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bookshelf-dust · 2 years ago

Note

I'M HERE TO REQUEST AGAIN

this is going to be a bit angsty, but it's hurt/comfort. basically while he's in class some guys make fun of him by saying he's way out of reader's league and he gets self-conscious. reader and the Hellfire table notices he's not talking much at lunch so reader goes to talk to him (established relationship)

hope this wasn't too specific!<33 (don't worry about rushing the writing, enjoy the process!!)

glittery curls

gareth emerson x gn!reader

word count: 1,426

warnings: swearing, patrick and jason’s goons being assholes, angst, comfort, fluff

a/n: hi sweetheart! thank you for requesting. i’m so sorry it took me a little while and i hope that’s okay! this is a sweet idea and please don’t worry about it being too specific—it’s perfect like always! and thank you for being sweet about not rushing. i appreciate that more than you know <3

————

“Bend down a little, Gare.”

“Whatever you say, your highness.”

He has glitter in his hair. The girls had a project due, and Gareth, being the loving brother that he is, offered his services. You’ve been picking chunks and flecks of glitter out of his hair for three days. He claims to have washed it since, too.

He bends a little at the waist so that you can see his hair more clearly. You use your nails to grab at a piece of purple glitter from the roots of his hair.

“Kiss my ass, Emerson.”

He pinches your side at that remark and you let out a small squeal before presenting the glitter to him, a victorious look on your face. Gareth quirks a brow, examining the intruder, and then you wipe your finger off on his shirt before turning to go to your next class.

He catches your hand before you get too far. “Hey, hey, hey, where’s my kiss?”

Gareth “demands goodbye kisses” Emerson.

You pretend to be annoyed at the premise, and he pouts so hard you bring both hands to his face, apologizing repeatedly.

“Here, here!” You kiss him, short and sweet (you are in school, after all). He tastes like strawberries. You wonder if he had some for breakfast.

“Thank you,” he says. You plant another on his nose before leaving him to it.

Gareth adjusts the bag on his shoulder and turns to head into his classroom.

“That’s just sad, man.”

Gareth wouldn’t have thought anyone was talking to him if it weren’t for the closeness of the voice. He turns his head, finding Patrick staring at him. Andy and Jason linger further behind.

“I’m sorry?” Gareth’s tone changes into something much more serious, deeper even, than what he’d been using with you.

“You, dude. You’re totally head over heels for them, and they’re way out of your league.”

Patrick turns to watch you at the very end of the hallway, where you turn a corner and then you’re out of sight. He shakes his head. “It’s just depressing, man.”

Gareth feels his face warming. “What are you talking about, McKinney?”

Patrick laughs, and it doesn’t do anything but heighten Gareth’s frustration. He doesn’t understand where this is coming from.

“You and them,” Patrick says, nodding towards where you’d walked away. “You looked lovesick, and that’s just weird to me because the two of you make absolutely no sense.” Andy chuckles, and Gareth shoots him a look. He quiets.

“They’re pretty damn smart, and could be friends with anyone they want, but pick you and your group of freaks? Yeah, that just doesn’t check out, man. It’s probably best if you save yourself the trouble and dump ‘em now. That way you won’t have to deal with it when they realize the truth.”

Gareth decides he’s had enough of this shit. “Fuck you, man. Why don’t you mind your own business? Last time I checked, your last girlfriend cheated on you with Andy, so I really don’t think you have any reason to be giving me relationship advice.”

He pushes past the other boys and into the classroom, heading straight for his seat in the back against the wall.

Gareth barely hears a word of the lecture he’s supposed to be paying attention to. He’s amazed that he even manages to take notes.

Patrick’s comments race through his mind, over and over again. They pick at his every insecurity, his every vulnerability.

What if he’s right? You’re fucking insanely smart, Gareth thinks. You could be with anyone you wanted, and he knows that. Up until that conversation, Gareth thought your choosing him had meant something. That he was special. That his friends were special, and they were all worth more than whatever the people at school thought.

Now he’s not so sure.

He tries to distract himself from his buzzing mind by paying extra attention in his classes. It only partially works. All he can think about is that maybe you really are way out of his league.

Gareth gets to the Hellfire table at lunch before you do. He sits down beside Jeff, who’s too busy arguing with Mike about something to notice that something’s wrong.

You, however, clock it before you even take your seat. His arms are crossed and he’s bouncing his knee. He’s not laughing or splitting a cheese stick with Dustin. Something’s wrong with your boy.

Eddie seems to have noticed it too. He hasn’t sat yet, but he’s walking to the table just as you are, and shoots you a look over Gareth’s head. One that says, you seein’ this? You nod.

Eddie’s known Gareth long enough to know that when he gets quiet, he’s frustrated. Gareth being quiet is never a good thing. When he’s sad, he talks about it, and he might be a bit downcast, but he’s still Gareth.

Eddie has witnessed many a Gareth outburst, and they aren’t usually pretty. He knows you can handle it though. You’re exceptionally good at calming him down.

You slide into your seat, and Gareth doesn’t even look at you. You decide to take it easy.

You rub your thumb across the bare expanse of arm under his sleeve. That gets his attention. He turns to look at you. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” You keep rubbing his arm. “You okay?”

Gareth uncrosses his arms and sits up in his chair. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Emerson,” you say, keeping your voice low as to not cause a scene. He turns his head to look at you. You only use his last name when he’s being a pain in the ass. The thing is, Gareth doesn’t really give a shit if he’s being an ass right now.

He doesn’t feel like arguing with you. He’s too upset. Gareth is quiet for the rest of lunch, and he avoids you the rest of the day. It’s not until you drive over to his house after school that you get a chance to ask him what’s wrong.

He lets you in and leads you to his room without a word. “Gareth,” you start, “will you please tell me what’s wrong? I really don’t like seeing you like this.”

He tosses his head back, exasperated. “And you think I like feeling like this?”

“I know you don’t Gare, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Gareth takes one look at you, giving your most pleading and sincere eyes, and he’s done for. He runs both of his hands down his face and sits on the edge of his bed.

“After you went to class this morning? Patrick showed up and told me that the two of us being together doesn’t make sense.”

“What?” You ask, quickly becoming upset.

“He said that you’re way out of my league and too good for me and that someday you’re going to realize that I’m a piece of shit and you shouldn’t have chosen me.”

You realize his eyes are glossy and you rush to crouch in front of him, hands on his forearms. They’re warm under the tips of your fingers.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t listen to any of his shit okay?”

“Stop,” Gareth says.

“What do you mean?” You don’t understand.

“I mean that I’m in love with you and they’re telling me that this is bullshit, that you don’t care and that you’re just going to leave me at some point and so I’m upset—”

“What?” You cut him off.

“Huh?” Gareth doesn’t realize what he says for a second. “Shit.”

You stare up at him.

“I’ve never said that before,” he tells you.

“No,” you shake your head. That knocked the breath right out of you. “But before you say anything else, I am not going to just up and leave you or something, Gareth. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I chose you because you’re the best boy in the world. And because I love you, too.”

The boy in question smiles at you.

“You love me too?” He asks shyly.

You bring a hand to his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“Yeah. And it’s okay to be upset, Gare, because he was being an asshole, but I would never leave you, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. Gareth wraps his arms around you and practically scoops you up.

“Sweetheart,” you say after a moment, pulling away from him. He looks at you, confused.

“You’ve still got glitter in your hair.”

He drops his head to your shoulder. “Dammit.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

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charliedawn · 3 months ago

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Another weird request by yours truly!!! How would the slashers react to the nurse dating Anton Chigurh? BUT! The nurse is almost the complete opposite of him. He's an assassin, they're a nurse, they heal people, he kills people. The nurse is bubbly and very sweet while Anton is stone cold with a deep voice. (You know how he is if you've watched the movie). Also, the nurse is smaller compared to him. They go up to a little bit more than halfway up his chest. Even though they're in a relationship, they act like father and child sometimes. Example: While he's out killing people, he got her tickets to the little mermaid or Indiana Jones. THEY SIT ON HIS SHOULDERA FOR FUN, I STAND BY THAT-The nurse sees something shiny and wants it, but he picks them up and places them on a couch.

Anton: No

Nusre: Aww

But don't get me wrong when I say the nurse is sweet, but when it comes to her man's, she will drag a bitch. Example: Someone's flirting with Anton, they run up behind them and start dragging them by their hair until they throw them down a stairwell, not caring if they're alive or not. Another example: They're talking to him up close, and someone bust through the door, and they immediately take his gun from his side and shoots them. After they put the gun back, they say, "I'm sorry, but what were you saying?" I know this is a lot of information to take in, but can you still try and make this one how you did the Henry cavil one, but since Anton's an assassin, they'll think differently.

Anton really didn’t want to get involved with your work, as he never really involved you in his. He liked you innocent and sweet. You were the perfect cover and even though he had never felt real emotion in his life, you were the only person whose death would actually bother him. And when you got together, he knew you were a strange person, but that’s why he knew you would be perfect.

Freddy Krueger:

"YOU ! I know you !"

Freddy was the first to recognise him. They locked eyes and Freddy smiled from ear to ear. He didn’t remember a lot of people’s brains he visited in their sleep. But oh boy did he remember that one.

"I highly doubt that." Anton answered with a raised eyebrow and looked Freddy up and down. Anton then thought he would have surely remembered the little burnt face goblin if he had seen him before.

"Yeah ! You’re that little freak ! Damn. The nightmares you had ! Ah ! Priceless ! You were the talk of the town between us demons !"

Anton’s eyes narrowed as he then said.

"So…you saw me ?"

There was a moment of silence before Freddy grinned.

"Yeah. I saw you. Whatcha gonna do about it, tough guy ?"

There was a silent standoff before you arrived and Anton focused on you…reminding himself to take care of that Freddy guy later.

Arthur:

Arthur had just finished colouring his hair when he heard a knock at his door and when he opened the door—he was surprised to find someone else with you. You introduced Anton to Arthur and they civilly shook hands. But, as they locked eyes—Arthur smiled knowingly. And while you went to make some tea, they started talking. There was a sort of…connection that formed between the two men.

It led to Anton revealing his identity and secret job. To which Arthur didn’t seem surprised.

"You let fate decide their destiny with a coin ?" Arthur asked—curious. "Isn’t it rather comical to let fate decide of a man’s death instead of yourself ?"

Anton smiled.

"And you play with their lives. I wonder. Does that make you the best psychopath out of both of us ?"

Arthur shrugged.

"You take pleasure in their suffering. I do not. I consider myself a part of them."

Anton shook his head.

"Wrong. WE are not them. WE will never be. And I do not kill only for pleasure. I kill because…It is what I am best at. You consider it healing, I consider it a sport."

Arthur chuckled.

"And yet, you let Y/N live…Tell me. Did the coin also decide of her fate ? Or did you ?"

They stayed silent for a moment before you brought back tea.

Jason Voorhees:

At lunch time, Anton sat next to Jason. Jason didn’t really look at him or acknowledge him at first. He was really into his lunch, but then Anton asked:

"Good ?"

Jason froze. He then looked at Anton with a surprised expression. Was he talking to him ? He then straightened up and nodded. Anton smiled.

"So…Y/N told me you killed 152 people ? Impressive."

Jason blinked twice. Anton had a rather creepy smile on his face. Of morbid fascination. Jason didn’t know what to answer. He then replied in sign language.

Who. Are. You.

You were about to translate when Anton smirked and surprised everyone when he replied in perfect sign language.

Anton. Y/N’s boyfriend.

Jason’s eyes widened when he looked at you—as if looking for confirmation, which you gave. Jason’s eyes returned to Anton who was still staring at him unblinkingly—making Jason uncomfortable. The rest of the dinner went by very slowly as Jason could feel Anton’s eyes on him all along.

Lunch couldn’t end any sooner. He was more than happy to return to his room afterwards and try to forget that rather awkward moment.

Patrick Bateman:

As a fellow psychopath, Patrick could tell right away that he was addressing a fellow faker. However, unlike what most people would expect, psychopaths do not always get along because even though they have the same ‘pathology’, psychopaths cannot read each other well. They are masters at copying others’ emotions and interpret them…But how can they translate each other’s emotions when they neither have them ? It would end in a VERY awkward conversation.

Anton: "…"

Patrick: "…"

Y/N: "Hum…so Patrick, I would like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Anton."

Patrick *plasters a fake smile on his face and reaches out to shake his hand* : "Pleasure." (Absolutely doesn’t mean it.)

Anton: "Same." (Absolutely doesn’t mean it either.)

However, the moment you are out of the room ? All forms of politeness would simply vanish between the two…

Patrick: "…Why do you put up with them ? What is the point of this relationship ? For what purpose ?"

Anton: "…None of that concerns you."

Patrick: "You are right. It doesn’t concern me. At all. But, I am curious."

Anton: "I see. Then I will answer you by telling you that I do not know myself and that one day, I just realised that their life had become…not so unimportant to me."

And that was how Anton explained your relationship and Patrick huffed.

"…You do not love them."

To which Anton replied truthfully.

"Perhaps not. But their existence has grown to mean something for me. And that is more than I thought possible…"

Bo:

Bo: "Hey, Y/N. Who’s yer friend ?"

You: "My boyfriend ! Anton."

Bo *looks at Anton* : "Boyfriend…You don’t say…"

They both stared at each other before Bo smirked.

Bo *smirks and shakes his hand* : "Welcome then, Anton."

Anton shook his hand, but there was a clear tension there. When you left to keep an eye on the other slashers, Bo suddenly yanked Anton by the arm.

"Listen here, bucko. I know a killer’s eyes when I fuckin’ see one. And if ya ever so much as lay a single finger on that sweetheart, am gonna hang you by the intestines at the front gate, ya got me ?"

Anton had a surprising reaction. He smiled. He the caught Bo’s hands and forced them off him.

"You think I am scared of you ? Think again. And next time you touch me ? It will be the last time."

The Penny Brothers:

Pennywise is a BIG fan of Anton. Pennywise doesn’t like emotions and besides, what is there to guilt trip when the man is guiltless ? Anton would fear neither Pennywise or Penny, which means both clowns wouldn’t see him as food. Penny found him boring, but Pennywise was actually unusually chatty cause BOY…that brain’s got a whole lot of blood and gore.

Pennywise *smirks*: "So much blood ! So much violence ! Ahahah ! I like you."

Penny would just be confused. It isn’t often he has to deal with emotionless people. He doesn’t like it.

Norman Bates:

Norman wasn’t thrilled. That’s for sure.

He knew from the start that Anton wasn’t good enough for you. (No one is really.) He glared at Anton and refused to shake his hand—which is rather rare for Norman who is usually very polite.

Once you were out of the room, he glared at Anton once more and seethed.

"If you know what is good for you…You will stay away from them."

To which, Anton only smiled and replied.

"Funny how you think…you have any power over them or me. You may used to have control, but they are mine now. And that…that will remain so, Mr. Bates."

Norman gritted his teeth and his hand twitched. How dared that man…! But before he could reply, you came back…

"Hey ! Everything’s fine ?"

Both nodded.

Both smiled.

Both lied.

Freddy Krueger (A continuation) :

Freddy grinned before looking at Anton as you were about to leave. He cackled.

"No offense, nurse Y/N. But you have SHITTY taste."

You both turned towards Freddy. Before Anton could say anything, your smile had turned into a scowl and you glared at Freddy.

"What did you just say, Freddy ?"

Freddy—oblivious to the danger planning in the air—dug his grave deeper. He snickered.

"I mean…I get it that he is a pretty impressive guy. He is one hell of a psychopath. But, did you see that haircut ? I wouldn’t be caught dead with that thing. His hairdresser must be blind and…"

Anton didn’t get mad or annoyed by the rude comment. But, he smirked and took a step back—waiting for what he knew was coming. You didn’t care about the patients being rude with you, but with your boyfriend ? That was crossing a line.

You jumped on Freddy and started hitting him. You were about to rip his eyes out when Anton wordlessly got you off Freddy and carried you over his shoulder.

"Home ?"

You immediately relaxed and nodded.

"Home."

#freddy krueger #arthur fleck #jason voorhees #patrick bateman #norman bates #bo sinclair #fandoms #imagine #fanfic #pennywise 1990 #pennywise 2017 #slashers #anton x reader #anton chigurh

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doormatty3 · 7 days ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 6 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character] Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world. At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days. As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work. But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one. OR: Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.

Wordcount: 5581

Éléanor woke up slowly, the soft light of morning filtering through the windows, casting a gentle glow across the room. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before remembering where she was—Patrick’s couch, wrapped up in his blankets, the memory of last night still fresh in her mind. A mix of emotions stirred within her: contentment from the quiet intimacy they’d shared, a hint of embarrassment from how things had played out, and something deeper that left her feeling warm and a little vulnerable.

The storm still raged outside, the wind howling softly, but it wasn’t as brutal as the night before. Snow had piled up high around the cabin, turning the world outside into a quiet, white wilderness. Éléanor’s gaze drifted to the couch beside her, where Patrick still slept, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath.

For a moment, she let herself look at him—really look.

His shirtless body was sprawled comfortably under the blanket, and her eyes traced the lines of his muscles, now highlighted by the morning light creeping through the window. His chest was broader than she’d really noticed before, the pale skin dusted with a light covering of chest hair, something she hadn’t noticed in the dark last night. It curled softly, catching the flicker of firelight, giving him a rugged, masculine edge that made her pulse quicken.

His face was relaxed and peaceful, a stark contrast to the tension he’d carried last night. His lips were slightly parted, and his dark lashes cast faint shadows against his skin. Watching him like this, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets or the fire.

His stubble had grown more noticeable, the coarse hairs along his jawline now thicker, and a shadow of a moustache was forming, giving him an almost roguish appearance. Flecks of grey dotted his sideburns, and as the light hit his face, it gave him a certain maturity that contrasted with his boyish grin.

She found it hard to tear her eyes away—so she didn’t.

Her eyes trailed down his body, taking in his flat, defined stomach and the curve of his hips. His boxers clung to him, riding low on his waist, leaving little to the imagination. The blanket had slipped just enough to reveal the curve of his muscular thighs, and Éléanor’s face flushed as she caught herself staring.

God, he was so attractive.

With a deep breath, she slipped out from under the covers, careful not to disturb him.

The wooden floor was cold under her feet as she padded towards the small kitchen, grabbing his sweater that lay discarded on the floor and pulling it over her head.

She wanted to keep busy, to distract herself from the tangle of emotions still swirling inside her. Pulling Patrick’s pullover tighter around her, she began to rummage through what little they had left, trying to piece together some kind of breakfast. Eggs, a few slices of bread, some cheese—it wasn’t much, but it would do.

As she stood by the counter, cracking the eggs into a bowl and slicing up the bread, her thoughts drifted back to the events of the night before. The way Patrick had panicked, the way they’d calmed each other down afterwards, cuddling in the firelight. She couldn’t help but feel grateful for the way they’d handled it. It could have been awkward—embarrassing even—but instead, it had made her feel closer to him in a way she hadn’t expected.

As she mixed the eggs in a bowl, trying to figure out how to cook it without a stove, she heard a soft shuffle behind her. Before she could turn around, Patrick’s arms slid around her waist, pulling her gently back against his chest.

She melted into him, feeling the solid warmth of his body pressing against her back. His chest hair brushed against the back of her neck as he leaned down, his chin resting on her head and his breath against her.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, vibrating against her skin. The sound sent a shiver down her spine.

Éléanor smiled, leaning back into him, enjoying the easy warmth between them. “Morning,” she replied softly, turning her head slightly to glance at him. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, his hair tousled from sleep, but there was a soft smile playing at his lips.

He tightened his arms around her just slightly, pulling her closer. “What are you doing?” he asked and stifled a yawn.

“Trying to make breakfast with what little we have,” she said with a soft laugh. “But the stove doesn’t work, and I have no idea how to cook this without it.”

Patrick chuckled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. “We’ll figure something out.” His gaze dropped to the bowl in her hands and then flicked back up with a crooked smile. “Or, we could just stick to bread and cheese. A low-maintenance breakfast.”

Éléanor laughed, the sound light and easy, and she felt the tension from the previous night fully dissolve. She caught herself blushing slightly, a bit embarrassed she hadn’t thought of that simple solution first. The eggs were wasted now, a casualty of their morning scramble, but she found she didn’t really mind.

“Honestly, that’s probably the best idea I’ve heard all morning,” she admitted, glancing over at the loaf of crusty bread and the wedge of cheese sitting on the counter. The simplicity of it, the way the fire crackled in the background, made her feel at ease. She let out a small sigh, comforted by the idea that life didn’t have to be perfect to be good.

Patrick’s smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth. “See? It’s the small things,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so natural, so effortlessly caring, that it sent a tiny flutter through her chest.

She set the bowl down on the counter, the broken eggs an afterthought now, and reached for a knife to slice into the cheese. “Next time, I’m sticking to the basics,” she joked, her voice touched with a playful self-mockery and lingering embarrassment.

Patrick’s deep, warm laugh filled the small kitchen, wrapping around her like a favourite blanket. “No need to overthink it,” he said, his eyes finding hers, their familiar sparkle comforting. “It’s not really about the eggs or anything. It’s about mornings like this.”

A soft pause settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional pop of a burning log. His gaze drifted down, a playful smirk forming as he tilted his head. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he remarked, his voice low and teasing. The brush of his lips against the side of her neck caused her skin to erupt in goosebumps.

Éléanor felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, and she couldn’t help but grin as she turned just enough to catch his eyes. “You didn’t exactly leave me much choice,” she shot back, the humour in her voice softening the air between them. “You were hogging all the blankets.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin as he nuzzled closer. “Fair enough,” he admitted, his breath warm and unwavering. The nearness was intoxicating, a blend of comfort and tension that made her pulse quicken.

For a moment, they simply stood there, wrapped in the golden glow of the morning sun filtering through the window. His hands rested gently on her waist, and fingers splayed as if to anchor them both at that moment. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against her back. It was an odd mix of domesticity and heat, standing there in his oversized pullover while he held her, both of them pretending that the night before hadn’t changed everything.

Reluctantly, Patrick let his arms fall, stepping away with a small sigh as he moved towards the table where he stretched, his body unfolding in a way that drew her eyes once more. His boxers clung to him, highlighting the sculpted muscles of his thighs and the curve of his back in a way that had her biting her lip. She couldn’t help but notice the way they fit snugly over his ass—tight, firm, and perfectly shaped.

His back muscles rippled as he reached for the ceiling, the light catching on the ridges of his shoulders and the faint sheen of sweat that lingered from the warmth of the room.

Éléanor’s pulse quickened as she watched him, a smile tugging at her lips before she turned to grab the simple breakfast supplies. Patrick brought the bread and cheese from the counter and placed them on the small, weathered table. She followed, carrying two mismatched mugs of instant coffee—more than enough given the circumstances of the power outage.

Patrick leaned over to stoke the fire, the crackle growing stronger as new flames licked at the logs. The warm glow cast long, shifting shadows that danced across the cabin walls, contrasting with the cold, pearly light outside. Snowflakes continued to drift steadily down, adding to the thick blanket that muted all sound beyond the walls.

They settled into the nook beside the fire, knees touching beneath the table, sharing the kind of comfortable silence that spoke more than words could. The flickering light played on their faces, illuminating the curve of Patrick’s smile as he passed her a piece of bread. Their fingers brushed, and a warm spark passed between them.

“So... the storm’s still going,” Patrick finally said, glancing out the window, his eyes following the swirling snow that danced in chaotic patterns against the glass—a sea of white that refused to calm. “Looks like it’s not letting up anytime soon,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Could be worse,” Éléanor said with a teasing grin, her tone light, though her heart beat just a little faster. “We have food, warmth... and decent company.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, a smirk curving his lips in response. “Decent? That’s all I get?”

“Well,” she said, the blush rising to her cheeks as she held his gaze, her pulse fluttering under his scrutiny. “I didn’t want to inflate your ego too much.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and rich, the kind that made her stomach flip. Leaning back in his chair, he looked relaxed, but there was an unmistakable spark in his eyes, a playful warmth that drew her in. “More than decent,” he corrected, his voice dipping into a tone that was both teasing and sincere.

Éléanor took another sip of coffee, cradling the warm mug in her hands as she glanced out the window at the snow piling higher in an attempt to stop the fluttering in her chest. “You know … This is probably the most basic breakfast I’ve made in years,” Éléanor said, smiling over the rim of her mug as she took a sip of coffee.

Patrick’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Hey, it’s perfect,” he said, the simplicity of the moment not lost on him. “We’ve got everything we need right here.”

The fire’s warmth settled around them, casting a golden glow that made the cabin feel cocooned from the storm. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was heavy with unsaid things, a shared realisation that the world outside had ceased to matter for now.

“I guess we’re lucky we even have this,” Éléanor said softly, her voice trailing as she looked back at him, their faces close enough to feel the heat radiating between them. “It could’ve been much worse.”

Patrick nodded, but his eyes lingered on her, darkening with an emotion that made the room feel warmer still. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m glad it’s you I’m stuck here with. You’re... pretty decent company .” The playful curve of his lips softened, revealing a sincerity that wrapped around her like a blanket.

He leaned forward, the movement deliberate, and brushed his fingers across her hand. The touch sent a spark through her, lingering even as he set her empty mug aside with care. When he turned back to her, his expression had shifted, eyes intense, as if he were trying to memorise every detail.

Patrick’s hand lifted, moving slowly until it cupped her cheek, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw with a tenderness that left her breathless. Éléanor leaned into his touch, her heartbeat thundering in her chest as their eyes met, the distance between them shrinking with every second.

Neither of them spoke.

Patrick moved first, leaning in and closing the small space between them. When their lips met, it was as if a spark had lit a fuse.

Éléanor’s hand slid up to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer with an unspoken plea. He responded in kind, his arm wrapping around her waist with a sure but tender touch.

In a seamless motion, they rose together, the movement natural and instinctive, their lips never breaking contact. Patrick guided her backwards, steps slow and steady but charged with intent as they made their way towards the couch.

Éléanor’s heart pounded in her chest, her body alive with sensation. Every brush of Patrick’s lips, every touch of his hand on her skin, sent sparks of warmth coursing through her, making her pulse race.

Patrick gently eased her down onto the couch, his body hovering over hers as their kisses grew more urgent, more demanding, more desperate.

The space between them seemed to evaporate as his hands moved over her back, tracing her curves with a mix of tenderness and raw need. His touch was everywhere —gentle but commanding, igniting a fire that blazed hotter with each passing second.

Éléanor’s fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, craving more. She felt like she was burning from the inside, her skin tingling with a fierce energy, like that fuse they had lit had finally exploded.

There was nothing else—just him.

They broke the kiss for just a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together as they tried to catch their breath. Patrick’s hands were still on her waist, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin, the simple touch sending waves of heat through her, stoking the fire that was already burning inside her.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was low, husky, each word a quiet rumble that made her heart race. His breath was warm against her lips, his question lingering between them.

Éléanor smiled, her heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and certainty. She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw as she looked into his eyes. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady, filled with the surety she felt at that moment. “I’m sure.”

With that, Patrick’s lips were on hers again, the kiss deeper this time, more confident. His hand slid under her sweater, his fingers brushing against her bare skin. Éléanor gasped into his mouth, arching her back as she pressed herself closer to him, her body responding to his every touch.

Patrick slowly began to lift the fabric, his hands warm and steady. Éléanor shifted beneath him, helping him peel it away, her skin instantly exposed to the cool air of the cabin, leaving her in only her panties.

But before she could feel the cold, Patrick was there, his hands on her bare waist, his mouth covering hers in another slow, deep kiss. Before he lowered himself, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. His lips moved with a deliberate slowness, trailing down the sensitive skin of her neck and over her chest, each kiss drawing a soft gasp from Éléanor.

She let her hands wander across his broad shoulders, feeling the strength in him as he held her close, his body warm against hers. His lips brushed over the swell of her breasts, his breath teasing against her skin before he dipped his head lower, leaving a trail of heated kisses as he moved down her body.

The firelight flickered, casting golden shadows across the room, making the moment feel all the more intimate, as if they were the only two people in the world.

Patrick’s hands traced the curve of her waist, pulling her closer as he kissed just above the waistband of her panties, his breath warm against her skin. Éléanor’s breath hitched as his lips lingered there, his touch sending waves of pleasure through her.

He kissed his way back up, capturing her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that left her breathless, his hands roaming over her sides. Then, with a smooth, almost teasing motion, he tugged at her underwear again before sliding them down and tossing them aside.

She felt the cold air on her overheated, exposed skin, and her nerves thrummed in arousal.

Éléanor’s hands slid down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under her palms, her fingers grazing the elastic of his boxers. She felt his hard cock through the thin layer of fabric and was desperate to feel him, to continue what they had started yesterday.

So she pushed his boxers down, leaving them both completely exposed, their bodies pressed together, skin against skin.

Patrick looked down at Éléanor in the soft morning light, his features softened by the glow filtering through the windows. The shadows from the slowly burning fire danced across his sharp jawline, but it was the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered at that moment, that made Éléanor feel like she was melting beneath him.

His chest, broad and strong, rose and fell with steady breaths, but the tension in his muscles betrayed the restraint he was barely holding onto.

Éléanor’s eyes dropped to his body, taking in the sight of him, her breath catching in her throat. He was perfect—every inch of him strong and toned, his cock hard and thick, standing proudly against his abdomen. She reached out, her hand wrapping around him, her fingers brushing over his length. Patrick let out a low groan, his hips pushing forward slightly into her hand as he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the sensation.

But he didn’t let her linger there long.

His fingers traced lightly over her skin, starting at her collarbone and slowly moving downward, exploring her curves as if committing every inch of her to memory. Éléanor shivered at the warmth of his touch, her body responding to the slow burn of his attention before her mind could even catch up.

His hands, big and slightly rough, slid over her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with just enough pressure to make her gasp.

Patrick’s mouth followed, placing soft kisses along her collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing over her chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Éléanor arched into him, her breath coming faster as his lips closed around her nipple, his hand still gently kneading the other breast.

The sensation was overwhelming—his warmth against the cool air of the cabin, the firelight flickering beside them, and the intimacy of his touch sending jolts of pleasure through her.

Éléanor’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body instinctively moving with his as he kissed and touched her with growing intensity. His hands roamed lower, brushing over her stomach and down to her hips, and then, with a firm but gentle grip, he guided her legs apart. The warmth of his fingers, firm but gentle, made her hips lift involuntarily, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Without a word, he slid his hand between her legs, his fingers finding her cunt wet.

He paused for just a second, letting the sensation sink in for both of them. “Éléanor,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his fingers brushing over her sex with a soft touch, barely parting the netherlips but enough to feel her wetness.

Patrick’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and a low groan rumbled from his chest as he watched Éléanor gasping and her body trembling under his touch.

He slipped two of his thick, strong fingers into her cunt, pressing them in deep and curling them just enough to find that sensitive spot within her, the one that made her back arch and her breath catch in her throat.

Éléanor moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders, her body reacting to every movement he made. The way his fingers curled inside her and the steady pressure he applied sent wave after wave of desire through her.

Patrick watched her closely, his gaze locked on her face as he continued to finger her with that perfect rhythm, his thumb now brushing over her clit in slow, firm circles. The pleasure was instantaneous, sharp, her hips instinctively lifting to meet his hand. Éléanor moaned into his mouth, her body trembling as he played her like an instrument he knew too well.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Patrick groaned, his voice barely a whisper, full of awe and lust. His thumb pressed against her clit again, his fingers moving in rhythm with the growing tension between them. Éléanor’s body responded instantly, tightening around him, her hands gripping his shoulders tighter, nails digging into his skin as she urged him on.

“Patrick…” she gasped, barely able to form words, her hips grinding against his hand as her body moved in sync with his. His fingers pumped inside her, slow but steady, the high building with each thrust. She felt his cock, hard and hot, pressing against her thigh as his thumb continued its relentless work on her clit, sending her closer and closer to the edge.

He could feel it too—the way her body tensed and quivered beneath him, the growing wetness that coated his fingers as he stroked her deeply, curling his fingers inside her just to hear that sweet gasp leave her lips. The sensation of her slick heat gripping him made his cock ache with need, and the way her body responded to his touch only heightened his arousal.

Éléanor’s hips bucked against his hand, her moans growing louder as she felt herself teetering on the brink. Patrick’s fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing firmly against her clit, sending her spiralling into a frenzy of pleasure. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she clung to him, her body trembling under the overwhelming sensation.

Éléanor’s hand shot up, tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that was anything but gentle. Her lips moved urgently against his, her breath hot and uneven as she kissed him deeply, swallowing his groans of pleasure. She was so close, her body strung tight, every nerve on fire as he continued his slow, torturous rhythm.

And then he stopped.

He withdrew his fingers slightly, his thumb easing its pressure, leaving her right at the precipice but holding her there, not letting her fall. Éléanor let out a frustrated gasp, her body aching for release as she looked up at him in confusion.

He cupped her face with his now damp fingers, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he kissed her again, softer this time, more controlled. “Not yet,” he whispered against her lips, his voice thick with desire but laced with restraint. He was holding back, savouring every moment, wanting to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible.

Éléanor’s body throbbed with need, every nerve alight with the desire for more, but as Patrick kissed her again, slower, deeper, she melted into him, letting herself get lost in the heat of the moment.

He started to move his fingers inside her again, slow and teasing.

She needed more, her hips rolling against his hand as she sought relief from the unbearable tension building inside her. But Patrick was in control now, his lips ghosting over her neck, the soft, teasing brush of his mouth making her moan with frustration and desire.

“Patrick, please…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, breathless with need.

He lifted his head, his dark, hungry eyes meeting hers.

A smile played at the corner of his lips, and he kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, letting her feel the heat of him. His free hand traced up her side, his fingers brushing over her bare breast, teasing the sensitive skin. Éléanor gasped into his mouth as his hand cupped her breast, his thumb rolling over her nipple again, making it peak under his touch.

Her body responded to every move he made, a slow, torturous build of pleasure that had her squirming beneath him. Patrick broke the kiss, his lips moving to her jawline, trailing hot kisses down her neck and over her collarbone. He paused at her breast, his tongue flicking over her nipple before he took it into his mouth, sucking gently.

Éléanor cried out, her back arching, her body pressing closer to him as the sensation of his mouth on her breast and his fingers inside her drove her crazy. The combination of his touch, his lips, and the deliberate, slow pace was overwhelming, every nerve in her body alive and burning for him.

Patrick’s fingers curled inside her again, pressing against that spot deep within her, his thumb rubbing slow circles over her clit. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her entire body tensing as the pleasure surged through her in waves. She could feel the edge approaching again, that delicious tightness in her core building, but Patrick kept her on the brink again .

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back up to her lips, and she kissed him with a fierce intensity, her frustration and desire pouring into the kiss. Patrick groaned into her mouth, his own need evident as he pressed his hips against her, his hard cock rubbing against her thigh, spreading precum on her skin.

“Patrick… I need you,” Éléanor murmured, her voice a breathless plea against his lips, her desperation raw and unguarded.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his hand still working her slowly. His eyes darkened at her words, the intensity in them almost too much to bear. He kissed her again, rougher this time, before pulling his hand away, leaving her empty and aching for more.

Patrick’s fingers paused for a moment as he looked into Éléanor’s eyes, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. He pulled back slightly, the desire still strong between them, but his gaze softened, filled with a mix of hunger and care.

“I should grab a condom,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, breaking the tension just enough to pull them both back to reality, and the memory of last night flickered in his eyes.

Éléanor nodded, her chest still rising and falling quickly as she tried to catch her breath. “Yes… please,” she whispered, her body already aching for him to return, the intensity of the moment too much to wait.

Patrick reached for his wallet on the side table, his mouth curving in a small, knowing smile as he pulled out the condom, seemingly having placed it there sometime after last night, perhaps in a mix of preparation and nerves.

Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist as she spoke softly, “Let me…”

Patrick shook his head gently, his thumb grazing her knuckles as he held her gaze, his expression soft yet resolute. His eyes stayed on hers as he shook his head, his voice low and soothing. “No, it’s fine—I’ll do it. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it together if you touch my dick now.”

She watched as his fingers deftly tore open the small packet, the tearing sound loud in the quiet room. His fingers brushed her thigh as he rolled the condom over his hard cock. Her heart pounded in her chest, the sight of him making her thighs clench together in anticipation.

Patrick leaned forward again, his body pressing into hers, the warmth of his skin seeping into her. His lips found hers, slow and deliberate. His hand, rough yet gentle, slid down her side, tracing the curve of her waist before his fingers brushed over the sensitive skin between her legs.

Éléanor gasped into his mouth, her hips instinctively arching towards his touch as his fingers explored her wet sex once more. He teased her, his thumb circling her clit with agonising slowness while his fingers slipped inside her, stretching her just enough to remind her of how much she needed him.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he whispered against her lips, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down her spine. Every inch of her body responded to him, the heat between them growing unbearable, her need for him nearly overwhelming.

Patrick could feel it, too, the way her body clenched around his fingers, her slick heat making his head spin. He groaned softly, the sound reverberating between them, as he moved his hand to guide his cock to her entrance.

She moaned into his mouth, her body trembling with need. Patrick’s cock brushed against her again, the condom in place, and this time there was no hesitation—not like last night. His hand gripped her thigh, pulling her leg up to wrap around his waist as he slowly pushed inside her.

Éléanor’s sharp intake of breath echoed in the room as her body responded to the delicious stretch, her nails digging into his back as she pulled him closer. Patrick’s heart raced, his body trembling as he fought to maintain control, the feeling of her slick heat surrounding him inch by inch.

The sensation of him filling her, stretching her slowly, was everything she had been craving and everything she didn’t know she was craving.

“God… you feel incredible,” he breathed, his forehead resting against hers as he pushed deeper, his cock sinking into her with slow, measured thrusts. He could feel every pulse of her body, every tremor as her walls gripped him tighter.

Her body responded instantly, arching up to meet him, desperate for more. But Patrick moved with deliberate care, easing into her slowly. Filling her inch by inch until he was fully inside her. He groaned against her neck, his breath ragged as he held himself still for a moment, letting her adjust to the feeling of him.

Éléanor’s hips rolled instinctively, urging him deeper, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Patrick, move,” she whispered, her voice laced with need as her legs wrapped around his waist. She was losing herself in the feeling of him, the fullness, the weight, the stretch.

He started slow, his thrusts gentle but deep, each one sending ripples of pleasure through them both. Patrick could feel the way her body responded to him, the soft moans escaping her lips driving him wild.

As his pace quickened, he kissed her again, hard and desperate. His hands roamed over her body, one cupping her breast, kneading gently, while the other slipped between them, his fingers finding her clit again.

Éléanor gasped loudly, her body trembling beneath him as he worked her with expert precision, his cock moving in sync with his fingers. Every thrust, every touch, brought her closer to the edge, and Patrick could feel her body tightening around him, her breath coming faster, her moans louder.

He couldn’t hold back anymore, the pressure inside him building as he lost himself in the moment.

His hips moved with a deep, driving rhythm, each thrust intensifying as his fingers circled her clit with relentless precision. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her gasps quickening as her body arched beneath him, her soft cries filling the room.

“Patrick… I—I’m so close,” she whispered, her voice laced with desperate need, her body tightening around him as she felt the pressure mounting, ready to break.

Patrick groaned in response, his own control fraying as his movements became more urgent, his fingers working her with precision. He kissed her again, his lips crashing against hers as the tension in her body snapped with a particularly rough flick of his finger on her clit.

Éléanor’s orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her body arching off the couch as her walls clenched around him. She gasped his name, her voice trembling with the intensity of her release, her fingers gripping his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

Patrick followed her, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a final deep thrust, he groaned her name, his body shuddering as he came, the condom filling with his cum. His body collapsed against hers, both of them breathless and spent.

For a few moments, neither of them moved. The only sound in the room was their soft, shared breaths and the crackling of the fire nearby. Patrick slowly pulled out, carefully removing the condom and tossing it aside before settling back down beside her.

They lay in a comfortable silence, their bodies entwined as the room slowly settled around them. The soft, golden morning light spilt in through the windows, warming the space as they stayed close, wrapped in each other’s presence. Patrick’s fingers traced gentle, soothing patterns on her arm, and Éléanor let herself sink into the comfort of his steady heartbeat beneath her hand.

She felt like she could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet, unhurried happiness.

9 notes · View notes

ereardon · 2 years ago

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My Girl [Chapter 13][Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC]

Summary: Jake Seresin could be the answer to all of your dating woes. He’s the full package: steady job, mature, dependable, attractive to a fault. The polar opposite of every guy your age and he’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner. But there’s one roadblock: he’s a single father to four-year-old Ellie. Jake is looking for a level of commitment you’re not quite sure you’re ready to give, and he’s not willing to bring someone into his daughter’s life who isn’t there for the long haul. And even if you are stepmom material, is Jake ready to let someone back in his life while still mourning the recent loss of his late wife?

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x OC [Lawyer Natalie West]

WC: 3.2K

Warning: Age gap, cursing, arguing, angst, alcohol

Series masterlist here

Your flight was leaving in three days. You had to tell him.

“Jake?”

He looked up from where he was stirring pancake batter on the counter, flecks of flour dusting his pajama top. You thought back to your first date at the coffee shop, and how frazzled he had been because he was late. It seemed like eons ago. You had been different people back then.

Perhaps it had been more simple.

“Yeah baby,” he said, “what’s going on?”

You fiddled with your fingers in your lap, recrossing your legs on the barstool. Ellie was upstairs in her room, fast asleep. Jake’s eyes roamed over your face, a frown appearing as he took in how anxious you were.

“Nat? What’s wrong?” He dropped the whisk and bowl on the counter, stepping to the left and coming to stand on the other side of the kitchen island, his hands reaching across the granite top.

You took a deep breath and lifted your gaze to his. He deserved to hear it all. “I have to go to New York on Tuesday. For work.”

“Oh,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

You shook your head.

“How long will you be gone?”

“A week, maybe more,” you said and you watched Jake’s face fall, opening a crater in your abdomen, all of your hopes and dreams quickly falling into that black abyss.

“A week is nothing, sweetheart,” he said, reaching out and grabbing one of your hands in his. “You’ll be back sooner than you realize.”

“It’s not just that,” you said and your fingers tightened in Jake’s grip as he clamped down. “My boss, Patrick, asked me to lead a due diligence team on our capital markets arm as we expand from the New York practice out here to San Diego.”

“Natalie,” Jake whispered, his face glowing. “That’s amazing! I am so proud of you.”

You tried to choke back the tears that were threatening a flood. “Thank you.”

“Why don’t you look happy?” he asked tentatively.

“In order to do that, I have to be in New York one or two weeks a month,” you said and the realization began to settle on Jake. You felt his hand go limp in yours.

“For how long?”

“I’m not sure,” you said, your voice beginning to wobble. “At least this quarter. Could be longer. Could be a whole year.”

Jake sucked in a breath and you looked up at him through the tears that had started to flood your lash line. “Oh, honey,” he said, walking around the granite island and pulling you into his arms, your face pressed flat against his broad chest, his fingers brushing through your tangled bedhead. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

After a moment, you pulled away, wiping haphazardly at the tears staining your cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Jake chuckled and shook his head. “For what? Being successful at work? God, you have nothing to apologize for, baby. You’re a star. A fucking rockstar.”

“I know you’re looking for someone who can be here for you—” you started and Jake cut you off.

“Nat,” he murmured and his tone was deep. Solem. “I would never tell you that my needs are more important than yours. This is your career. This is the culmination of everything you’ve worked for. I’m not going to stand in your way.” He took your hands in his and smiled. “We’ll be here when you’re done. Don’t worry about me and Ellie. We’ll be here waiting for you, honey. I promise.”

Jake took your face in his hands. He was tender and sweet and you knew he meant what he was saying.

Or at least he thought he did. Maybe he didn’t realize that what he was saying was a direct conflict to what he truly wanted. “Nat, I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you whispered hoarsely.

Jake pulled you to standing, one hand across your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head. His green eyes were soft, small wrinkles forming around the corners as his mouth turned up in a gentle smile. “I’m proud of you, honey. We’re only ever just a phone call away.”

You were afraid to open your mouth, for fear that all that would come out would be sobs. So instead you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in closely. Felt the warmth of his hands on your waist, the tenderness of his lips, the way his body molded into yours. You savored Jake, committing him to memory. Letting his touches build, praying the memories of his hands on you would be enough to tattoo them in your mind. So that when you were gone a part of him was still left on your skin.

***

“Hey baby.”

You held a hand up to the glass. The conference room had a clear view facing north, with One World Trade slightly off to the left, the Brooklyn Bridge to your right. Even though it was closing in on midnight and you were running on fumes and stale office coffee, you had to admit how beautiful the cityscape was.

“How’s it going?” Jake’s voice practically melted through the phone. He barely slept, something you had learned early on in your relationship, and that made phone calls across the three-hour time zone difference slightly easier to organize. He always made himself available to you if he wasn’t in the air.

You sighed into the phone. “The same. It’s going to be a long few months. The team here is good, but they’re not happy about the expansion or integration, and there’s a lot of holes to patch before we announce this firm-wide.”

“If anybody can do it, it’s you,” he said and you smiled, taking a seat in one of the rolling chairs near the large wooden conference table. “How are you, honey?”

“I’m OK,” you said and it was only a half lie. You were drained and exhausted and you wanted to go back to California. Climb into Jake’s king sized bed and have him cradle you in his strong arms. You wanted to eat donuts with Ellie on the beach and feel the smooth breeze of fresh ocean air in your hair. New York was for some people, but it was not for you. “Tired and missing you, but I think we’re finally getting somewhere. I just can’t believe I had to be here every month for who knows how long. This city is something else.”

“Bad?” he asked.

“Just, dirty,” you replied and Jake’s laugh bounced through the receiver. “I literally watched a man throw up on a pile of garbage bags and then just straighten up and keep walking. And everyone around just watched him do it, and then went on their way. It’s insane. I think you could get murdered on the street and nobody would look twice.”

“Be safe, OK?” There was an urgency in Jake’s voice. Fear. “I worry about you, all alone out there.”

You laughed. “Jake, I’m twenty-seven-years-old. I can take care of myself, I promise.”

He paused. “Wait, what do you mean you’re twenty seven?”

You bit your lip. “My birthday was last week.”

“Nat!” There was pure shock and hurt in his words. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” you said. “I was going to New York, we were busy. Jake, please, it’s fine.”

You could perfectly picture him shaking his head. “Honey. I wish you woulda told me.”

“I’m sorry.” You practically whispered it.

“Don’t be sorry, baby,” Jake said softly. “But expect a party when you get home to make up for the fact that I missed my girlfriend’s twenty-seventh birthday party.”

“Jake,” you whined, “please. I hate big parties.”

“Then just us,” he said.

“And Ellie.”

You could practically hear his smile on the other end of the line. “The three of us. We’ll make a day out of it. Do all of your favorite things.”

“How about Saturday?” you asked. “I’ll be home late Friday night, but I can pop over Saturday morning.”

“We’ll see you on Saturday, sweetheart,” Jake said softly. “I love you. Now go back to your hotel and get some rest, OK? Text me when you get to your room.”

“I love you,” you replied.

“Goodnight princess.”

***

You didn’t make it home on Friday, or Saturday and when Sunday rolled around, they asked you to stay another week and you had no choice but to accept.

Jake was understanding when you called him three days in a row with another departure date and another excuse at hand. He was understanding when he had to cancel the special funfetti cake he had made at the local bakery, and when he had to tell Ellie that you wouldn’t be home over the weekend but that he would take her to fly kites on the beach himself on the next warm day.

Jake was all too understanding when you called him in tears night after night from the stress of the expansion.

It was once you had been in New York for three weeks straight that his patience began to wear thin.

“Why don’t we just come out and visit you?” he asked.

You held the phone to your ear, pacing around the glass wall of the conference room. It was late, most of the team had gone home. You had doordashed a bottle of wine to go with your SUGARFISH bento box that lay half eaten on the shellacked wood table. “I don't know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” There was impatience layered into his tone. “Nat, it’s been almost a month.”

“I know it has,” you said tiredly. “I’m very aware of how long it’s been Jake.” Your pelvis ached for him and no matter how many times you slipped beneath the covers at night and pressed your hand between your legs nothing could compare to the way Jake made you feel. “It’s just that I don’t even know how much time I’d have to see you guys. It’s not that I don’t want you here, it’s that I don’t want you to fly all the way across the country for just a few hours here and there together.”

“But we’d see you a little bit,” he said with exasperation. “That’s better than nothing.”

“Jake, it’s just not a good idea.” In the distance, you could have sworn you saw a light flicker somewhere in the hallway.

“Jesus, Nat,” Jake sighed. “Fine, forget I asked.”

“Jake—”

“I have to go,” he interrupted. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Before you could open your mouth to reply, the line was dead. You turned around, mouth hung open in shock, to see Peter standing at the door of the conference room, a box of cookies in his hands.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked.

You shook your head and he stepped inside, putting the box down. Peter Reinhardt was one of the younger associates on the capital markets team in the New York office. Compared to some of the other members of the team, he was shockingly intelligent and capable, something you valued highly in a colleague.

“Cookie?” He slid the box over to you and you popped open the top, selecting an oatmeal M&M one and biting into it with a sigh.

“Thanks,” you said, sitting down in the closest seat and crossing your legs. “Why are you still here?”

He gave you a weak smile. Peter was the embodiment of the New York finance guy: slacks, white button down shirt, company vest with Patagonia branding, beat up Gucci loafers. He slicked his jetblack hair and had pearly white teeth. You had actually watched one of the paralegals trip over herself the other day when he smiled at her in the break room. “Reviewing some of the ops briefs. Those guys really don’t know how to write a contract.”

You laughed, tossing the rest of the cookie into your mouth. “Tell me about it.”

Peter fiddled with his hands on the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ops? I’d rather eat my own leg,” you replied glibly.

He shook his head. “I meant that phone call that I walked in on. Obviously didn’t go like you had hoped.”

You thought about it for a second. Despite being in New York for almost an entire month, you had yet to really bond with any of your coworkers. Most of them had their own lives and families and friends already, and it didn’t help that you spent most nights in conference room C eating takeout and pouring over legal documents. “I just didn’t expect to be here this long,” you said finally. “I thought it would be a week every month but I’ve been here almost the entire month of April and it’s just, it’s wearing on me.”

Peter nodded. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing the work of like ten guys so I have to believe that you won't have to be here that much longer.”

“I wish,” you groaned, leaning one elbow against the table. “My boss in San Diego is kind of a dick. He gave me this position as a test. He thinks I’m going to end up costing the firm maternity pay and he doesn’t want to keep someone that he doesn’t view as a hard worker.”

Peter’s face froze. “I didn’t even realize you were married.”

You shook your head. “Oh, I’m not. He’s just reading between the lines and drawing his own conclusion.”

“So the person on the phone was …”

“My partner,” you replied. “His name is Jake. I feel really guilty that I haven’t been able to see him since I got here.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” Peter said. “If he understands work pressure.”

You chuckled. “He’s a Navy fighter pilot, so yes, I think he understands.”

“Wow.” There was genuine shock in Peter’s voice. “A fighter pilot? He better be hideous to counteract it or else there’s no chance for us other guys.”

You opened your phone and pulled up a photo of you, Jake and Ellie that had been taken on Valentine’s Day and slid it over to Peter. “Sorry to break it to you,” you murmured. His eyes widened as he took in the photo, and then he squinted.

“Shit,” he muttered, “you weren’t lying. Who’s the kid?”

“His daughter, Ellie,” you said, pulling the phone back. “She’s four.”

“A kid? That’s big,” he said and it was reminiscent of what Rebecca had said the first time you told her about Jake.

You nodded. “Yeah, but she’s a little peach. She’s the least of my concerns.”

“So you have concerns.” Peter pulled out a chocolate chip cookie and nibbled at one edge.

“I mean, who doesn’t?” you said and it was freeing to talk to someone about Jake who had no context about anything. Who didn’t know about Lizzie or Margot or your history with Sam. It felt like a fresh start. “I’m eight years younger than him. Sometimes I think it’s fine, and other times it terrifies me. Not the age difference, but just like life. I love Ellie to pieces, but am I ready to be a stepmom? Drive carpool and plan birthday parties and make sure she does her math homework and chaperone sleepovers? Is that really where I want to be at twenty seven? Shouldn’t I be out partying and getting wrinkles that I immediately get botox for when I turn thirty? I still feel like a teenager sometimes, how am I supposed to be somebody’s mom?” You grabbed the bottle of wine and poured more into your glass before pouring another glass for Peter and scooting it over toward him. “What if I go back in a week or two weeks and she’s completely forgotten about me?”

“Four-year-olds are smarter than that,” he said and you frowned. “I have a nephew,” he replied and you nodded. “Besides, you need to stop asking yourself where you should be right now and just focus on what you want to be doing. If you want to be a stepmom, then do it. If you want to stay up all night and go clubbing, do it. Stop thinking about what other people expect of you or need from you. What do you want?”

You raised the glass of wine to your lips. When was the last time you let yourself ask that question?

What did you want?

***

You were exhausted, still wearing your work shift dress with the sky high pumps, your legs shaking as you knocked quietly on the door.

After a moment, Jake pulled open the wooden door, surprise splashed across his face. “Honey?”

He stepped forward and pulled you into his arms in a tight embrace, so tight it felt like your lungs might collapse at the pressure. And when he pulled back, his large, warm hands came out to stroke your cheeks, cradling you as he smiled.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming home today,” he whispered and you realized how late it was, and that Ellie was definitely asleep.

Jake pulled the door closed so the two of you were standing on the porch, your legs still wobbly in the heels. “It was a last minute decision,” you said after a moment. “I have to fly back tomorrow.”

“Natalie,” he said and there was so much pain laced into that single word. “Baby, really? Can’t you stay just one day at least?”

You pulled back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Jake, I don’t think this is working.”

He froze. “What do you mean?”

You shook your head. “I’m not what you need,” you said softly. “I’m not here. I know you, Jake. I know what you need from a partner. I know what you deserve. I just don’t think that’s me.”

Jake’s eyes darted around your face. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m sorry.” It came out strained and thin.

“Nat, this isn’t funny,” he said and there was realization threaded through his voice. “I’m not laughing.”

“Jake, it’s not a joke,” you whispered. You reached out to touch his arm and he pulled away instinctively. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for you.”

He shook his head. “No, you’re not,” he rasped. “You’re taking the easy way out.”

“Easy?” Your voice was raised, and you stopped for a moment and looked up toward Ellie’s room to make sure you hadn’t disturbed her. The room stayed dark beyond the window. “Fuck, Jake, you’re making this harder than it needs to be. And it’s already so hard. I want what’s best for you, OK?” The tears had started to fall. “That’s not me. Not anymore. Don't you understand? This is killing me, Jake. But I won't be the reason you're not happy."

Jake stepped closer, his green eyes narrowing, his voice low and sharp. "Why do get to tell me what's right for me? You're the woman I love, Natalie. You're my girlfriend."

You shook your head. “Not anymore, Jake. I'm sorry.”

A/N: OK guys — this is it, this is THE breakup. I've had some comments saying there's too much up and down with the two of them, but I do think that's just how relationships go a lot of the time. In this case, this is the breakup for Jake and Nat, so apologies in advance for the angst. Not a huge spoiler but I promise they will get their happy ending!

Tag list: @sandyys-posts @purplevortexx @rosie-posie08 @cactajuice @emorychase @absolute-fcking-chaos

@double-j @seresinhangmanjake @topguncultleader @hangmandruigandmav @momc95 @minamisulemisa @shawnsblue @blue-aconite @brehonodea @crthurston @angelbabyange @jason-toddsthighs @secretsicanthideanymore @taytaylala12 @mandylove1000 @mizzzpink @showmethewayhomehoney @tvjunkie08 @mygyn @wkndwlff @sadpetalsstuff @shanimallina87 @averyhotchner @oneelleandaneye @starrynightskyz @daddymack01 @buxkybarnez @pookie-cleary @clairedelarosa-blog @princessofglitterland @tiredqueen73 @lovingjakeseresin @lilyevanswhore @kurtkunkle17 @amortentiadrops @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @abaker74 @xoxabs88xox @novagreen04 @townmoondaltwistle @rosiahills22 @indynerdgirl @entertainmentgal8 @misshoneypaper @starkleila @ebonyhogan24 @rosewritesitout @sammysimpin @khaylin27 @localhockeygirl @eyesthatroll @wildxwidow @wildlyobserving @bellaireland1981 @wittywhispers-blog @xomrsalliej4787xo @rosiahills22 @oiseul @showmethewayhomehoney @callsign-joyride @teacupsandtopgun @jordanturpen @sexytholland @daddymack01 @pookie-cleary @eternalsams @djs8891 @blairfox04 @morgannchase @absolute-fcking-chaos @darkestbeforethedawn16 @blairfox04

#jake hangman imagine #jake hangman fic #jake seresin #jake hangman x you #hangman fanfiction #hangman top gun #hangman x reader #jake seresin x oc #jake seresin fluff #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick imagine #top gun x reader #top gun x oc

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keinbutterdieb · 3 months ago

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Folge 1062 Ohh, geht es jetzt mit Neslon los? Annika ahnt wohl was. Ava und Noah können sich nicht entscheiden und einigen, was sie fürs Modul machen sollen. "Schlag du was vor. Nicht deine Stärke?" "Kann man eigentlich noch Partner oder Partnerin tauschen?" "Schön wär's." "Mit mir will eh niemand tauschen." "Sagt der Richtige." "Es reicht!" Joel hat genug. 😁 Und er will das Problem mit den beiden jetzt in die Hand nehmen. "Ich glaube, Nesrin ist mir irgendwie die ganze Zeit vor die Kamera gelaufen." Jaaaa, klar! Badu-Erwähnung. Annika hat Marlon durchschaut!! "Jetzt lass dich einfach in Noahs Arme fallen." "Vergiss es." "Das ist basic Teambildung." "Das ist lebensgefährlich." 😁 Joel ist mutig. "Ich will da nicht hinsehen." "Ich schaff das." "Du schaffst es nicht mal, dein Essen aufzufangen." 🤣 "Du hast da nen Fleck." "Echt?" Und dann lässt er Joel einfach fallen. 😭 "Alles okay?" "Ja, alles super." Ob Joel in diesem Moment denkt, dass es jetzt endgültig reicht und eine "radikale" Idee wie mit dem Keller hermuss?" 😁 "Es gibt keine hoffnungslosen Fälle, es gibt nur Herausforderungen." "Was ist los? Ich hab heute herausgefunden, dass ich wahrscheinlich verliebt bin." Aw, Marlon. "Ich war noch nie verliebt. Ich hab Angst, dass ich irgendwas falsch mache." Er sagt ja teilweise fast das Gleiche wie Noah später. Kellerszene my beloved!! ❤️❤️ "Herzlich willkommen!" Und jetzt sind sie eingesperrt. "Joel, hörst du uns?" "Ja!" 😁 "Joel?" "Ja?" "Bist du vollkommen durchgeknallt?" Für Noah-Verhältnisse finde ich das eigentlich harmlos. 🤣 Aw, Marlon!! "Okay, anders. Magst du Eis?" "Klar." "Willst du eins essen?" "Heute?" Er nickt hoffnungsvoll. "Ich muss noch mit Simon das Referat in Chemie machen." "Und morgen?" "Vielleicht nach dem Referat? Aber ich kann's dir echt nicht garantieren." "Okay." 🥺 "Vielleicht klappt's ja doch noch." "Ja. Kein Problem." Aww! Ich liebe alles an den Kellerszenen. "Ich lass dich nicht fallen. Ich will hier raus." Und jetzt haben sie den Umschlag. Die Szene mit Marlon und Joel ist auch Gold. "Hast du da jemanden eingesperrt?" "Ja! Ich hab da Ava und Noah eingesperrt." 🤣 "Marlon, nein, natürlich nicht, was denkst du denn?" iodidjiekhdjei "Falls ihr Durst kriegt, ich hab Pastinakensaft in die Ecke gestellt." "Familie, Freunde, Ängste. Geschäftsidee?" "Der letzte Punkt ist mir da so reingerutscht." 😁 Noah sortiert diesen Zettel aus, hehe. "Ich aufs Internat, meine komplette Welt weg." 😢 "Tut mir leid. Freunde?" "Das hat gedauert. ich mein, es hat gedauert, bis ich kapiert hab, dass ich hier nen Freund hab." 😭❤️ Mich killt hier eigentlich jeder Satz. "Und du fühlst nicht dasselbe für ihn?" "Keine Ahnung! Das ging alles viel zu schnell. Ich wollte nicht, dass er geht. Ich hab-" "Angst?" "Mann, ich hab so was noch nie gemacht. Ich hab mich noch nie verliebt. Keine Ahnung." kdkjrehhfdjkfhndrjhdnrjfkd. 😭❤️ Er hat nicht Nein gesagt. Und seine Stimme ist so leise und sanft. 🥺 "Es ist schon alles kaputt. Colin ist wegen mir gegangen. Ich hab ihm noch nicht mal Tschüss gesagt. Dabei bedeutet er mir ... viel." 😭❤️ Ich liebe es sehr, wie Noah sich gegenüber Ava öffnet, und ein bisschen berührender finde ich es noch, wenn Ava sich öffnet. 😭❤️ Es tut so weh, was sie von Patrick erzählt. "Tanzen ist was Persönliches für mich. In solchen Momenten will ich nicht bewertet werden. Nur von mir." Das fühle ich. ❤️ "Ich war ihm ... Ich war ihm egal." Am Ende bricht ihre Stimme etwas. 😭😭😭 "Wir finden was anderes für das Modul. Alles außer Tanzen." NOAH!! 😭😭❤️❤️❤️ Wie ich es liebe, wenn er das sagt. "Ich bin so stolz auf mich." Zurecht, Joel! 😁 Aw, Marlon! "Trau dich." Und Ava traut sich und Noah fängt sie auf. 😭❤️ Aw, oh no, Marlon und Nesrin! Noah ist so mutig und ruft Colin an und traut sich einfach nicht, was zu sagen. 😭 Er hätte dir nicht den Kopf abgerissen, Noah, versprochen! Wahrscheinlich wurde seine Angst zu groß, als er Colins Stimme gehört hat. Ganz weit oben bei meinen Lieblingsfolgen.

#schloss einstein #I'm sooo normal about my fandoms 😂❤️

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buscemifan · 1 year ago

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sorry about all the ones i inevitably forgot. feel free to elaborate in the tags about your choice

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pluvillion · 2 years ago

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serial killer - ghost x soap AU

the first time, it's an accident. the second time, it's a coincidence. the fifth time, it's a problem. the tenth time, it's an addiction. the thirteenth time, they're looking for him. the twentieth time, simon found johnny.

warning:

mentions of gore

blood

death

body horror

killing

stalking

kidnapping

note: some angst to fluff for y'all! this was, somewhat, inspired by Patrick Bateman. i really wanted to expand the theory of what ghost could do if he uses his abilities for something horrible (like he does in the games, but for a completely opposite motive).

i never realized how difficult it is to write two males in one sentence while making it cohesive on who's who. i hope i made it clear and there's no confusion.

the first time, it’s an accident.

simon underestimates his strength, the alcohol buzzing through his body, the recklessness of his actions — a crack as a skull smashes against a brick wall after a punch that was a little too well-placed, a body slumping onto the floor, limp and unmoving, eyes unseeing and staring back up at him.

he throws up and it’s not because of the mass consumption of alcohol that he drank earlier that night.

a body is left to rot in a dumpster to be discovered a few days later and a shaken boy wobbles back home - the instability of his steps half due to the alcohol and half due to shock.

it was just an accident.

────────────

the second time, it’s a coincidence.

a boy who pushed him too far - insulted him one too many times.

he was tired of being knocked down, falling to the floor, and staying there.

he doesn’t stop after the other boy is bloody and moaning beneath him; he doesn’t even register the thought of mercy as he continues to slam his fist on the other guy’s face.

his attacker stops moving - no more insults, not for a while now - and his knuckles are bruised and his lip is cut from a punch he didn’t dodge fast enough. his chest is heaving, panting heavily; trying to gather himself as he stands up again - chest shaking and his mop of blonde hair messier than usual.

it was just a coincidence that he lost control again, that he couldn’t curb the adrenaline rushing through his body after he threw his first punch… but this time, he didn’t have the alcohol buzzing through his veins to blame.

it’s just a coincidence.

however, he can’t deny he likes the blood that flecks his bruised hands and how the red is spotting his pale skin.

────────────

the fifth time, it’s a problem.

it’s not normal and it’s not natural to be doing what he did.

picking fights for a boy his age was normal - burying his opponents in the dead of the night was not.

he can’t help but look for trouble, to smile at the face of his next fighter - victim - and to get off the high of the blood that begins to taint his skin; the adrenaline that rushes through his own blood when he sees the other person fall.

his heart beats erratically while the others stop.

it’s a problem when he doesn’t feel any remorse when he doesn’t feel anything in general. when the only time he feels something remotely close to living is when he’s taking another’s life.

he packs up his bags and he moves from one play to another before suspicion arises; disappearing into the night whenever he sees fit, a lingering shadow, a dark smudge in the backend streets that people look over their shoulder twice when they’re walking by.

by the time he’s seen five pairs of eyes go dim, and five different blood types staining his skin, it’s a problem.

and he doesn’t want to find a solution.

────────────

the tenth time, it’s an addiction.

he can’t help but see the world in black, white, and red; in fragile skeleton bones, lifeless eyes, and red that gushes from the wounds he makes. it’s all he sees.

when he’s talking and observing, he doesn’t see the people; he sees their beautiful, fragile bodies... so easily broken... an art.

he finds that even if he beats them to a pulp or slices them into pieces, there’s a beauty in how the human body breaks; in the rivulets of blood cascading into a pool at his feet, bruises that bloom like verdanas at his touch, and the jagged splinter of bones as they broke beneath his hands.

boys and girls his age, men and women older than him - he finds it fascinating how they’re all the same on the inside.

but he makes them different, he makes them special. he paints them. he destroys them in different methods. he’s the one who elicits different melodies of pain, pleading, and tears from them.

they’re all just skin, bones, flesh, blood, and tears, but he makes them all a masterpiece. it’s an art and he’s the artist.

he can’t get enough of it.

────────────

the thirteenth time, they’re looking for him.

they start to realize that these bodies are being left behind by one person regardless of their various difference in the masterpieces he’s left them as.

a part of him is glad they’re noticing - in his twisted mind, they’re just admiring his work. they’re playing cat and mouse and he’s the monster who’s always three steps ahead. he’s already long gone by the time they find the bodies - he’s learning as he goes, he growing as he continues - in his art, in his craft in his skill —

in his madness.

────────────

the twentieth time, simon notices him.

maybe it was just the wrong place at the wrong time; perhaps he was out a little too late one night or perhaps he crossed paths in the early morning before school, but he noticed him and he couldn’t his eyes off of him.

he thought he was beautiful.

his mohawk neatly styled, his eyes glimmering as he read the book in his hands; how his steps skipped lightly when his favourite song came on shuffle, how his muscles flexed as he snuggled in his sweatshirt when a cool breeze blew by.

simon watched him intently and he couldn’t help but stare for a moment too long, to echo his footsteps behind him, a safe distance away.

he might’ve been beautiful to simon, but all he saw was the perfect canvas for his next masterpiece.

────────────

johnny never noticed him.

…or maybe he did - maybe he flashed a smile at him when he was at the library, or waiting in line at a store or a restaurant. maybe a brief thought of how there was a cute boy with messy blonde hair and a charming half-grin flitted through his mind for a fraction of a second, but his brain would be preoccupied with something else in a matter of moments and simon would soon dissolve from his thoughts.

he’d never notice how simon’s hazel eyes lingered on him for longer than normal, or how simon would be in the background of his day - waiting at the bus stop across the street from him or sitting in the far end of the restaurant or strolling through the park across from his school.

johnny was naive and simon was skilled. some might’ve said he was a hunter while he was his choice of prey.

but in simon’s eyes, he was merely the artist and johnny was his new canvas.

────────────

simon found johnny.

he found him behind his window one night, closing the curtains before turning off his lights.

he found him in his classroom, staring absentmindedly out the window as he twirled his pencil between his fingers.

he found him like he found the others before him; he found his name, his birthday, his schedule, and his address, and he found all there was to find about him.

but unlike the others, he found himself discovering how johnny had ten different laughs and eight different smiles - he finds them but they’re not for him, they’ll never be for him - and he found himself musing over johnny’s sparkling eyes watching the autumn leaves and he finds himself wondering how his name would sound with his voice.

he’s lonely and he’s cold but he can’t help but feel a little less alone when he’s with him, even if he’s not with him.

he calls johnny’s phone and he doesn’t say a word; just listens to his voice before he hangs up, thinking nothing of the blank call while all simon thinks of is him and his beautiful voice.

it doesn’t matter. simon will be able to make him say anything he wants him to say in no time, his eyes looking at him and only at him forever, glassy and empty but he could still paint a spark in them if he really wanted to.

johnny might have ten different laughs and eight different smiles, but simon’s dimpled grin - twisted and too sharp to be friendly - will be the last thing he’ll ever see, and simon will make sure of that.

────────────

simon steals johnny in the middle of the night.

johnny tries to scream but simon has his large hands over his mouth. he’s kicking and biting but he’s twice as tall with more muscle in one hand than he has in his whole body.

he goes kicking and screaming like all the others, but he can’t help but to hold him closer than he needed to, to hold johnny a little longer, to pretend he wasn’t squirming in his grasp, tears leaking from his eyes and dripping down to simon’s fingers that cupped his lips.

johnny’s scared and he can feel his heart seizing up and his mind racing because he has heard of people who went missing in the middle of the night and he has heard the police reports and he has heard the stories, but he never - not once - believe that one of those people could be - would be - him.

he forgets what to do; those stupid self-defence moves, those stupid assemblies that he half-listened to - all he remembers is his voice and his limbs and he screams even though no one can hear him and he swings his legs and arms even though it’s against simon’s iron grip and the tears are streaming down his eyes almost automatically he’s terrified.

he doesn’t know what going to happen to him, what simon will do to him - he knows how stories like this end and he didn’t want to be a body in a dumpster; a name that would be printed on a newspaper that would be thrown away, ripped, trashed, burned, in a few day’s time.

johnny didn’t want to die.

no, not like this. not when he had so many things left to do - get married, have kids, have his dream job - hell, he still had to take that stupid math test and he has never wanted to go back to school so badly.

he didn’t want to think about dying and his limbs being torn apart and his blood spilling onto the ground and he didn’t want to think about his parents crying at his funeral and he didn’t want to think about dying with anyone around him but some psycho, his last breath wasted.

his life wasted.

he’s in hysterics by the time simon’s forced him into the back of a truck, his hands and legs tied with a gag around his mouth and a blindfold over his eyes. he’s whimpering and crying and he can’t see a damn thing and all he can feel is the fear spiking into his system.

simon watches johnny crumble from the rearview mirror, shaking in his seat behind him.

he doesn’t feel remorse - no, he stopped feeling emotions like that a long time ago - but he can’t help but to think back to his laugh and compare them to the soft whimpers he’s making now.

something prickly settles in his skin. it’s a foreign feeling that he can’t decipher.

he tries brushing it away by revising the plan he had for him - he’d be his best work of art yet, and he’s spent nights poring over the plans he had made for him.

but a part of him can’t help but think that he was already a masterpiece on his own.

────────────

simon is quite fascinated with johnny.

he’s not sure what it is about him that makes him stare a little longer and wonder a little more. he’s dubious about what it is about this boy before him that makes him pause and question himself.

johnny is not like the others.

when simon holds his wrists - small and delicate and bound with rope - he can feel the bones that he’s snapped for so many people before him, but with johnny - with him, he feels something else.

his heartbeat.

and it’s not as if he hasn’t felt one before - he forgets he’s just skin and bones too - but there’s something about the pulse in johnny’s wrist, quick and pounding, that makes him caress his clenched fists.

johnny is whimpering and the tears are leaking through his blindfold and he’s shaking in his seat and simon does something he’s never done before…

he takes off his blindfold with gentle fingers. johnny finds himself staring into the brightest pair of hazel eyes he’s ever seen, close enough to see the flecks of gold in them despite the dim lighting of the room they were in.

his breath hitches at the sudden brightness and he hiccups, trembling.

simon takes a few steps back and a mop of blonde hair comes into his view, along with broad shoulders and toned muscular arms.

johnny is taken aback at how normal he looks - the plain t-shirt and black jeans, sculpted jawline and messy hair - he looks like someone he could’ve gone to school with. hell, he looks like someone who could’ve been his friend - maybe he would’ve even called him cute if he had seen him at a coffee shop or a library.

he couldn't deny that his features were attractive, but the twisted madness in his eyes both scared and repulsed him. he was normal-looking… perhaps that was the most terrifying part.

“w-what do you want?”

it’s a stupid question and johnny’s voice is shaking and he’s trembling and he doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answer.

simon turns away from him and he’s still trying to decipher what it is about this boy that makes him feel so… strange. he has to remember that it’s not a love story - wolves and lambs don’t fall in love and some humans are just monsters in disguise.

he has him here before him and he has his plans all mapped out in his mind, but something’s stopping him.

no, it’s not his wet cheeks, the panic in his voice, or the fear in his voice - it’s not remorse and it’s not pity; it’s most certainly feelings like compassion or guilt that he’s long forgotten.

simon doesn’t know where to start, or what to fix, because johnny’s already a masterpiece in his eyes.

his mohawk lying messily on his scalp, every smudged corner of tears, every wrinkle in his sweater, every scar, every blemish, every little uneven angle, and slope of his body - he’s already perfect despite the insanity in his eyes.

simon takes a step closer and johnny automatically recoils in his seat; inching as far away as possible from him. he didn’t want to be with this boy with demented eyes that were both so terrifying and captivating. he’s beautiful but he’s deadly and he’s dangerous and he’s his death with the most alluring hazel eyes.

he’s close enough for him to feel his breath on his lips and tears leak from his eyes almost instantaneously from fear.

simon’s lips quirk up unnaturally in what could’ve been a smile but it is too disjointed and pointed to be natural - like a cat attempting to smile like a human. a set of dimples appear on his cheeks and he’s taken aback by such an innocent feature - the boyish detail doesn’t match the lunacy in his eyes.

simon leans in close enough for the tips of his fringes to brush johnny’s forehead. his lips are almost on his when he speaks - his voice low and raspy.

“I think I’ll keep you, love.”

end.

#i'm using ghost's intimidating character to its best (or worst)#cod #call of duty #cod fanfic #fanfic #ghost x soap #modern warfare #johnny soap mactavtish #simon ghost riley

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