?

Y/N: …

Y/N: No?

Y/N: Maybe…

Crystal: Yes you have

Goo: What!!! Nooooooo

Kouji: Pay up, Goo Kim. I was right.

Gun’s fever breaks the day after.

Your hand reaches out to feel his forehead and he opens his eyes, dark as night once more, to look at you.

“You’re still here?”

“I am,” You give him a smile when you feel his temperature back to normal.

He reaches up, large hand and long fingers wrapping around your own, and manoeuvres it down to rest your palm against his cheek.

“You’ve been here all this time?”

His fever has subsided, but the contact makes you feel like you’re on fire, “Yep.”

A hum, then “Good.”

Gun leans into your hold, turning his head, the side of his lips lightly grazing your skin.

“Can you tell what I am thinking?”

You’re rewarded with a smile, small and serene, when you roll your eyes and tell him yes, and that you're both fools after all.

#lookism #lookism x reader #gun park #gun park x reader #park jonggun x reader #park jonggun #wannaeatramyeon

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shanastoryteller · 6 months ago

Text

Sam seems convinced this is going to work, but Dean’s pretty sure it’s just a load of crap. Bobby’s even more convinced that it’s a whole lot of nothing, although he had admitted that he couldn’t read every symbol that Sam had added to this mess up devil’s trap. That didn’t mean it would work. It just meant that Sam had thrown everything he could think into it.

The real reason that Dean is going along with this, and probably Bobby is too, is because it means that Sam wouldn’t be alone after Dean is dragged to hell. Although standing in the middle of Bobby’s junkyard in a mess of spray paint isn’t exactly how he’d wanted to spend the last hour of his life.

“You really think Lilith is going to show?” he asks. He doesn’t know why she would. She just has to send the hellhounds, who’s howls and yips Dean has been hearing for days. And those things have never been stopped by any sort of devil’s trap.

“Yes,” Sam says, tense, not looking at him.

That’s another thing. For weeks Sam has barely looked at him, barely talked to him. Which sucks, because he’d really wanted to spend the last weeks of his life just looking and talking to and spending time with his brother, but Sam hadn’t been interested in that. At all.

He shares a look with Bobby, who just shrugs, hands tight on his shotgun.

Then the hellhounds come, just like he knew they would, no Lilith in sight. “Sammy,” he says, reaching out for his brother. Not because he thinks he can do anything, but because he wants to touch Sam one last time, one last memory to sustain him through hell.

Sam snaps out his hand and the hellhounds go skittering back, letting out pained yowls.

Dean stares, not understanding. “What did you – wait. You can see them?”

Only he should be able to see them. He’s the one that made the deal.

Sam still won’t look at him, damnit, even as Dean fists his hand in the back of his shirt. Sam's voice is low and pained when he says, “I’m sorry.”

Fear clenches in his gut. But before he do anything, there are demons surrounding the devil’s trap, appearing one by one in Bobby’s junkyard. They’d needed to take down his protections so Lilith could get in, but they hadn’t expected this. Of course she brought a freaking audience.

“Which one of you is Lilith?” he barks out, dragging Sam behind him. He refuses to let the last thing he sees be his brother hurt, or worse.

Dozens of demons stand there, human vessels with pitch black eyes. The hellhounds whimper and slink around them, but don’t seem interested in getting any closer. Dean can’t blame them.

Sam pries his hand off of him, stepping away before Dean can grab onto him again. He leaves the safety of the devil’s trap, which is fucking stupid. Dean’s lunging forward to stop him, but then there’s Bobby’s arm holding him back, face pale with a horror Dean doesn’t understand. He hadn’t looked like that even at Cold Oak, when they’d seen the gates open to hell.

The demons bow.

He blinks, not understanding what he’s seeing.

Sam is standing there in front of them, no protections, and they’re all bowing to him.

Except one.

Ruby is there, stupid red leather jacket and blonde hair and the smirk he hates so much. She walks around the demons up to Sam, who’s face is cold and expressionless. “She’s coming.”

“I know,” he says. “If this doesn’t work, I’m going to kill you.”

“Promise?” she returns. “If this doesn’t work, death will be a mercy.”

Dean tries to push Bobby off of him, to get in between Sam and this bitch, but he doesn’t let go.

Then there’s a little girl in a white dress, head tilted to the side. “Something here belongs to me.”

Ruby flinches, stepping just slightly behind Sam.

“Not you,” she sneers. “You haven’t belonged to me in a long time, I fear. You really think that this boy can save you?”

“Sam,” Ruby says.

He sighs, like this is a trial, and raises his hand.

Lilith’s sneer drops from her face. Her upper body yanks forward, but her legs won't move. “You bastard,” she snarls, raising her hand in return, but nothing happens.

For the first time, fear flickers across her face.

Ruby steps forward, her own terror swallowed up by arrogance, by delight.

Dean tries to move, but finds he’s just as frozen as Lilith, even more so. He can’t twitch a single muscle. Going by Bobby’s unnatural stillness next to him, he assumes he’s in the same boat.

“Samuel is the heir of the light bringer,” Ruby says. “He has taken his birthright. You can’t touch him.”

What’s she talking about? What birthright?

What has Sam done?

“No,” Lilith snarls. “He’s nothing more than one of Azazel’s experiments.”

“A night, a full day, and then morning,” Ruby says. “That’s what he was. Then he rose on the third day.” She shoots a mocking look his way. “If it weren’t for his brother, he would have died nothing more than a failed experiment. But he has risen.”

No. What does that mean? What’s she saying? He had just wanted Sammy back.

Did he do this? Is this his fault?

“Ruby,” Sam says, a note of warning in his voice.

“Right, right,” she sighs. Then, back to gleeful, “Her eyes.”

Sam’s finger twitches and Lilith’s eyes bleed black tears.

She screams, the sound even worse because her vessel is a child.

Ruby lists thing after thing, pulling out her fingernails, peeling her skin. Her blood is black, none of it red, and the injuries shouldn’t really be hurting her but they clearly are. Dean watches helplessly as Sam tortures Lilith at Ruby’s command, enacting one terrible thing against her after another.

Lilith lies there, moaning, limbs broken, body in pieces.

“That’s enough,” Sam says.

“Enough?” Ruby hisses, turning to face him. “You know what she did to me! She – she–”

Sam’s stoic mask breaks, creasing in sympathy. Dean would prefer it wasn’t for a demon, for Ruby, but at least he now recognizes his brother. He raises his free hand to her head, his touch an oddly gentle counterpoint to everything he’s done to Lilith. “I know. But it’s enough.”

Tears glint in her eyes, just for a second, then she swallows and nods, stepping away from Sam’s hand.

He steps forward, crouching in front of Lilith. “You shouldn’t have come after my brother. Now we both have to live with the consequences.” His mouth twists. "So to speak."

Whatever she would have said in response is lost in her screams. Black smoke pours from her, then lights up, like a spark in steel wool, the fire moving through her reminding him almost of the Colt.

Lilith dies. Sam kills her, no Colt, no devil’s trap. Nothing but his own terrifying powers.

“Will you bow to me now?” he asks.

Ruby tears her eyes from Lilith’s corpse and her irritating fucking smirk slides back into place. “Now?” She steps closer, tilting her head back almost like she’s about to kiss him, then falls gracefully to her knees in front of him. It looks more like she’s about to give him a blowjob than a form of subservience, but he thinks that for a moment Sam almost seems amused. “I bowed to you first.”

“So you did,” he says softly. He raises his voice. “Move out. Casey. You know your job.”

“Yes, sire,” says one of the demons, voice almost familiar.

Then Sam’s walking away, Ruby just a step behind him. The other demons follow suit, the hellhounds not even glancing at Dean as they get caught up in the procession.

Sam still won’t look at him. He only sees the back of his brother’s head as he leaves him behind

The only demon left is Casey. He knows her, he recognizes her, the demon he’d been trapped with in that city full of sin, the one that Sam had shot and killed. He’d seen him kill her.

She gets to her feet, offering him a smile as she draws closer. “Hello, Dean. I bet you never thought you’d see me again.”

She steps right into the devil’s trap and presses a hand to him and Bobby each. As soon as she touches them, they’re able to move, darting away from her and leaving her stuck in the devil’s trap.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking, but he has more important things to worry about.

She turns to face them. “Samuel does not want you to die. He did what he had to do to ensure you wouldn’t.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Bobby asks gruffly.

“I told you back then I was ready to follow Sam,” she says, stepping out of the devil’s trap like it’s nothing, which she definitely shouldn’t be able to do. Bobby hadn't thought that this thing would be able to contain Lilith, but Casey’s nowhere near Lilith’s level. It should work on her just fine.

Bobby’s hand darts out, throwing holy water over her, but it doesn’t so much as steam.

She just looks amused. “That won’t work on me now. Neither will an exorcism, or any of the usual tricks. I have been purified.” She holds out her hand to Dean and it’s the Colt, the one that they’d lost when Bela sold it. “This is the only thing that will kill me now.”

“And you’re just handing it over?” Dean asks.

“I have my orders,” she says steadily. “Samuel wants you to have it.”

His entire body goes gold.

“What do you mean purified?” Bobby asks, shooting Dean a concerned look. “You’re a demon. Purifying you should kill you.”

“And was Lucifer a demon?” she asks. “I have taken the sacrament.”

Dean doesn’t know what that means, but Bobby’s expression shifts from disgust to shock to a horror filled curiosity. “You drank Sam’s blood?”

She did what?

“I have taken the sacrament,” she repeats, lifting her chin. “Samuel purified me.”

How the hell would Sam’s blood do that? Why had she drank it in the first place? She’s a demon, not a damn vampire. Dean pushes those questions aside and instead asks, “How are you even alive?”

“Samuel resurrected me,” she says. First he can kill demons, and now he can bring them back? “He knows we had a rapport and he thought it would be easier if it was me.”

“What would be easier?” he asks. His head is spinning and his heart hurts and he doesn’t understand anything that just happened. At least being dragged to hell would have been simpler.

She presses the Colt into his hands. “Samuel doesn’t want you to die. He knows this will be difficult for you, that you’ll make poor choices. I have my orders. I am to stay with you and keep you alive. We’re going to get to know each other very well, Dean.”

“Like hell,” he says gruffly, hand tightening as he takes the Colt and raises it to her head. “What’s to stop me from killing you?”

“The same thing that will stop you from killing Samuel,” she says and he flinches. “Nothing.”

He stares at her. He can’t bring himself to speak.

“You’ll have to hunt him down the old fashioned way,” she says casually. “But if you can find him, you can kill him. We’re all under orders not to touch you. Samuel won’t stop you if you want kill him. The same way I won’t stop you if you want to kill me.”

“Why?” he asks.

She shrugs. “It’s always been up to you, Dean. He trusts you. If you decide that he must die, then he’s willing to die.”

Dean sold his soul for him. He’s not going to fucking kill him.

But the Sam he sold his soul for wasn’t capable of doing that to Lilith. He wouldn’t have even wanted to be.

“What about your demon lover?” Dean asks, thinking of the priest that Casey had embraced and kissed, the demon she’d begged to spare Dean’s life before Sam had killed them both. “Sam bring him back too?”

Grief chases across her face before she smooths it away. “He will. If I am good, and obedient, and loyal, then Samuel will bring him back for me.”

Dean’s stomach rolls to hear Sam described like that, like some sort of tyrant or king. Like Dad. “You really believe that?”

Casey meets his gaze steadily as she echoes the words she’d said to him in that basement as she spoke of Lucifer, except now she’s talking about his brother. “I have faith.”

#children yearn for the original S3 ending #supernatural

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amphitriteswife · 2 months ago

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Fiance

Goo wants everything that Jonggun has. His clothes. His glasses, the same amount of salary he gets. It’s always the same thing. He never asks. He just takes. It’s what Jonggun finds the most irritating about Goo. He’s sly and sinister. Often he doesn’t announce when he visits Gun and just barges in. Normally Gun could brush it off. He finds it irritating. Really. But then again…what can he possibly do about it?

Currently, jonggun was in the shower. And coincidentally you, his fiancé, was…just doing your thing. Probably watching a K-drama. He hopes you’re enjoying your stay here, you’re his fiancé after all. It was your first time here since you usually handled his affairs in the Yamazaki estate back in Japan. Being engaged since you two were kids made things a lot easier. Although you wouldn’t describe it as optimal, it certainly isn’t bad at all. Being in one of Gun’s houses was rather…interesting. It was a mess but at the same time it had pieces of furniture that looked very expensive. You could suppose that it represents Jonggun quite well. A stoic individual who loves luxury yet usually retreats to a junkyard. The only reason he even bought this penthouse is because you were coming to Korea. Leaning back on the couch you were suddenly interrupted by the door opening. As far as you knew, Jonggun hadn’t left and was still in the shower. So who the hell just came in??? Standing up from the couch and making your way to the hall, you were met by the sight of a rather tall man with blonde hair and a pair of glasses. He wore expensive clothes and seemed equally as surprised. ‘Well what do we have here?’ The man’s surprised expression turned into a playful smirk. His eyes wandering over your figure. He hasn’t seen you before, and you not him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips which made you narrow your eyes at him. ‘Who are you?’ The question made the man laugh at you. ‘That bastard jonggun…how dare he go to a club and take a girl home without me…’

That made you raise an eyebrow. Not In surprise. But rather amusement. So Jonggun has a friend? And he goes to clubs with him to hang with women? Interesting. ‘I’m not from the club.’ That made the man stunned for a moment. You’re not a hostess? Or a hooker? That’s weird. Very weird. Jonggun doesn’t do relationships. So who the hell are you? The man smiled, clearly amused by your words. ‘So who might you be, sugar?’ ‘I’m his fiancé.’ Fiancé…FIANCÉ????? the man looked you up and down a few times, his hands grabbing you by the shoulder and pushing you into the wall. His face closer to yours. One hand moving from your shoulder to cup your face. ‘Don’t you think he’s boring sweetheart? I can be way more fun than hi-.’ The blonde stumbled back, holding his stomach. What the hell? He wasn’t playful anymore. His eyes narrowed at you. Did you just punch him? Taking a look at your stance already gave away who trained you. Gun. So you really weren’t kidding.

‘What is this noise?’ Both you and the man looked towards the living room to see Jonggun looking at you two with a towel wrapped around his waist. ‘You never told me you had a fiancé.’ The man said standing up straight and walking towards gun, leaving you confused behind. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Goo’ Gun replied to the blonde haired male, crossing his arms over his broad and bare chest. ‘Look at you. All cut up like a cutting board. Sad.’ An irritated look appears on Jonggun’s face. A scoff leaving his lips. Goo instead snickered at him and turned his attention towards you again, giving you a wink. ‘She’s pretty…’ he muttered towards Jonggun, his eyes never leaving yours in the process. Gun’s expression soured. ‘And she’s mine so back off’ Jonggun flicked Goo’s hand off his shoulder, earning a huff from the blonde male. The two of them started bickering in front of you with Goo’s main argument being that Jonggun always gets the best things from everyone and everything like a prince. You on the other hand avoided Goo and went back to your K-drama. Which Gun didn’t mind, but he did have to deal with a whining Goo who doesn’t get why Gun’s fiancé doesn’t like him.

#jonggun x reader #gun park #lookism x reader #lookism gun #lookism gun park #gun park x reader #jonggun park x reader #jonggun park #lookism gun park x reader #gun x reader #lookism fanfic

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gayofthefae · 3 months ago

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Will as a target and how there is only one time Henry didn't tear the town apart, that he raised no alarm bells and warranted 0 coverups. Season 1 they had to have the gas leak coverup, those hunters got attacked by bears, and Will got lost in the woods. Season 3 they had to tell everyone it was a fire. Season 4 they had to claim earthquake.

But in season 2, Vecna got him. He had him. And guess what happened to the town......nothing.

He wasn't looking for Will so he could tear apart the town like he did with Chrissy, Fred, Patrick, and Max. He was tearing the town apart looking for him. Trying to reach him.

He had him once. We saw that he had him once. And it was completely contained. There was only one other time he had him. In season 1. And he didn't destroy the town then either. And the only coverups were for disappearances, and only 1/3 of them was Will.

When he got Will he stayed in the upside down, guarding him. When having Will was threatened he ventured only to the school. When he had Will he stayed in his house. When having Will was threatened, he ventured only to defend in the junkyard and the lab.

When he didn't have Will, he took the body of another homophobic abuser's son named William born in March then additionally killed hundreds of people to form a monster out of an army...that lost. When he didn't have Will, he had to steal Eleven's powers to tear a giant gate across the entire town of Hawkins, made up of 4 gates that each took 6 days of overlapping, dedicated psychological torture, and killed many more as casualty to the opening of the gate.

When he didn't have Will, Henry killed hundreds of people. When he had Will, he killed 1-3 people.

What does this boy have that killing hundreds of people is his best attempt at replicating it and still isn't enough? What is this boy that that's true?

Henry didn't tear the town apart to tear it apart. He tore it apart looking for Will. Every time he found him, he stopped.

You can say Vecna lost when he he fell out of the window. You can say he won when he opened the gate. I would consider neither are true.

This is the moment he won. This is the moment he succeeded. "I can feel him again," he said. He can feel you too.

He kidnapped him first then let the town be. He possessed him then let the town be. He lost him then hovered over his school dance before presenting a never before heard plan to build an army, killing hundreds of people, in order to gain El's powers so his true body could come through. He lost before he could do that and Will left town so he built his strength back up to target teens to alert them before targeting Max to ensure they came back in time for him to open the gate and come through to get Will. He opened the gate. He can't yet come through. But Will is here. He won. That's how he won.

He won Will and did nothing more. He won Will and did nothing more. He lost Will and created a multi-step, multi-season plan that ripped the town apart and killed hundreds just to get him within reach of having.

What is this boy and what does he have

#will byers target #will byers #st theory #stranger things #vecna #henry creel #maybe if billy had drawn it woulda worked idk #stranger things theory #stranger things predictions #and originally this post was about how it also probably reinforced will's idea that he doesn't matter :(. no coverups for him. his attacks #only affect him and we know if he's the only victim he doesn't care

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yaespook · 1 year ago

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Run 4 - In Progress.

✧ Room Content: Dom! GN! Reader x Yan! Sub! Android! Wanderer, no gendered terms used for reader, no actual penetration, unhealthy obsessive and possessive relationship from Wanderer, memory manipulation. Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: If possible, use the InteractiveFics extension to change the phrase “My name” (without the quotation marks) to the name given to your Wanderer.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

You must have picked him up two or three weeks ago, when he was still worse for wear. In your memory, he was in pretty bad shape when the two of you first met, his main panel wrenched open leaving his circuitry a mess and rough scrapes all over his superficial layer.

Now, with your constant repairs, he’s been more lively, tailing you around the house as you go about your day. While fussing about, dusting off a muzzle laying on a fur pelt, you sense a presence lingering outside your room.

"You know, I don't recall androids being quite so clingy." In return, you get a light huff from behind the door frame.

"And you’ve come across other androids? I didn’t know you run a junkyard here,” the eye roll in his tone is audible.

His feet pad into the room and his gaze hones in on the clerical collar placed on a nearby shelf, glaring at it. Clicking his tongue, he crosses his hands on his chest.

“Whatever, what you do is mostly up to you anyway. Do you think you’re almost done cleaning? I think there’s an internal problem again, I’ll wait for you at the worktable,” the android saunters off nonchalantly, throwing you a light wave over his shoulder.

Sighing, you quickly finish up your task at hand before complying to his request, briskly making your way over to the worktable where he's already perched smugly on, his gaze expectant.

You easily go through the rehearsed motions of plugging him up to your computer, your muscle memory kicking in as you boot up the required softwares before gingerly prying the main panel located on the front of his torso to gain access to his internal workings. Over time, you've gradually figured out the parts that make up the android sitting before you, growing used to the sight of the lengths of wiring and cables running throughout his body, the faint low mechanical whirring of motors and cooling systems.

Most importantly, you now understand how sensitive his central core is. Nestled securely in a latched transparent casing, his core is what powers and sustains him. It emits a constant turquoise light and is also reflected in the glowing markings that lay beneath his synthetic skin that occasionally activate. (Although, you haven't quite gotten an answer for what makes them light up yet.)

“So what's your problem today?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from him as you go over to your computer to check if any bugs have been identified.

“I think that cable all the way at the back came undone and got tangled with the rest.”

You shoot him a pointed look, “Again? Didn’t we just fix that same cable last week?” Shifting your chair so you’re seated before him, poised to conduct your repairs, you make a passing remark, “Maybe taking you to another mechanic might be the better choice, get everything checked out, you know?”

How long have you kept at your task of finally fixing him up to tiptop condition? It’s almost daily when he reports back to you with a new disconnected wire or another loose joint somewhere on him. Diligently, you’ve been trying to repair him but the android is like a never-ending to-do list. And it’s only natural to be concerned if the constant damage stems from a more serious underlying issue that you haven’t managed to discover. The only next logical step would be to get another pair of eyes to help discern the root cause in case anything takes a turn for the worse.

But the reaction you get from him is one unexpected. His head snaps to face you, a scowl evident on his face.

“So you’re handing me off like an unfinished project to someone else now?”

You know how snippy he can get however, this is on a different level from his previous behaviour. Maybe something left over from the days before you found him. It’ll be a good idea to look into his past logs to diagnose any present problems, you make a mental note of it.

“I’m just worried for you, that’s all. What if there’s an urgent issue I can’t fix alone? And we both know I can’t leave you as is.”

His expression mellows to an annoyed pout, looking away as his core glows faintly along with the patterns under his skin, he mumbles, “I’ll be fine.” (“I just need you.”) (“I'm the only one for you.”) (“No one else deserves you.”)

He allows you to work without another complaint, silently watching as your hands venture into his chest, a focused air to you while you look for the problematic cable. He senses your touch when you make contact with it, sucking in a sharp breath as you grip it between your fingers, twisting it around to free it from the surrounding wires before you finally connect and plug it into its rightful place.

“That’s it for your cable issue. Anything else?” He quickly shakes his head.

Giving it a few light cursory pulls to make sure it’s finally secured, (if you weren’t mistaken, his core brightened in time with your tugs), you spare the rest of his parts one last look over. Then, shutting the panel, you unplug him from the computer.

Immediately, he scampers off the worktable with a clipped “thank you” and runs into his room. You hear the door to his room close before its lock clicks.

The next few days prove to be better, the repair requests for any troubles that seem to have cropped up overnight growing more and more infrequent. Perhaps, bit by bit, the end of the repairs start to come into sight.

Although, you have noted that his internal temperatures have been hiking recently whenever you have his chest panel open to patch him up.

This time, you have him lying on the worktable on his back to access the further areas in him. He’s positioned facing upwards but his eyes are darting everywhere, unable to meet your gaze. Once again, the programme open on your computer screen shows how his temperatures are quickly rising even though there are no obvious reasons for such a sudden change. It records the recurrence into its troubleshooting log like before, more times than you can remember.

He’s panting lightly, the android’s chest moving up and down as your ears pick up the sound of his inner fans whir louder, his pre-programmed functions activating to try to cool him down. With no clue as to what could cause this issue, you reach in to look for a fault. Yet, the more you poke and prod around, the higher the warmth within him rises.

Left with more questions than answers, you turn to his core for a closer look. When your fingers brush against the transparent casing, a moan slips out from him, and instantly his head whips to look at you dumbfounded.

An artificial blush takes over his face, a low pink glow blooming from beneath the synthetic layer. A beat passes before he cracks his lips apart, voicebox working as he pleads.

“...Again.”

Gently, you let your fingertips dance over the clasp hinging the casing shut and his response is instant. A shudder rolls through him, as real as it can be, and a shaky exhale leaves him. The android’s back arches up slightly, hastily chasing after your touch when you remove your hand.

Your caress returns when your hand dips deeper into his circuitry, where you hook two fingers underneath his thicker cables, attentively stroking them between your thumb and fingers, before tugging on them forcefully enough to elicit a reaction from him.

His eyes fly open at your ministrations, a greed for more overtaking his processors. You’ve always been so gentle with him when he’s opened up for you, when you have access to the deepest parts of him, when he’s at his most vulnerable. So, to have you toy around with him, show him the indulgence of human flesh, can you really fault him for falling for you?

The tips of your fingers ghost along the length of his metal spine, and the android keens from under you.

“Please, more, I can take it!”

Taking his cue, your hand encircles his spine, grinding the heel of your palm against the ridges of the sensitive metal elements as you pump up and down.

“Sss- so good! Hah…!” He can’t control how he behaves when you treat him so well, like he’s the only one worthy of your attention. He shakes under your touch, trembling as the addictive pleasure overrides his programmed commands.

“No more blubbering, just focus on me.” Your other hand goes to cup his chin, and obediently, he parts his lips for you, allowing you to slip your thumb into his mouth. You can feel his tongue work and when you press down, he jolts suddenly. A gag reflex? In an android? How amusing.

When you stop stroking him, he whines pitifully, muffled moans and begging for you to continue but his complaints stop when he feels you unlatch the lid of his core casing.

“Would you let me?” And the flurry of nods from him confirms his enthusiasm.

With bated breath, he counts the seconds before you make contact with his core. And when he senses your caress on his glowing core in his exposed chest cavity, he breathes out a gasp, as if he requires the intake of air. None of this is written into the basis of his behaviour, not fed into the dataset that makes up how he’s supposed to act, so everything he feels for you must be real.

His eyes go unfocused as his neural network is flooded with the raw pleasure of being enveloped with love and lust down to his literal core. Desire burns within him, evident from the fans whirring even louder than before to bring down his temperatures. It’s just so much for the android’s computations to handle. Broken moans leave him as he tries to vocalise his love for you (as best as he can with his thumb in your mouth).

And when you press a kiss to his unprotected core, his vision whites out.

Eyes wrenched shut, his whole mechanical body jerks upwards, back arching off the worktable as his body propels himself to sit up, his limbs trying to ensnare you in his embrace, to keep you with him as long as he can. Every command in his system is overwritten to hone in on all the sensations of you on him, your touch, your warmth.

The patterns under his skin glow with a pulse, akin to a human’s heartbeat and when his eyes open again, glimmering faux tears roll down his face. His chest heaves as you close the distance between the two of you, cupping his face with both your hands and kissing his tears away.

The android breaks the intimate silence as he quietly asks you, “Can you give me a name?”

When you whisper a name into his ear, he breaks into sobs in your hands.

The days pass by, uneventful, and the time for a final cursory check before deeming him fully repaired comes. He’s poised on the worktable like any other previous session, a bored expression on his face as you flit back and forth between him and the software on your computer.

“You really are a clingy case,” you say and get a huff in return, “But a welcome one.”

Remembering your mental note from before about accessing his past logs, you access it from your computer, pulling up the window with his stored recorded data. The log operates in the background constantly, one of the built-in functions of the android and a quick glance over just to make sure everything is in order should do.

However, the logs prove to be worrying in a completely different way.

[Log: Day 10 - Run 1 - Failed. Werewolf. They’re with that mangy mutt. I don’t know what they see in him. I still remember the care they showed me. There’s always the next run.]

[Log: Day 20 - Run 2 - Failed. It seems I’m too late this time around. That vile selkie captured them first. How irritating. I need to stop hesitating. It’s my love on the line after all.]

[Log: Day 30 - Run 3 - Failed. Incubus. That damn priest and incubus. I can feel my temper reaching its breaking point.]

[Log: Day ??? - Run 4 - In progress. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.]

Your eyes rake across a multitude of grainy snapshots of yourself, all with different people that you can’t find the ability to recall, your mind pounding from the discovery.

He’s gazing expectantly when you look back up at him from the screen. A grin twists its way across his face, canines glinting under the dizzying harsh lighting.

“So now you’ve seen how much I love you, even if you don’t remember it.” There’s a sick obsession dripping in his tone, an uncanny level of emotion that androids normally shouldn’t be able to replicate, one that sends a heavy uneasiness through your whole being, one that roots you to the ground.

When he doesn’t get the adoring reaction from you he expects, the proud expression on his face falls instantly.

He’s despondent, despairing as he tears the connecting cables off of him, launching himself off the worktable, lunging across for you, frenzied, pure scorching mania surging through him.

“You… even after all these runs. You’ve always given me the same thing. My name. I thought this time- You-”

Voice shaky, “It’s a shame this run didn’t work out either.”

He steels himself, hand outstretched, “No matter.”

You blink.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

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gladiatorcunt · 10 months ago

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- # GIVE A FLY SOME HONEY !!

all roads lead to death valley

cw: southern setting & accents, sui ideation/thoughts, protected sex (are you proud of me), dead dove ending and undertones, sort of ambiguous, virgin cowboy!anakin x virgin afab!reader, ROTS coded!anakin, r2’s a horse, the force is in place of the christian God and is referred to as such at times, star wars being a fictional franchise in a star wars au fic, weird mix of a farm and a ranch, spanking, clit slapping, biting, reader’s inner freak has some crazy thoughts, mentions of humiliation and collaring/choking, anakin murders somebody (one scene of violence), what a heat advisory and the south’s sex education does to a mf, implied plus size and neurodivergent!reader, kidnapping????????????, mention of drugs, reader has a lot of internalized shame about where they’re from

wc: 4.2k (unedited)

what if instead of star wars it was called 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 wars

consider commissioning me!

Your unlucky streak rears its ugly head yet again. June was already shaping up to be a hot month, and your junkyard car wouldn’t start. You’re used to driving long stretches of road with nothing but livestock in fields to gawk at, it comes with the territory. But you couldn’t afford gas and decided to push your luck on the way back home, nevermind that the drive would be at least 20 hours. Moving to the city had its drawbacks, the road trip to and back being one of them.

“No, no. Come on, please work. Do you need me to fucking sing to you or something?” You groan, fruitlessly twisting your key in the ignition over and over.

Nope, “Tough shit.” Your engine mocks, death coughs sputtering out one after the other.

“ ‘You havin’ trouble?” A masculine voice shouts from behind you.

You get startled by the sound and gracefully slam your head up into the roof of the car as you turn around. You must look like quite the sight, clutching your now throbbing head and stumbling out of your broken down hand-me-down car on a long open road. Once you’ve blinked enough to adjust to the harsh sunlight, your eyes land on a tall muscular figure riding a horse. The clip clop of the horse’s dirty hooves on the gravel pierce your ears but the gentle sway of the man’s fluffy hair softens the blow.

“Um…. yes, sir. I am actually. My…. my car won’t start and I’m all out of gas.” You burn with embarrassment as you get through your explanation, trying your hardest not to throw up from the sheer social anxiety.

“Well that ain’t no biggy, I think I can help with that.” The man cocks his head and hops down from the horse, a white stallion with a few faded black-gray spots here and there. “Stay here, R2.”

You’re standing there dumbly, ignoring the tiny rocks digging into your shoes and the pounding in your skull as the cowboy wanders up to you. The sun bounces off his dark hat in a way that gives him a sort of halo, and you gape like a fish when he tips it down at you in a silent greeting, reaching out to shake your hand after. The silver spurs on his boots reflect sunlight directly onto your face, so you miss his open palm the first time.

His hand is rough, you can feel numerous old scrapes and cuts when you accept the gesture. But it’s so much bigger than yours, and there’s strange heat coming from his skin that you’re hesitant to pin on the southern summer sun. Too handsome, in a way that just can’t be possible, you quickly swipe a fingertip over his ring finger during the handshake and The Force must be looking out for you because there’s no ring. Not that you’re seeking anything out, but in the town you’re from, you’re lucky if anyone makes it past 18 without having a baby and getting hitched as a result.

Anakin tinkers away at your car for over an hour, finding more problems than just a lack of gas. Eventually he determines that you’ll die in this heat before you can back on the road, so he asks you to accompany him back to his ranch and he’ll send out one of his employees to bring your car around. You try to show him that you’re listening by ‘hm’-ing and nodding every so often, but it’s hard to rip your eyes away from a very attractive man bent over and sweaty while he’s fixing your car. You definitely do not want to cry when his flannel lifts up as he wipes the sweat on his forehead away with his greasy hand, revealing the slight softness over his muscles.

Since your car was no longer an option, Anakin grins as he gestures towards his horse, “R2’s a good horse, won’t give you any trouble. He likes to make a lot of noise and has an… acquired sense of humor, but I reckon we’ll get back just fine.”

He has you practice getting off and on the horse for a good while, the next step is letting you adjust to the feeling of being on one. You’d be embarrassed that Anakin’s having to teach you how to ride but his hands curl around your waist, keeping you steady and whispering in your ear to not be so stiff. Horses can smell fear after all, it’d suck to not only have your car be broken but your bones too. It’s a scene straight out of a cheesy romance novel, the kind that’s a tiny yellowed book sold almost exclusively in run down gas stations with a cover not far off from a porno.

Your cheeks are burning the entire way to the ranch, you relax as much as you can on an animal that’s a few hundred pounds of muscle with a searing hot body pressed right up against you from behind. It doesn't take long to get to your destination though, and before you know it sprawling fields bracket a mid size homey wooden building. There are some smaller pens for the cows to stay in and you follow their movement as an employee unlatches the gate and leads them out towards the left most field.

“They gotta switch pastures every so often.” He informs you, urging his horse into an energetic trot, “And it’s a good rule of thumb to have about an acre per cow.”

You tighten your hold on the reins and try not to focus on your fear of falling off. The pace of R2 isn’t one that you struggle to match but then again this is the first time you’ve ever ridden a horse in a long time. You’ve always been too skittish to do it regularly, and when you moved you got rid of the hobby entirely. You take a deep breath and let the horse’s movements travel through you, coming to enjoy the gentle jostling as you go. Anakin keeps his hands around yours on the reigns, making sure you don’t panic and seize up. R2’s not really beginner friendly unless he likes his rider, he has a tendency to just whinny and take off when the spirit moves him.

“The Force has done me good and given me a nice house on nice land, but it don’t mean nothin’ if i’m all by my lonesome. Ever since my dad passed and my ma’ died a few years after that, the workers and the cows are all I got, plus R2 of course.”

All right, he sinks into the jargon a little too much, but the way the sun accentuates the scar on his cheek makes it a charming quirk. You want to lick his teeth when he smiles, you think, before blaming it on an oncoming heatstroke. You’re no better than a man in this moment, and if you had seen him soaking up all of the attention in a crowded room in a bar you’d have no business being in, you like to think that you could pull him. You play with the slightly waxy feel of the leather reins, allowing the sensation of coarseness in the stitching to overpower any coherent thought.

“Why’d you name your horse R2?” You ask, ducking your head as you feel him guide the animal towards the stables.

“Oh uh, I was real wild over these sci fi movies from back when I was a kid. The hero had this robot called R2-D2, and I guess it just stuck with me.” He answers you with a shrug and a mild blush, curving his fingers around yours.

Your stomach warms at the feeling, but you refrain from returning the gesture, he probably isn’t even thinking that deeply about what he’s doing. He’s not obsessing over every square inch of skin that comes into contact with his own, not like you. You’re already missing the comforting weight of Anakin’s herculean body when he’s pulling the reins to stop R2 and hopping off, clamping his big hands around your waist and helping you down. You wobble for a bit and find your footing before you can pick up on how he momentarily froze in front of you, anticipating an easy opportunity to touch you again. Force, you really are stupid, bless your heart.

You glance up at him and start to say something but then you hear rustling in the bushes, Anakin must hear it too because before you can tug on his sleeve and tell him, he’s pulling his revolver out from its holster and striding off towards the sound. You’re quick to learn that he has a bit of a one track mind, especially when it comes to indulging the serpent twisting in between his ribs like a switchblade.

“I’ll be damned…”

You’re supposed to head inside and awkwardly linger around until your car is in good enough condition to get you back to Coruscant. The only thing is, you’ve now found yourself without your new security blanket, and your curiosity agrees with how much you don’t fucking want to speak to any of the people here without Anakin to hide behind. R2 loudly chuffs at you from his stall in the stables, either saying “That’s just how he is, leave him be!” or "What are you doing? You should obviously go after him!” You choose to believe it’s the latter, so you wander off into the distance, following Anakin’s lead.

You catch up to him quicker than you thought you would, and you have half a mind to scold him like a child if you weren’t catching your breath. All you can see is his wide shoulders because he’s hunched over something, your heartbeat quickens when you spot his gun being pointed at something. You circle around him to find a man squirming on the ground like a toddler, twitching every so often. Anakin seems almost enthralled by the desperate display, so he doesn’t notice you until you gingerly place a hand on his shoulder, soft and looking to soothe. Later you won’t remember the blood on the man’s temple or the matching stain on the muzzle of Anakin’s gun, because you didn’t witness that part.

He snaps out of it, turning his head to nuzzle his nose against your knuckles, “ ‘s alright, sweetheart, just a meth head too out of his mind to watch where he’s goin’. Had a knife with him, probably lookin’ to rob somebody blind.”

Your eyes flicker between him and the man, fully aware of how common stuff like drug addicts trespassing is and the old fashioned black and red ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot On Sight’ sign. You’ve grown up around guns, you’re more used to hearing them in a hunting or taking shots at beer bottles kind of way, but it’s not like Anakin’s the only one to have that kind of self enforced rule when it comes to his property. Still… killing a human man is different than making use out of a successful deer hunt, right?

“Maybe we should call the cops, he can’t hurt nobody like that…” You try to reason, casting a pitiful glance towards the cowering man.

There’s a scratch on Anakin’s face that’s still bleeding from the knife the guy had used before Anakin took it, it just barely missed his right eye, he could’ve lost it. You’ll ask to help him with it when you get back to the ranch, but you know that there’s no seeing to it right now. You don’t want to risk an infection just so you could brush your thumb across the wound, you’re not even sure why you want to, it’s like the urge just materialized in your head out of thin fog. Anakin gently shrugs your hand off and uses his free one to pull you against his chest, and it’s like you’re back on his horse, that same fear entwined with exhilaration like barbed wire. Your hearts are beating at the same pace, some folks say that’s how you know it’s love, that’s how you know it’s fate.

“You don’t got the stuff in ya to be a killer, that’s just fine, darlin’. ‘Cause I sure do.” His words dissolve into a previously unknown to you cold sneer.

Anakin clamps a burly, sweaty hand over your eyes as he empties the entire magnum into the tresspasser’s skull. The bright sun bounces off the brim of his hat, casting a shadow over his stormy eyes. He may not have let you witness the massacre, but you will never forget the sickening yelps the poor bastard gave to Anakin like prayer. And then he got put down in a more inhumane fashion than if he were a rabid dog. To your gracious host, there’s probably not a whole lick of difference. Between a wanderin’ sap and a deranged mutt, that is.

But there’s a far off expression on his face, maybe he was once at risk of having two bullets in his temple at the hands of someone unforgiving.

“Welp.” Anakin exclaims, making a point of slapping his thigh as he holsters his pistol. “Better head on home now, I reckon. Come on, honey, don’t want to lose you to the coyotes.”

It’s said like “kai-yohtes.” You balk at his teasing and obediently trail after him, a vulnerable duckling staying in line. The storm is hitting hard by the time you’re out of the woods, and you briefly wonder if the Angels up in heaven are gonna start bowling soon. A saying that got passed around in your family, when you and the ones before you would stare up in wonder and shiver in fear at the thundering purple skies as kids. You remember being surprised that one of the Angels’ bowling balls never fell down to earth, maybe it’d be somethin’ like a meteorite.

As is the case with many things, it’s easy to lose sight of the fresh corpse in the dry grass. Once you turn around and thread your finger through Anakin’s, dirtying them, it’s almost like that man never existed. There must be something wrong with you, sure the situation is so unimaginable that it would be hard to cope with, but shouldn’t you be feeling more guilt than you do? You feel bad, of course, but ‘easy come and easy go’ has always been the way of things in these parts. God giveth and God taketh away.

You’re back where you should be, a narrow dirt path going under a wooden fence to the ranch. Grand trees line the road forming a moss green canopy. A few workers are goofing off and playing a very amateur game of football, blissfully ignorant to the fact that Anakin can obviously see them from his place next to you.

It would be a peaceful place to die, a bright and clear afternoon-evening in the way that the world can only be when you’re about to leave it. That’s how you’d want it to feel, like you’re rowing a boat across the lake you used to go fishing at to see people you’d never thought you’d see again waiting for you. Fall leaves, blinding pale sun, a serene and calming quiet. You’d be the happiest you’ve ever been, skipping even though you never could as a kid. There’d be no sadness, only relief and a memento of everything that’ll only make sense when it’s someone’s turn to see you again. No buzzing from mosquitoes or chirping from crickets, only little lightnin’ bugs. Maybe you only get that kinda ending if you’re good, in the godly sense, if you come from something worth remembering.

Anakin raises an eyebrow and gently jostles you, and just like that your train of thought is derailed. He chalks it up to shock, and nods his head towards a clearing behind the building. A change of plans. You follow, as you are wont to do.

“That rat bastard had it comin’ to ‘im, hun.” He tries to reassure and squeezes your hand, imploring you to see reason. “The Force decided it was his time, sweet thing.”

You shake your head, not disagreeing, just in utter disbelief. “I just… most everyone in my life I've known that’s died did it when I wasn't there. I’ve never had to actually be there when they… you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” And that’s all he says, regardless of the truth.

It’s what you need, somehow he just understands exactly what that is. You’re starting to think that you certainly don’t have a damn clue. You look up at him again, really drinking in every facet of his entire being that you can latch onto and obsess over. You’re remembering why you were so anxious to get out of this sinkhole, it’s a miracle you ever got out of it in the first place. His hair’s all messy, dark curls strewn about like a windswept bale of hay. A storm is brewing in his eyes, like he could Earth to rotate in the opposite direction if he wanted it to. He works his jaw around in a weird way to get rid of the soreness after grinding his teeth.

It’s tantalizing, being the hand holding a man on the edge back from wreaking his God given havoc.

You dot a quick peck on his cheek, scrunching your nose up at the barest hint of prickly stubble.

His eyes widen, and the sun itself shines brighter. The cutest light dusting of pink spreads across his face, so he one ups you by pressing your lips together. It’s exactly how a first kiss should feel, a simple gesture that leaves you breathless and with more butterflies than a flower garden swarming in your tummy. There’s no fireworks, but you can hear wind chimes and birds singing as your lips glide together, the meeting of your tongues is so natural that you won’t be able to remember when his slipped through the seam of your mouth. You want to keen as he maps out your teeth, his spit has to have some kind of aphrodisiac in it.

Anakin works your jeans open and off your legs completely, his pupils expand when he sees your thick thighs in all their glory but he keeps himself from slapping them and acting like they’re the only part of your body. There’s an ever growing to do list in both of your heads, your combined inexperience brings a flurry of perverted ideas and porn scenarios to recreate with it, and you’re sad that you’ll very likely leave with none of them being fulfilled.

He yanks the collar of your tank below your chest, immediately leaving over to bite your cute breasts with all the grace of a rattlesnake. He doesn’t try to make any marks, he just wants to bite wildly and with reckless abandon, like he’s using your tits to self soothe. You’d do the same if he let you at his pecs to be fair, his chest is practically as big as yours if not bigger.

“This means somethin’ to me, hear that? ‘m always gonna remember my first.” He spits, clutching onto your bruised tit like he’s a split second away from sinking his hand into your viscera and dumpster diving for your heart.

He pauses pawing at your tits to reach in his back pocket and pull out a condom. It’s crumpled and the packaging is worn by rubbing against the denim of Anakin’s jeans, you can tell that he’s excited to finally put it to use. You’re glad that there’s some safety measures being taken, but your heart swoops in disappointment at the dose of reality. It’s the kind of thing that calls for the most diabolical, unhinged, strings of goopy fluid hanging from his balls as they slap against your rippling ass, raw sex. You don’t let yourself pout, Anakin’s making good use of the only working brain cell between the two of you. You scoot back on his lap to give him room to pop to button on his pants and whip his dick out. It makes a heavy ‘thwop!’ as it slaps against Anakin’s abs.

Your mouth waters at the sight, so thick with the just right amount of curve, it would scratch your throat perfectly. His hands shake harder as he rips the condom’s packaging open with his teeth and rolls it on his twitching length. You take a deep breath, finding comfort in the tense muscles on Anakin’s shoulders through his warm flannel. He curls a hand around the base of his cock and grasps it tightly, positioning it right under your empty hole. You’re lucky he didn’t have to tell you what to do, because working yourself down every inch would’ve been much more painful if you already needed to be taught a lesson. It’s weirdly sweet, the chaste pecks he presses along your nose and jawline as you adjust to what feels like a tree log forcing your tender folds to stretch around it. Your slutty body tries to twist itself in a pretzel with the way you’re swiveling your hips, trying to get more of Anakin’s dick inside of you when you’ve miraculously already swallowed him to the hilt.

“I want this pretty pussy weepin’ for me, I’m awfully sorry honey but i’m not stopping till it’s gushin’ all over me.” He speaks in between wet kisses up and down the column of your throat.

“Mmm- It’s okay, I want it like that, Ani. Promise- oh my god, so big.”

You make him feel like a man trying to outrun a forest fire only to get swept up in a tornado. Like there’s a fever in his brain that’s gotten into his blood, black tar dripping into his liver. Drives a man to drink so he can have a sliver of that feeling, that scalding need not even God could give you. There’s no finesse or coordination to anything, his lips frantically scurry along random spots on your upper body. His upward thrusts are heavy hitting and wrangle your breath out in stuttered gasps, he moves as if he were riding a horse, following only the imagined scent of old blood. Anakin’s cock is so big your walls could rip if he wasn’t always keeping a sharp eye on how much he’s bullying you. He doesn’t try anything crazy like fucking your cervix, it might shock you so much that you remeber exactly how long it’s been since he’s had your car “taken to the shop”.

His spurs dig into the dirt as he slaps your ass, the material of his gloves adding an extra bit of ‘umph!’ to the resulting sting. Anakin’s jeans are so warm against your ass that it takes a few more spanks before you really get the urge to bend over his lap and tell him to just have at it until you sob. You’re on an ecstatic high, living in the present with a near stranger’s dick balls deep inside of you. His eyes gleam gold when you make eye contact, and you find it so easy to fall down the rabbit hole, letting this man burn away all your responsibilities until he’s the last one left standing in a sea of ashes.

You don’t mind that he stops talking eventually, switching to gruff grunts and harsh yells. ‘Don’t be so stiff, let the movement roll through you.’ Anakin digs his fingers into the meat of your jiggling ass and delivers a final smack to both cheeks. You sigh in relief, but then you snap out of your cockdrunk haze to yelp at the cruel hit to your swollen clit.

“Need ya to keep squeakin’ sweets.” He orders. “Don’t want the townsfolk to think I fucked your brain out your ears.”

It’d be polite to make conversation with the people you meet when Anakin parades you around with his hat on your head later, something of a pre engagement tour. If the Force is good, you’ll be willing, because rope burn isn’t something you want to become your new normal.

“Chin up, buttercup,” He says almost bashfully despite how hard he’s pounding your puffy cunt, “We can get some ice cream at the fair after if ya like, make it a cute little second date.”

You whimper and harshly pull his hair, earning you a throaty moan and another slap to your clit, saying yes to him like you’ve already done a million times. You thought that the pure social anxiety of being around so many of Anakin’s employees would be nerve wracking, it’s nothing compared to having to speak to them AND keep their boss’s cum from oozing down your leg. Anakin’s discarded belt catches your eye when a sharp thrust sends your head falling back, and you picture the scuffed up belt buckle as the O shaped ring of a more traditional collar. The black stains from working on your car only add to the appeal, it scares you exactly how much you’d let the man fucking you with a cheap gas station condom get away with. You’ve already heard him kill a man, finding yourself in a relationship is pretty much the natural next step.

When he cums deep inside with a hoarse growl, there’s the sound of a bear trap slamming shut on an unsuspecting bunny rabbit. Your simultaneous orgasm is the tiny squeal it makes before it dies.

“I forgot to ask, hun, what stuffed animal do ya want me to win for ya?”

- faetreides 2024. do not repost, translate, or put my works into ai

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lunarnightt · 12 days ago

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A little thing called love :: James Kelly x Fem! reader

Summery :: James, a reformed criminal starts working on a car of a preschool teacher who just started her job. Who would have thought that he falls in love with the girl with paint on her shoes

CW :: no smut! James is a love-sick puppy, the reader is slightly not self-aware, just pure fluff!

Author's note :: This might be a mini series plus come with a side bot! So enjoy this first bit!

Word count :: 1.6k words

James Kelly was a lot of things—ex-con, screw-up, mechanic—but at this point, he figured good person didn’t make the list.

He'd done shit he couldn’t take back. Bad shit. The kind that stuck to your bones no matter how many times you tried to scrub it off. And because of that, he didn’t think he deserved much. Not happiness. Not peace. Not people.

He clocked in six to nine at the garage, wiped grease off his hands, cracked a beer, and sat in silence until the day ended. Rinse and repeat. Same rhythm. Same quiet. Same ghosts.

James didn’t mind the solitude—not really. Talking to people felt pointless most of the time. He’d try sometimes, throw out a sentence or two, but it never stuck. Either he didn’t have the time, or he just didn’t give a damn. Maybe both. He figured if he kept to himself, he couldn't mess anything up.

His world was small. The shop. The grocery store. That was it. Any talking he did happened in between—quick, surface-level, nothing that lingered.

The day was dragging. Real slow. A couple of folks came in, needing the usual—tune-ups, busted heaters, mystery noises under the hood. He wiped the sweat from his neck, jotted down a list of what needed doing, totaled the cost.

Then he heard it.

Engine rolling up. Not loud, not fancy—just enough to catch his ear.

He glanced up and saw it—a white car, dust-covered, dent near the fender. Not much, but what caught his eye was the little drawing hanging from the rearview. Crayon colors, paper curling at the edges. Looked like a kid’s handiwork—maybe a niece, maybe her own.

The engine cut off, and the driver door opened.

She stepped out.

Simple sundress, all floral and soft, like she didn’t belong anywhere near an oil-stained garage. Her Converse were speckled in paint—messy, lived-in. She looked like spring in a junkyard.

She shoved her sunglasses up onto her head, hesitating as she stepped out. Her sneakers smacked against the pavement with each slow step, and from the way she moved—like the concrete might bite back—James could tell she was nervous as hell.

She looked like she came from a different world. Somewhere with lemonade stands and freshly cut grass. Even her dress had smudges of dried paint like she’d walked out of an art project and straight into the grease-stained lot of his reality.

"Excuse me?" she asked, voice small, unsure. She was close now, hands fidgeting at her sides, eyes flicking everywhere but his.

James didn’t move right away. Just watched her for a beat, the rag still clenched in his hand. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

"Do you know how much it would be to fix my car’s air conditioner?"

He finally stepped forward, slow, measured. “Depends on what’s wrong with it.”

She nodded, but her eyes dropped, teeth pressing into her bottom lip like she was holding something back. When she looked up again, it was like she was hoping he’d have all the answers before she even finished explaining.

“It’s not cooling at all,” she said, frowning. “It’s like… stuck on heat or something.”

James sighed through his nose, nodded once. “Pop the hood.”

You gave a small nod and turned back toward the car, your sundress swaying behind you as you moved. The click of your shoes echoed in the lot before you climbed into the driver’s seat and popped the hood.

James didn’t say anything. He just stepped forward, wiping his palms on the rag before leaning over the engine, eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on the compressor. His fingers moved with practiced ease, stained with grease and years of knowing exactly where to look.

You stood nearby, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to stare—but failing.

There was something about him.

The way that old work jumpsuit hung low on his hips, unzipped halfway to reveal a white tank soaked in sweat. The fabric clung to his chest, stretched slightly over muscle—earned, not given. His dark hair was slicked back, damp from the heat, strands sticking to his forehead. The shop’s AC had been busted for weeks, and judging by the way he moved, no one was in a rush to fix it.

Oil clung to his arms and shirt. Sweat glistened along the curve of his biceps, catching the light from the hanging fixture above like it had been placed there on purpose.

Then there were his eyes—clear, piercing blue. Not icy, not cold. Just... calm. Like the edge of the ocean where the waves met sand, soft and steady. There was a small crease between his brows as he leaned in, tongue peeking out in concentration, eyes scanning every inch of the engine.

And just when you thought that was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs, your eyes landed on the ink that traced up his arm. A tree . Black and intricate, stretching from the back of his hand all the way beneath his sleeve. Not flashy. Not loud. Just... there. Rooted deep.

You swallowed hard.

He was handsome in a way that didn’t ask for attention. Handsome in the way a storm is—quiet, but impossible to ignore.

“It’s an electrical issue,” James said, finally lifting his head from under the hood.

His voice cut through the quiet, low and rough, like he hadn’t used it much today. His eyes flicked to you, taking you in all over again, pulling you straight out of your thoughts.

You blinked, cleared your throat, and stepped forward, your arms dropping to your sides. "How much would it cost to fix it?" you asked, your voice soft—too soft for a place like this. Sweet in a way James hadn’t heard in a long time. It hit him harder than he expected.

“Over three hundred,” he said. “Maybe three-fifty.”

You winced, the sound slipping past your lips like air from a punctured tire. Your gaze shifted to the car, lips pressed into a line, clearly calculating something.

“How long would it take?” you murmured, still watching the vehicle like it might answer instead of him.

James looked at you—really looked. Part of him didn’t quite believe you were standing there. You didn’t fit in this setting. You were too bright, too warm. For a second, he wondered if the heat was playing tricks on him.

He swallowed hard, wiped his hand again out of habit, then stepped around the car, laying his palm on the hood like it would steady him.

“Could be a few hours,” he said. “Could be a few days. Depends how deep it goes.”

You nodded slowly, brushing your fingers through your hair, and for a second he swore time slowed. Just a second.

“Do I pay you now, or…?”

He shook his head quickly. “No. Just wait. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

His voice was quieter this time. Not dismissive—just cautious, like he wasn’t used to anyone offering something up front without taking something back.

You nodded, rubbing your palms against the fabric of your dress before sticking your hand out toward him, that easy smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m Y/n, by the way.”

James blinked like the words took a second to register, then gave you a small, quiet smile—just the corner of his mouth twitching. It was the most expression he'd shown all day.

He reached out, slipping his rough, calloused hand into yours.

“James,” he said. “James Kelly.”

The second your skin touched his, something shifted. It was subtle, electric—like something had snapped into place. He didn’t move for a second, hand still in yours, trying to process it.

It wasn’t just warmth. It was right.

It rattled him more than he wanted to admit. His jaw clenched slightly, like maybe he was mad at himself for liking how good it felt to hold a stranger’s hand. You had just told him your name, and already, it felt like something he shouldn’t want.

But you felt it too.

That strange, magnetic pull in the pit of your stomach. Your breath caught slightly, knees just a little too soft now. It was like your body already knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

His eyes locked with yours—intense, steady—and for a second, it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Just that gaze, the heat of his palm, and the silence stretching between you like a thread pulling tight.

You laughed quietly, glancing down to break the moment as your hands finally parted. His dropped to his hips, fingers curling against the fabric of his jumpsuit.

“It’s nice to meet you, James,” you said softly, eyes trailing over him once more before shifting back to your car.

And just like that, the moment passed. But not really. It lingered—humming underneath the surface, waiting.

Maybe once he fixed your car, that feeling would go away.

That pull in his chest. That quiet ache he’d learned to live with. The need—that hollow need—for someone to actually be in his life. Maybe he’d hand over your keys, give a polite nod, and watch you drive away, and things would go back to how they were.

Back to routine. Back to silence. Back to being the same brooding, solitary guy who only trusted engines more than people.

But deep down, James already knew better.

Because from the second your hand touched his, from the second your voice softened the air around him like sunlight slipping through cracked blinds, something changed. Something stirred.

You were like warmth in a place that hadn’t seen it in years. An eternal sunshine he never asked for—but suddenly needed.

And as he watched you move—smiling, talking, just existing like it didn’t weigh heavy—he realized something that hit harder than any job, any debt, any mistake that kept him up at night.

He wanted more of it.

More of you.

And that scared him more than anything else ever had.

Author's note :: Hello everyone! So this is my first James Kelly fic, and as you guys can see— I intend to either make this a short series or a long one. It's whatever you guys want! Also, like I mentioned, this will include a side bot, so I will let you guys vote on what bot you would like for it to be in another post! Please reblog and like to give feedback!

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #james kelly x reader #james kelly fics #james kelly fanfic #james kelly #james kelly is so fine #hayden christensen is so hot #this has me in a chokehold

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earthsparkwriting · 4 months ago

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HOW I MET YOUR SPARK

Drift (Transformer) x F! Reader (Human)

Word Count: 6.3K (yayy)

Warnings: +18!, SMUT, kinda rough sex, kind of 'friends with benefits', Drift has late ejaculation problems, lots of teasing, kinda edgy Drift, dirty talk, vaginal sex, awkward Drift, fluff, sweet

Author's Note: English isn't my first language.

You and Drift were something else.

He used to be hostile and aggressive against people, but after spending so much time with them, his attitude altered. You all spent your time in the junkyard until Optimus Prime returned. He had disappeared to find his creators, which was a big if. You and Drift spent a lot of time together, resulting in connecting with one another.

Before leaving Earth, Optimus Prime ordered Drift to keep watch over you; thus, he had to follow his "sensei''s" instructions regardless of his personal feelings for you. He didn't take the order well. When Optimus gave him instructions about protecting you, you could still see the look of frustration on his face. You had, after all, repeatedly 'betrayed your own people' to rescue Optimus and helped them.

But your friendship with him was a little unusual. Despite your best efforts to cause trouble and irritate him, you gradually changed your attitude and became more playful around him, genuinely lighthearted.

You can still clearly recall the first time you teased him. When you asked Drift, “Why do you sit like that all the time, Drift?,” he seemed taken aback. “Manspreading before me like that all the time? I could assume that you want me to climb up on you and bounce.”

He stopped humming about how humans were the most awful creatures in the galaxy that he had seen eventually. You nearly chuckled when you almost mocked him because he was so easily distracted. Drift stated you needed to learn how to behave appropriately around a samurai mech because you were disrespectful to him, but based on how tense he has been acting lately—as if he was ready to take action— but you chose to continue your attitude, get under his metal.

You didn't know at the time if his kind had... However, you learned about it. Two weeks prior. You teased him that day about riding him and what his fluid was like if he had something between his legs so much that he finally showed you his thing, leaving you in awe.

After revealing his ‘spike’ and opening the panel between his legs, he remarked, almost angrily, “See?” Under the stars, you were far apart from the others, thankfully. You had to sit on top of a rusty car to be in optical level with Drift.

He had stepped back to show his spike to you. Even though he was a bit bashful at first, he appeared quite pleased and confident when you looked at him speechless and he realized you were captivated by his thickness and length. His spike was average, but he was absolutely thick.

Then you pressed your legs together and said, “I didn't know you were hiding such a huge thing between your legs.” You bit your lip recalling how many times you told him that you could ride him if he was being tense and how it would stop him from acting like a jerk.

“Now you know,” said Drift, examining your face intently.

You glanced at his spike and said, “Is it hard or soft?” without wanting him to think you were now being shy and that he had won the little fight. His optics became a little off-balance, clearly stunned by your filthy remarks, just as you were ready to laugh out loud.

“No!”

“What?” You looked at him like a puppy and said, “Drift, I don't understand.”

You could touch him if his face was near enough, but instead you placed your hands on each side of the car you were sitting on and waited for a response while he replaced his spike inside his panel. You let out a sigh. It looked aesthetically pleasing, nice.

“Not...hard,” he said, his optics narrowing. He pondered for a while before a little, cunning smile appeared on his lips. “There's no reason for my spike to get hard.”

You smiled at him again and replied, “Oh, that's a pity.”

Your clit throbbed with excitement as you teased such an enormous and grumpy mech, but you weren't sure whether he was telling you that his spike wasn't getting hard at all was true. His size and terrible appearance were enough to incite wicked thoughts.

Drift stared between your legs, and to your surprise, he became courageous and keen. “Show me your valve.”

“What?”

He responded, “I showed you my spike; now you show me your valve,” as though he could start something at any moment. You would kick him in the balls if he were a human being. But Drift, a mech, was the most grumpy person ever, wanted to see your privates, and his curiosity and lust made your pussy scream with ecstasy.

You shifted slightly. Fortunately, you were wearing a skirt because it's rather hot outside right now. “You want to see my kitty?”

With confusion, he questioned, “What kitty? Your valve. Now.”

“Okay, rusty mech.” You muttered, “Since you're so curious…” gently raising your skirt to try his patience to the limit. He had sharply concentrated his optics between your legs. You couldn't tell if he was interested in your biology or if he was aroused. You changed your plan in order to accurately gauge his reaction before lowering your panties to give him a good show. After spreading your legs and leaning back a bit on the car you were sitting on, you simply used one finger to slip your underwear aside, revealing your pussy to him.

As his optics neared and took a closer look at you, your heart was racing. The tension in the air was so profound that, in spite of your boldness, you were on the verge of breaking. You prayed that no one would interrupt your brief interaction.

You opened your mouth to inquire about his thoughts. You wouldn't be surprised if he didn't like you, given your tiny size. The brief show came to an end when you finally let go of your underwear. You gasped in astonishment as Drift's hefty hand gently touched your underwear without hesitation before he pushed it aside once more before you could react or say anything.

“Is that your valve?” God knows why, Drift asked, half puzzled. He was skilled at posing strange questions at strange times. To avoid ruining the mood, you restrained yourself from giggling.

You wanted to be the cause of that massive mech's spike hardening, but you wouldn't say it out loud. You hoped that he would like you.

“Yes.” When you felt the chill of his metal finger over your inner thighs, your legs jerked with anticipation. He was holding your small underwear tenderly, even though his metal hand was gigantic.

“This is too small,” Drift remarked indifferently. He sounded disappointed and annoyed at the same time.

“Who are you? A valve expert?”

His optics caught you in the act of uttering an impolite remark. With a sudden “You wanna try banging?” he touched your clit

That was how you met his spike two weeks ago. When Drift made such a straightforward suggestion despite your size, you assumed he was only attempting to make you feel timid, as if he could, but he was quite serious. You had no idea that he was capable of shrinking. That was new.

You grinned to yourself as you recalled how uncomfortable you two were, trying not to make noise while Drift was determined to get all of his spike into your pussy like he was battling an enemy. When his spike's crown reached your clit, he was cautious. Since he was still much larger than you, you had whined a lot to try his patience, but he was considerate and did his best not to hurt you. He regained his sour attitude and concentrated just on fucking you after realizing that you were only being a tease. You skipped asking about it that night, even though you were a bit afraid he would get you pregnant or something judging by how much he came.

There was also something else about him.

He was experiencing some difficulties with ejaculation. Actually, a late ejaculation problem.

It took a long time to get him inside of you, which was a little issue even if his spike was quite hard as he fucked you senselessly. Whenever he transformed into his alt mode, you noticed it took him a lot longer than the others, but you were unaware that it was also connected to his ejaculation issue.

Although he was a difficult mech to satisfy, you became more and more desperate and wet for him the more he struggled finishing inside you. You couldn't tell if you were more wet because of the way he moved within you or because he became frustrated when you encouraged him to come already. Most probably second.

Now you took another look at his optics. Finally, he was back. He and Crosshairs were so busy looking everywhere for a sign from the Decepticons that after that night, you couldn't spend any time together. The sight of Drift caused your clit to physically throb, as if it could sense his presence.

As everyone else shouted erratically and Crosshair urged Bee to start a fight with him, you gave Drift a tender smile. God. You felt pathetic.

Before you got accustomed to Drift's strange personality, you found him kind of goofy for swinging his mega swords like a true samurai. You actually liked him a lot. Really. You've been thinking about him all the time for the previous few weeks, and it was crazy. You hoped he shared the same feelings.

He might want to have sex again, you thought. None of you have brought it up since that night, though. No one knew what Drift and you had done. All right. It seemed strange that you two were acting like teenagers committing crimes.

Since it was now late at night, your heart was pounding with desire.

Drift stood in front of you and gave you a very odd look as you hesitated, “Hey,” clearing your throat.

You sighed when he abruptly transformed without saying a word, which took at least 5 seconds once more. However, when he opened the door and invited you in, you were unable to contain your bright smiles.

Drift only stated, “Come here,” in a firm voice.

Drift didn't care about Hound at the moment when he kind of shouted at him and inquired where the two of you were heading at that hour. He'd had enough of everything.

You confidently stated, “Seems like someone missed me,” wrapping your hands over the steering wheel to establish the physical contact you had been longing for for the past two weeks.

He tightened the belt over your chest as though to say, ‘Me too.’ You were on the verge of bursting with delight and bliss. You were tempted to bite his wheel till it blew up.

You sighed as you rested your head back on the seat and kept your fingers rubbing the Autobot emblem in the center of the steering wheel while he drove. When it came to selecting the ideal alt mode, he had a certain taste. You groaned half-heartedly, “Don't you ever think about changing that alt mode of yours. You're definitely the best.”

Drift paused, with a spark of pride overwhelming him.

“I could transform into any car you would want, just saying.” He wanted you to know that that wasn't the only model that he had the ability to transform into. Drift liked the way you praised his alt mode. It was a pleasant surprise that you enjoyed it so much, even if it wasn't quite as wonderful as his Cybertronian form.

You smiled at how proud he sounded. You were aware that Autobots become a touch egotistical while discussing their alt modes and functions. Bee was perhaps the most narcissistic of them all; when he was informed "he didn't look good," he became a bit too fierce. Even if they weren't as invested as he was, they were still proud. Drift also enjoyed showing off.

As he sped up, you glanced at the dark road and said, “So, where are you taking me?”

“To Cybertron.” That must be his sense of humor, you assumed.

“Sounds perfect.”

You remained motionless for a moment, perplexed as to why you had driven so far when Drift came to a very quiet halt. Considering the speed at which he drove, it must have been at least thirty minutes. You questioned, puzzled, “Where are we?” and before you could ask another question, Drift began to transform while you were still inside of him

“Uh!” you said, your hands seeking something to grasp as all of his metal moved around you, sending shivers down your spine with a mixture of delight and mild panic. Fortunately, Drift was attentive. You pondered if he found this enjoyable.

You put your palm on your chest and said, “You're going to give me a heart attack one day,” after he eventually transformed. Now you were near his helm, between his enormous, metal palm. In the moonlight, his blue optics glowed wonderfully.

“You're effortlessly excited.” With his palm close against his face, Drift added, “And we haven't done anything yet.” You gripped one of his fingers, afraid of falling.

When he amplified the word ‘yet’ you could already feel naive butterflies in your stomach. You were completely prepared for another... intimacy with him after two weeks of being apart and hardly speaking to one another due to your hectic schedules and rather stressful situation. Since you were both primarily concerned with understanding one another's bodily boundaries and swiftly trying to reach your own pleasure, your first one was a touch hurried and nervous.

The first one wasn't really enough because of your fragility and the fact that his fluid, sharp metal parts and other things occasionally made the fun seem less than pleasurable.

“You're telling me you brought me here to… bang?” you asked directly.

Slowly, Drift's confident smile faded. In spite of his worries, you two really match one another well in terms of enjoying each other's bodies and everything else. Perhaps he should have asked the right questions beforehand, but he had assumed you'd want it too because it's been... some time. The interface had been very appealing to Drift. He was actually unable to quit thinking about it recently.

But he didn't want to offend you. “I should have asked first,” Drift eventually admitted. When it came to the interface, he had no idea how to proceed with things on Earth.

You abruptly stopped when you realized Drift had misunderstood you. “I did not say that I didn't want it. I mean, I really would want that. Our... It was very nice.” It burned your cheeks more the more you attempted to explain yourself. The fact that Drift basically confessed he brought you here to have some fun made it a bizarre situation.

“Yeah?” His deep blue cyber optics looked lovely in the moonlight, and they blinked with surprise, nearly making you moan in despair. You wanted to bite the cords around his neck because of the way they were always moving and the melodic sound they made.

You nodded quickly and continued to hold onto his metal finger. You may estimate if it was a sigh of relief based on the brief rise of the chest plate.

“Good.”

You were staring at the house trailer in front of you after Drift turned around and knelt down. You stepped out from his hand and gave him a confused look. “What's that?”

“Found it.” You stared as though you were unsure whether he had stolen it because it didn't appear to be rusty at all. Your heart immediately melted realizing Drift brought you here to spend time together, even if it was just for fucking. Unlike him, you were easy to impress. As your palm brushed the surface of the house trailer, you smiled to yourself at how much his persona changed and began acting at least a bit more gently.

You didn't look back, but you could hear him slowly shrinking behind you. You walked inside instead. Drift was just behind you. Although it wasn't extremely large, Drift could fit inside. He might get smaller, but his height was still a little large.

“I thought we could spend nice time here.” Drift said. He closed the door. In the corner stood a bed large enough for both of you. Although you were unsure how exactly, you were now very certain that Drift had stolen this. God knows where and from whom exactly. But you didn't want to say anything about it since his bushido pride may splinter at any time.

“All right.” You solely whispered. As he stood in front of you, his optics fixated, unsure of how to initiate, you could tell he was feeling a bit nervous. You enjoyed watching him go through this pain. He looked adorable when he suffered like that.

Drift continued to stare at you, confused as to whether he had said something improper or excessively straightforward. Primus... Human females were a serious and complex problem. He wasn't built for this. Every metal and spark in his body was telling him to act and take what he already needed. But he had the impression that things were not going as he had planned. It was also frustrating because you were difficult to read at the moment.

Drift's digits formed a fist.

“Let's go back,” he stated abruptly.

You reached for his chest plate and moaned, “And why on earth would we do that?” Even though you loved seeing him like this much, your clit was creaming there while he was in such pain. “Plus, it seems like you put so much effort into this.”

Considering that he was still somewhat taller than you, you raised your head and gazed innocently at his optics. However, Drift's careful optics caught you.

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?” When his servo finally contacted your chin, he nearly groaned. Your entire body trembled instantly.

“I don't even know what you are talking about, Sensei.”

A cunning smirk appeared on his lips as soon as he heard the term. His nerves were being touched by your playful demeanor, and his spike was pulsing with thrill. Drift made you lie on the bed after softly pushing you back to it. You felt your heart racing. “I think you know pretty well.”

“Yeah? Sensei, perhaps I need a lesson.” When he got on top of you, you kept teasing him. You wondered if he was comfortable with a little foreplay at that point or if he simply wanted to sink his spike as soon as possible.

During your first one, you hadn't even shared a proper kiss. A brief moment occurred when he touched your lips, but it ended there. Like you, Drift was more focused on getting what he wanted at the moment. However, one of the reasons was the worrying about other Autobots could interrupting you at any time.

Now it was just you and him, though.

As you began to undress, Drift was observing you with wonder. To get rid of your jeans and everything else more quickly, you pushed him a little back, but he didn't move you at all. He was just examining every single bit of your physique. You felt as though you had never been with him before. There was no need to hurry, and there was more light to look at each other. You could spend as much time studying each other's figures as you like.

This time, you felt a bit awkward as you finally removed everything, including your underwear, but you hoped Drift wouldn't notice your expression. The spike from his panel was the only thing he had to remove. Still, it was unusual, but in a cute manner.

As if to remind you of the disparity in power imbalance, he placed one of his servos on your chest, causing you to tremble and feel the cold metal against your tender flesh. “You feel soft. Very nice. I like it a lot.”

“Uhm, thanks,” you said, smiling shyly at him.

You shifted beneath him and attempted to settle onto the bed as his servos cautiously and slowly stroked your flesh. Your body was swiftly stilled by Drift as though you were disrupting him.

You really wanted to kiss him. Badly.

“May I touch you there?” you asked instead.

That caught him off guard. “Yes!”

Drift tried to sound cool, but he couldn't help but come off as a bit eager. After all, he had been preparing for this for a while, and now he could finally give his spike the treatment that it had been begging for for weeks.

He moved slightly on top of you and exposed his aching spike by opening his panel. On its round crown, prefluid was already visible. Weeks ago, you were unable to view him up close, but you know you take a better look at him now. Regardless of how you had previously taken him, you were unaware of his size.

You felt the silver prefluid on your fingers just when you put your hand around its head. Drift widened your legs and pushed you farther on the bed as a result of your daring behavior. You noticed that at the moment, he wasn't really fond of foreplaying.

As you gazed in wonder at his silver spike, you said, “You look bigger than I remember.”

Drift's denta was on your neck with a quiet snarl when his servos brushed your chin. You moaned with ecstasy as your fingers tightened around his spike in response to his abrupt motion. Because of how sharp his teeth were, you both knew he could potentially harm you, yet you trusted Drift with your life and wanted to make it perfect for him, making him suffer in a sweet way and fall deeply like you.

Drift's sucking ceased as your hand began to pump his spike, and he growled as he withdrew, peering expectantly between your legs.

“Are you wet?” he said, eagerly, gently moving your hand away from his spike and taking himself between his metal fingers.

“I don't know. You wanna check?” you teased him once more.

Drift grinned and, without hesitation, gingerly pressed one of his fingers against your entrance. Both of you groaned at the unexpected touch. You bit your lip as you gazed at his intense optics with a mixture of pleasure and anxiety. His digits were sharp, unlike his spike, and he couldn't possibly finger you. Even if you were soaking, it would still cause harm to your internal organs. Maybe he could do some modifications on himself later on.

This time, you moaned in agony as Drift pressed his sharp digit a little too much. “Drift, wait, wait!”

Drift instantly stopped with a worried expression on his face and removed his finger from your insides. With a pang of guilt, he said, “Primus... I didn't mean to.”

You quickly said, “It's alright,” so as not to ruin the moment. “I guess your spike can do a better job than your digits, huh?” You added to lighten up the situation.

Instead of using words, Drift's lips moved toward your sparkling face before he genuinely placed them on yours. At first, the kiss caused your lips to curl, but then you wrapped your hands around his neck and caressed the strong wires there. It was strange, but pleasant, to feel cords and metal beneath your fingertips rather than soft skin. When your kiss became intense, you pushed your tongue between his lips and wrapped your legs around his thighs, not fearing injury, because the metallic flavor of his lips was just making you want more of him.

Drift was struggling to keep from losing himself when he saw how hungry you were underneath him, so he wanted to push his spike into your valve quickly. But you didn't need to hurry.

Every functional part of his body was heating up due to the softness of your tongue, but Drift knew he needed to use his denta very carefully, so even though he wanted to bite you hard, he let you take the lead and use your tongue however you pleased while his servos touched you and trailed around your body.

You didn't object even though he was applying a bit too much pressure with his fingers on your thigh and ass. It felt nice to be a bit bruised. In fact, you wished Drift would somewhat lose himself for you.

He retreated a little and eventually took himself in hand as you lifted your hips to meet his spike. When he moved on you and positioned himself between your legs properly, your heart was thumping hard in your chest. Drift gave himself a few more pumps before beginning to shove his spike in your entrance, which caused you to groan in pain once again because he was eager and had forgotten how little you were in comparison.

“Frag! Sorry!” He stopped right away and looked at you with an expression of panic.

“Just... take it slow. I guess you're still a big mech.” As you spoke, you continued to lift your hips to express your desire for him to enter.

Drift nodded to you, and when he pressed his spike again, this time extremely gently, his optics took a careful look at your face. You were only able to take its head two weeks before, but now you felt prepared to take him farther.

Drift grunted in response to your little whimpers before pushing forward. Because of his unusual thickness, you groaned out when he inserted his spike a little farther, this time yanking one of the wires on his neck brutally with delight. He nearly opened his spark chamber dangerously as a result of your abrupt action, but he controlled himself. His entire body was moving erratically, which made the procedure more enjoyable and somewhat challenging for him. When you were tugging the most delicate cables on his neck without understanding what it was doing to him, it was difficult to get him to calm down.

When you whimpered again, he paused and said, “You okay?” You were relieved that he was taking his time and allowing you to adjust his size.

“Yes, I am.” With your fingers clenched on the cables around his neck, you moaned. “Just give me a moment.” Your leg was a little sore from the plates and wheels, but you didn't voice any complaints. That was normal. “I feel so full.”

Drift made a noise. You couldn't tell if it was a deep chuckle or something like a sigh. “Not even halfway.”

Of course.

The way you were squeezing his spike with your tight walls wasn't helping him at all, but Drift was allowing you enough time to adjust his size properly. All he wanted to do was speed things up and begin aggressively pounding you.

He asked abruptly, “Are you comfortable on this berth?”

Drift knew he should have taken action because of how uncomfortable you felt during your very first interface and how much you shivered after it. He didn't want you to think poorly of him or feel that you were being used. He was an honorable Autobot. He cared about you.

You nodded quickly to him. “Yeah, it's very comfy.”

Under its chamber, Drift's spark was about to burst. He grumbled, unable to contain his mixed feelings any longer, “Can I frag you now?” If he didn't move quickly, the way your walls were tensing up around his spike was going to drive him insane.

You mumbled as you drew his helm nearer to your face. “Yes, Drift. Fuck me. Please.”

Drift drew back his spike and thrust in ruthlessly before you could complete the sentence, making you bite your lip. He put his servos pressed on the sheets on each side of your head. You were unsure of which of you was groaning more loudly. There were simply too many repressed feelings and desires since you had to remain silent the first time.

“Your valve is so tight, so good!” Drift nearly let out a moan and quickened his movements. The sounds of his moans and obscene slaps on your flesh filled the trailer.

You had only just begun, yet you were already getting closer. He had exceptional strength and weight, though you lifted your hips to keep up with him.

As his helm approached your face, he swallowed your moans for a moment, and he planted a quick but strong kiss on your lips in between his brutal thrusts. Knowing that his neck was extremely sensitive, you tugged the precise cable he liked being touched with harshness. For a brief while, it caused Drift's optics to become unbalanced, and he positioned one of his servos beneath your ass, raising your hips and banging you with greater force.

He let out a nearly indignant moan. “You like teasing me, don't you?”

“I like it so much,” you said. “I like being the reason your spike gets hard.”

Drift's denta followed your neck after you admitted, biting you very gently as though to warn you. “Do you like me fragging you like this?”

You would have giggled if he hadn't been fucking you senselessly and losing control, but Drift's little bites and glossa on your neck were driving you insane. “Yes! Drift, just fuck me more! Harder, please!”

Drift slowed down a little after hearing your request, but he started fucking you more firmly and pushed his spike a bit further even though you were already feeling full. You needed to make him lose control for you, show him how much you liked and craved him. The way he began moaning that sounded almost painful was intense and overwhelming.

You moaned into his audials, “You're so, so good, Drift,” as your hands touched the sharp swords on his back before moving on to every metal object within reach.

Drift gave you quick, hard kisses in return for your praises. Your warm reactions were directly igniting his passion. He was making every effort to keep his systems from overheating and cooling down as he was constantly hammering you, or else he would shut down before filling you. Your back arched as your walls began to spasm violently around his spike. Drift also felt it. Despite how hard his spike was, he didn't feel like overloading anytime soon, even if he wanted you to overload with him.

“Look at me when you overload around my spike,” Seeing that your eyes were going to close as your climax approached, Drift gave you rigid instructions. Your legs were shaking with delight as you wrapped them around his thighs. “Overload. Now!”

Now, his spike was reaching the deepest regions in your pussy and striking your most delicate points. Your body obeyed Drift's commands as soon as he urged you to come, and you let out a loud moan when you reached your pleasure. Your spine was shivered by the powerful orgasm. For a moment, your eyes went unbalanced as you fell apart around Drift's spike so strongly that it caused his optics to become stuck. He proceeded to fuck you senselessly without pausing to consider how oversensitive you were as you kept riding your orgasm.

He appeared to be struggling to overload again, even though you really needed him to get within you. Drift was furiously fucking you, and although you knew his spike was really hard, he couldn't finish. He groaned in frustration. His pride as an Autobot was vulnerable.

He appeared to be in need of your assistance.

“Come on, Drift,” you murmured, drawing his helm closer with touching the most delicate wires on his neck. “What do you need me to do?”

He pressed those cables on your mouth without responding. Your nipples shivered as his chest plates were now on your body. You parted your lips and licked the cable that was firmly pressed on your mouth without teasing him. Then you started sucking him there. At first, the taste of the metal seemed peculiar, but you were too aroused to think. Actually, it tasted quite well.

Drift groaned deeply and almost angrily as he felt your teeth on his wires. Being unable to contain himself any longer, he withdrew. He sensed that he was losing control of his body. His spark chamber began to open when his optics came into contact with your lovely eyes.

Frag, frag, frag! She's no cybertronian, he reminded himself.

Close, close!

Despite his best efforts, his chest started to ache from the battle, and ultimately his spark chamber was exposed. All set to mate. His body was begging him to take a conjunx, but he was aware that you needed a spark in order to complete the procedure. Frag. He needed to simply overload and calm down.

When Drift's chest abruptly opened up, revealing his rounded, large, blue, musical, and magical spark on top of you, your eyes widened in awe. You gasped as you gazed at it in wonder. You were totally captivated. You whispered, “Oh my god,” as he pounded you.

He almost told you to open your spark chamber as well, but he avoided doing so. She isn't a Cybertronian.

Your head was up on the bed when you understood that opening his spark chamber on top of you brought him closer to overloading. Without hesitation, you gave his chamber a solid and sincere kiss. You couldn't resist drawing your body closer to it and stroking it as much as you could since it looked so lovely and enchanted with the little tune inside.

Drift felt your warm, soft lips around his spark, but you had no clue what you were doing. He then drove his throbbing spike into you one final time before filling your insides with his thick fluid and grunting loudly. As Drift pumped his fluid into your valve, his optics and your eyes were locked, and his spike began to vibrate violently. Even if it wasn't the most suitable procedure, he felt as though he had taken you there as his conjunx. But it was sufficient for a half-ceremony the way you kissed him, reached for his spark, and caused his spark chamber to open. Better than nothing.

Drift felt at ease, and it was more than fragging and overloading.

You gave him a little smile, pleased that he had finally filled you properly, continuing to stroke his chamber. His fluid was thick and intense. It was simply too much.

Carefully removing his spike, he gave you a gentle kiss without falling over you. Your mixed fluid ruined the bed.

You asked him, “You okay?” when he stopped kissing you. It's obvious that he had been trying to calm down.

He gave a little chuckle. “I should have been asking you that.”

“I'm more than okay.” You glanced at his spark, which was still observable, and murmured, “That was... incredible.” You were taken aback that he left it wide open. “Never have I witnessed a spark so close to me. This is beautiful in every way.” The little noises within could be heard incessantly. It seemed like a reaction to anything you said.

Once again, Drift's spark reacted to your compliment. It was forcing him to make you overload around his spike until you went offline. He would already if you were a Cybertronian, in fact.

“It's my soul,” he remarked solemnly. After spending so much time on Earth, Drift came to understand that it referred to the soul.

When you answered, “Yeah, I wish I could show you mine too,” your tone was almost regretful. Having such a charming soul to exhibit seemed incredible. You weren't hurt by being different, but... You wanted to show him something beautiful like this as well.

Drift's servo was put on your naked chest after his optics detected the sense of sorrow in your words. His fingers stopped where your heart is. “That sounds very lovely,” Drift finally murmured. His use of the word "lovely" warmed your heart. “It pumps more quickly when I'm around you. It indicates that your Spark is also responsive. You see? Not much of a difference.”

“Where did you get the ability to speak such lovely things?” You whispered, your cheeks flushed, “You're going to melt me here, sensei.” Drift was correct; his words had a greater effect on your heart the more he spoke.

You were momentarily shy when Drift winked at you and inserted his spike into his panel. Then he shifted your bodies. Now you were both lying on the bed and staring at one another. You were being held closer to his still-open spark chamber by his servos. As though he wanted confirmation that he did well, he inquired, “It's better to do it on a berth, right?”

You nodded quickly to him. “Absolutely. I loved it. That's bad if you borrowed it for just tonight,” you responded, unsure whether it would be your last time.

“It's ours now. There's a TV, too, you know. I had the idea that we could watch movies together.” Drift blinked his optics and added, “That junkyard... is too crowded, noisy with baby transformers and all.” He was a little anxious and uneasy, but he wanted you to understand that he wasn't just bringing you here to fragging. He believed it would be fun to watch movies with you because he had watched some fantastic samurai films. It seemed like an enjoyable task. Especially with you.

If he was trying to kill you, he was going to succeed. It hurt how much joy your heart was pounding with. You pondered whether that implied a romantic relationship or something. Cybertron customs were unknown to you. You have to ask Hound, Bee, or Crosshairs about it and find out quickly.

“Of course. That would be fantastic,” you said with a shy smile, making an effort to look cool.

Your chest and his spark chamber were now so near that the sound of your heartbeat and the song emanating from his spark were mingling as Drift's servos around your hips drew you nearer. You believed that you may melt at any time due to the intensity of his deep, blue optics. He was breathtaking. How did he see you, you wondered. You wanted to tell him you liked him a lot.

“You look very beautiful. I like you,” he stated suddenly.

You didn't answer. Instead, you grabbed his helm, and, with a single motion, you were on top of him, kissing him frantically.

*BONUS - CROSSHAIRS

For at least fifteen minutes, Crosshairs was attempting to reach out to Drift. He wondered what that sword-dumb brain had been up to when Hound informed him that you and Drift had departed. An Autobot was not supposed to be out on his own. Optimus had, after all, been gone. Only Primus knows when he will return. But you had to take care of each other till then. Crosshairs kept on driving.

He eventually heard voices as he tried to communicate. Then he halted; his audials were filled with Drift's deep grunts and pitiful, nasty, and meaningless groans. That pathetic idiot may have briefly gone online without noticing, but Crosshairs had already heard.

He was on the verge of throwing up all the liquids in his body.

That fucking moron, worthless imbecile... Crosshairs clutched his denta violently. You were being frgged by him. He had doubts about you two, but now he was very certain. On all the primes, Crosshairs vowed to find a female human for himself as well. He was more powerful, handsome, and better in every way. Even that fragbrained idiot found someone to mate with, have fun while Crosshairs had to do all job. Corsshairs kept driving while thinking about how to find a female human for himself.

Author's Note: Let me know what you think please. Comments and reblogs are appreciated!!!! ^^ :****

#drift transformers #drift x reader #transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers bayverse #transformers #robot x human #transformers x y/n #optimus x reader #megatron x reader #crosshairs

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megxplryxb · 8 months ago

Text

Dance with me Forever

Pairings - Steve Harrington x Fem!HopperReader

Warnings: None. Absolute fluff, Idiots in love, Mutual Pining, Friends to lovers, Jopper Wedding

The hot summer sun had finally set on a beautiful Saturday evening in the middle of July. The sound of champagne glasses clinking echoed throughout the romantic lake house ballroom, lit up in pinks and purples as guests celebrated the marriage of Jim Hopper and Joyce Byers. The couple had finally decided to tie the knot and unite their families once Vecna had been defeated, ending the nightmare of the Upside Down once and for all. It had been a long four years, continuously battling monsters from another dimension, always wondering when evil would rear it’s ugly head again but this time felt different, like there was finally peace in the mystical little town of Hawkins, Indiana.

The last few years had changed no one more than Steve Harrington. Long gone was the arrogant, rich boy you’d known in High School, having been cut off by his parents and left heartbroken by Nancy Wheeler, he had become somewhat of an outcast. Never in a million years did he imagine his life turning out quite like it had. Steve always thought he’d end up like his Father, marrying some girl for convenience instead of love, being nothing more than a suit for some company and have a mistress in every city he traveled to. Steve was more than grateful he hadn’t gone down the same path and he knew he had you, Robin and the kids to thank for that.

He was sat at a table with Robin, Vickie, Eddie, Chrissy and Nancy, all of whom were engrossed in conversation about how sweet Hopper’s speech had been and how emotional it was when the Chief of Police shed a few tears while gushing about his new Wife, your new Stepmom. Steve couldn’t exactly say he had heard much of Jim’s speech himself, too busy gazing at you sitting at the top table with your family, holding back your own tears, laughing with your siblings, El, Will and Jonathan. He hadn’t seen you all day as you were too busy doing bridesmaid duties, making sure everything was perfect for the ceremony but when you walked down the aisle, holding your bouquet of flowers, smelling like lavender, he swore his heart stopped when you looked his way and smiled at him. You were breathtaking, literally and figuratively, the girl of his dreams. Eddie had teased his friend for how red his cheeks had gotten, knowing that the former King of Hawkins was head over heels for you and that you felt the same about Steve. Chrissy had intervened, telling her boyfriend to lay off with the teasing but she too secretly wondered why Steve didn’t just tell you how he felt. It was obvious to everyone that you loved each other.

It’s not that Steve didn’t want to tell you, he’d almost told you twice before on the brink of death. The first time being when you were stuck in the Russian base under the Starcourt mall, the second time being when you were all preparing to battle Vecna for the final time. But he’d made a promise to your Dad two years prior, after that night in the Junkyard when you first became friends that friendship was all it was ever going to be between you. Steve didn’t blame Hopper for wanting better for his daughter, didn’t blame Jim for thinking he was exactly like his Dad back then. But he wished the Chief of Hawkins could see him for who he was now and not the asshole he was four years ago.

After dinner was done and all the pictures had been taken, you took yourself out to the garden with a glass of champagne in hand, glancing at Steve before you made your escape outside. He looked so handsome in his tux, the tux you’d helped him pick out several weeks ago when he asked you to go shopping with him. You hadn’t spoken to him all day, having been avoiding him like the plague for the better part of a week when he mentioned that he was planning to bring a date to the wedding. You had tried your best to not let it bother you, the thought of Steve with some pretty girl on his arm while you were all alone and you’d be lying if you said you weren't just a tiny bit relieved when he'd shown up all by himself.

You knew your Father had spoken to Steve about you, warned him against asking you out on several occasions and even though you were angry that Steve obeyed him, it kind of made you love him even more, because the Steve you'd known in High School wouldn't have been so respectful. Sometimes though, late at night when you couldn’t sleep, you wished he’d climb through your bedroom window so you both could give in to your feelings just one time.

As Joyce danced with her new Husband, she couldn't help but frown at Steve who was standing talking to Murray at the bar. He'd left his table to get another drink after the meal, not wanting to be surrounded by all the happy couples while he not so secretly pinned for you. Joyce had always liked Steve, saw the goodness in him that her Husband couldn't and she knew how the both of you felt about each other.

"Hop, are you ever going to give that poor kid a break?" She asks as Hopper let out a heavy sigh, knowing exactly who she was referring to.

"Joyce, please not tonight, it's our wedding for Christ sake." He begs as his new wife nodded in agreement. It wasn't the first time they'd discussed this matter.

"Exactly! It's a day full of love and happiness and your daughter is out there miserable and alone because she's terrified to talk to the boy she's crazy about in case she upsets you!" She huffs, frustrated at the Chief's stubbornness.

"Oh come on, I'm not that bad!" He defends as Joyce rolls her eyes. "What about the crap you pulled on Mike when he and El got together? The kid thought you were going to murder him Jim.”

"But I didn't! See, he's alive and well, having a great time!" Jim points to his younger daughter and her boyfriend dancing with their friends.

"And what about Steve, huh? When are you going to admit that you were wrong about him?" The bride asks, raising her brows.

"Joyce...."

"Jim Hopper, that boy has helped save our children's lives more times than I care to count. He would do anything for OUR daughter, he’s shown it time and time again. You know he’s nothing like his Father. They love each other, Jim. So quit being a god damn pain in everyone's ass and go talk to him, please?" Joyce begs, giving her new Husband a small, hopeful smile as he closes his eyes and sighs defeatedly.

"Fine, alright. I'm going."

Steve is nursing a glass of champagne, trying to look somewhat interested in Murray's ramblings when he see's Hopper approaching him at the bar. Jim lets out a small cough, before giving Murray a nod to give them a minute alone and Steve nervously waits for Jim to speak.

"Oh shit, what'd you do?" Murray mutters to Steve before downing his glass of whiskey, giving him a hopeful pat on the back before going to talk to the new Mrs. Hopper.

Jim leans back against the bar, fixing his suit jacket as he tries to think about what to say the boy beside him. He knows he should apologise for being an asshole to him but it's his wedding day and he wasn't apologising to anyone. Not today at least.

"Harrington, why is my daughter out there by herself?" He asks, pointing to you, still strolling through the garden alone.

"I uh, I don't know Sir, I haven't talked to her all day." Steve replies, wondering if this was some kind of trick.

"Well, maybe you should be a gentleman and go keep her company, huh?" The Chief suggests and Steve is really suspicious now.

"I'm sorry, I can't tell if you're being serious or not?" Steve questions honestly, not trying to offend your Dad in any way.

"When am I ever not serious about anything that has to do with my daughters?" He asks, looking straight at Steve. "Never, sir." He answers back.

There's silence for a moment as the two most important men in your life pause to look at you. You stare back at them, astounded that they seem to be having a conversation without your father looking like he was going to kill Steve.

"Do you love my daughter, Steve?" Jim asks, both of them still watching you in the distance. Hopper already knows the answer, he’s known it for quite sometime. He saw how Steve protected you during the battle in Starcourt, heard about how he looked after you and El when everyone thought he was dead. He’d have to thank him for that one day but not now. This was hard enough.

Steve didn’t have to think twice before answering the question, even if it meant getting choked out or knocked unconscious by Jim Hopper.

"More than anything in this world." Steve admits, smiling brightly as his heart swells with adoration for you. Hopper nods then, placing an approving hand on Steve's shoulder.

"Then go make her happy." He says, giving the boy the smallest of smiles as Steve begins to cross the ballroom floor.

"Hey, Harrington!" Jim yells, as Steve looks back at him, hoping it wasn't really a trick all this time. "You're a good kid." He admits, as the boy nods an appreciative thank you, finally making his way to the garden to find you.

Joyce smiles at Steve as she walks towards her Husband, wrapping her arms around him tightly, before kissing him. "You're a good man, Jim Hopper."

He sighs heavily before he begins to laugh. "Happy wife, happy life."

Steve can hear his heart beating out of his chest as he slowly approaches you, watching you in awe as the moonlit sky makes your skin glow. You haven't noticed him yet, too busy gazing at the stars above, wishing for your own fairytale ending. Your hair which had been in an up-style all day was now hanging below your shoulders and Steve thought you had never looked more beautiful than right now.

"You could catch a cold out here you know?" Steve whispers from behind you, already removing his suit jacket to cover your shoulders before you even turn to face him.

"Hey stranger, I feel like I haven't talked to you all day." You smile, turning to greet him, embracing him in a warm hug as you both stay that way for what seems like several minutes.

"Yeah, I know. I missed you, Hopper." He admits, as you blush. "I missed you too, Harrington."

The song inside changes to Take My Breath Away by Berlin and Steve knows it's one of your favourites, he bought you the album for your birthday and it's still the most played tape in your car. You both watch as everyone begins to fill the dance floor back inside the lake house and Steve swallows hard before extending his hand to you.

"Will you dance with me, out here?" He asks as you nod your head, happily reaching for his hand as he pulls you in closer to him. You nervously wrap an arm around Steve's neck, inhaling his cologne and shampoo all at once. He always smelled so good. He places his other hand gently on the small of your back, intertwining your fingers together as you begin to dance slowly to the music playing inside. There was silence for a few moments before Steve cleared his throat to speak again.

"You know, I really could’ve used you at our table earlier. Nancy ditched us to sit with Jonathan the minute the speeches were over, so I got stuck with all the loved up couples, it was totally awful.” He jokes, referring to Eddie, Chrissy, Robin and Vickie.

"I thought you were going to bring a date?" You question, trying to hide the jealousy in your voice when you ask.

"Oh yeah, I was thinking about asking someone but I didn't in the end." He frowns and you bite your lip, wanting to know more.

"Why not?"

"Cause her Dad would've kicked my ass." He replies, as you let out a small giggle. Stomach filling with butterflies as he gazes at you.

“That’s too bad, I have a feeling she would’ve said yes anyway.” You whisper in his ear, leaning your head on his shoulder as he mumbles “Oh really? Well in that case, the ass kicking would’ve been worth it.”

"I saw him talking to you, thought you were a goner for sure." You tease as Steve shakes his head.

"I knew I'd be ok, too many witnesses around." He jokes, as you both laugh.

"I'd have come to your rescue eventually, if i thought it looked like you were in trouble, you know?" You admit and he nods his head gratefully.

"I know, honey." Honey. Was he trying to kill you?

"Seriously though, he didn't upset you, did he?" You ask as you continue to dance to the music.

"No actually, the total opposite." Steve smirks as you scrunch your nose.

"What do you mean?"

"He asked me why you were out here alone, told me to come and keep you company." He reveals as your eyes widened in surprise.

“Really?”

"I know, I was shocked too but I think Joyce said something to him because she was giving him the death stare the whole time he was talking to me." Steve chuckles and you remind yourself to thank your Stepmom later.

"He asked me something else too." Steve states, swinging you around.

"Oh god, what was it?" You ask, still spinning.

"He wanted to know if I was in love with his daughter." He says, as you fall back in to him in shock, placing your hands on his chest as he wraps his arms around your waist. You feel sick with excitement, like a kid at Christmas about to unwrap her presents under the tree.

“And…what did you tell him?”

"That he had nothing to worry about, El is way too young for me." He jokes as you smack him playfully on the chest.

"Steve! I'm being serious, what did you really say to him?"

“I told him that I do, more than I’ve ever loved anybody.” Steve admits as your eyes begin to water.

“I love you too, Steve.” You reveal, trying to hold back your tears as Steve cups your face gently, placing his forehead lightly against yours.

“You looked so beautiful today honey. When I saw you walk down that aisle, I thought, Christ, I could just marry her right now.” He smirks as you bump your nose with his.

“Careful Harrington, a few more compliments like that and I might just have to kiss you.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck as he hovers his lips over yours.

“Yeah, I’m sort of counting on it.” Steve says, finally crashing his lips with yours, not giving a damn who sees. You were finally all his.

#steve harrington #steve stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #king steve #steve the hair harrington #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #joe keery #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington stranger things

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