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frannyzooey · 10 months ago

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Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: E (age gap)

Summary: Best friends with younger one, you’ve known the Miller brothers since forever — you’ve wanted the older one for just as long.

a/n: it’s been a while! I’ve been writing over on Ao3, but thought I would pop in and say hi and happy summer ❤️ enjoy! —

Glancing at the clock on the wall, you wonder how much longer you need to stay before it’s appropriate to leave.

You can’t even remember the name of the person who's talking at you – someone who said they took calc with you or something, back in high school. Brian, maybe? Ben? Picking at the label on the bottle in your hand, you tip the last swallow of warm beer into your mouth, grimacing at the taste.

“Gimme a second,” you interrupt him. “I’ll be right back.”

Not a fuckin’ chance , you think to yourself.

Navigating through the crowd of people packed into the Miller’s living room, you make your way towards the kitchen. Needing another beer to get through it all, you head straight for the fridge – only to see someone already there, their broad back facing you. When they straighten and shut the door, you reach out and pluck the beer from their hand.

“Thanks for the beer, Miller.”

Joel huffs, grabbing another one from the fridge. Turning to face you, he leans his hip against the counter.

“You even old enough to drink?” Twisting the cap off, he takes a long, slow drink, his throat working with the motion.

You roll your eyes, and his eyes drift down your body and back up again.

Playing it cool, you clink your bottle against his.

“Cheers, old man.”

His eyes narrow, and he waits a beat before tipping the bottle against his lips.

His face has been a fixture in your life for as long as you’ve known Tommy – a kid you met back in elementary school. Tommy was a few years older than you, Joel even older than him. The fact that you were younger never bothered Tommy – you were just as daring as any boy his age, and he was more fun than any girl your own. A fixture by his side more often than not, you’d stuck together through middle school and then high school, through boyfriends and girlfriends, through Tommy’s enlistment after senior year.

The entire time, Joel was there.

In the beginning, you never paid him any attention. Busy working since he could, you barely saw him. The couple times you did see him at parties, it was only as Tommy’s ride, or showing up when Tommy got in trouble with his mouth. Like he never had any patience for parties or stuff like that; an aged man since forever. Even at their house, Joel had been…around, but he never stuck around for long. Always drifting away to go hang out in the garage, or in his room.

It was during high school when you started looking at him differently. Started paying attention to him in a way you never did before. Starting noticing things like he never had a girl around – or at least one that stuck , though you knew he knew his way around them, because you saw him in town sometimes.

Walking out of a liquor store with a brown bag, a girl sitting in the passenger seat of his truck.

Pulling open the door of the bar, his hand on the small of another girl’s back.

Once, you saw him at the movie theater you worked at senior year. You still remember the heat that flooded your face when he strolled up to the ticket booth where you were standing, the broad smile he had on his face for his date, one that turned your insides warm. His arm was looped around her back, his hand resting on her ass with casual confidence.

You’d never been so jealous of someone in your life.

You left him behind (not that he ever knew it) when you went away to college. A visit back home after your first year timed with a visit home from Tommy, Joel is right where you left him, still on the fringes. Only at the party to keep an eye on things, to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand, still keeping to himself. He’s been upstairs all night, only coming down every so often for another beer.

The mystery of how he spent his time used to consume you back in your school-kid crush days…and it comes back full force, when he leaves you in the kitchen to go back up to his room.

Leaving the noise of the party behind you, you climb the worn carpeted stairs. The second floor of their house is off limits to party guests, but you also know that doesn’t apply to you. Having been to this house more times than you can count, you know right where Joel’s bedroom is. You’ve never been in it though, which is part of the pull that drives you towards it – along with a slice of light that breaks through where he’s left the door cracked.

You nudge it open with your knuckle, to find him sitting inside.

At a desk chair, his legs spread wide in his slouch. A beer rests in his hand, the other one holding a book and at your presence, he puts the book face down in his lap.

He frowns. “Everything okay down there?”

“Yea. Just thought I’d come up and say hi. See what you’re doing.”

“Said hi in the kitchen,” he teases. He lifts the book with one hand. “And I was readin’.”

Used to his gruff sarcasm, you ignore it. “Any good?”

His eyes follow you as you walk further into the room, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

“Not really,” he answers. “Just waitin’ for everyone to leave.”

You know that’s not going to happen any time soon; another large group of people had walked in just as you made your way upstairs.

A golden hue washes over everything, a single lamp burning on the desk, the colors of everything else dulled in the dim light. Shadows pool in the corners of the room, but he is lit, though only parts of him: the chestnut ends of his curls, his tanned skin, the stretch of his jeans across his thighs. The bed you sit on has a rumpled comforter, clearly having been slept in.

Arousal pools low and heady between your hips.

Has he ever brought another girl up here? Has he fucked anyone in this bed?

You imagine it briefly: his flushed cheeks, his heavy breathing, his muscles shifting under his skin. Your hand trembles, and you grip your beer tighter.

“Already sick of bein’ downstairs?” he asks.

You thumb at the condensation gathered on the bottle, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yea. Sort of. It’s always a little awkward when you come back, you know?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Never been anywhere but here.”

Your shoulders slump, and you let out a sigh. “Right. But you know what I mean.”

Suddenly, the weight of exhaustion pulls at you: the smiles you had to force downstairs, the names you tried to recall, the crush of people and the fake enthusiasm. You came here for Tommy, and you’ve barely seen him tonight. Forgetting for a second that you’re not in Tommy’s bedroom, you relax and let yourself fall backwards on Joel’s bed. The second you do it, you freeze – but don’t correct it.

You’re in Joel Miller’s bed. Lying down.

You feel the hem of your shirt ride up, but don’t fix it. The sheets smell like him, and you hear him huff.

You also feel the weight of his eyes on you.

–

He should be more annoyed that you’re in his bedroom, but he can’t take his eyes off your legs: a mile long in your cutoffs, the slight peek at the curve of your ass in their ride high. The slice of soft skin he can see, between your waistband and your shirt.

He watches you roll over and prop your head up on your hand, not liking at all how good you look in his bed.

He’s been watching you since you came back. Watched you even before that, though he’d never admit it. Walking around their backyard in a tiny bikini when you lounge with Tommy by the pool, looking gorgeous as hell all windblown and carefree sitting in the passenger seat of Tommy’s truck, looking so fucking innocent and beautiful swamped in one of Tommy’s sweaters by the bonfires he’s been having at night since he came back.

The sight of your ass in those shorts as you walk around their house has been imprinted on his mind all week.

He sits up, clearing his throat. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he lets his head hang down between his shoulders. If he can avoid looking at you, maybe his cock will stop hardening with interest.

“I think you better get back downstairs.”

“I just wanna catch up,” you reply innocently, looking anything but.

He looks up, giving you a knowing look in reprimand. “That ain’t all you wanna do.”

He doesn’t know what compelled him to say that to you , but he does know it to be true. He’s seen the look on your face on plenty of women before – women . You’re a girl . One he’s known since forever. One he never thought about until he did, and one he tried not to think about once he started.

One who is way too fucking young for the things he’s thought about doing to you.

“No?” you ask. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I wanna do?”

He shakes his head instead.

The edges of your mouth curl up in a soft, teasing smile. “Joel Miller, a secret prude.”

His head snaps up, “I ain’t no prude, honey, you’re just –”

“Honey?” Your eyebrows lift, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m just what?”

“ Young. Too young.”

“I’m twenty.”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes and you cave.

“Almost. In a few months.”

He huffs in disgust, dropping his head back down. “Jesus Christ. A baby.”

He feels you study him for a moment.

“I missed you while I was gone, you know.”

The confession surprises him, and he looks up to find your face completely sober, truthful.

“Did you miss me?” you ask quietly.

The vulnerability on your face pulls at him, and even though he knows what will happen if he gets on that bed, he wants to. If only to tuck you against his chest and reassure you that he did. He really did. He knows you think he never noticed you, but that’s only because he made you feel that way. He couldn’t notice you, for both your sakes.

“Just come…sit with me, okay?” you ask. “I’m not gonna bite.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, keeping his eyes on the floor. He feels you wait with bated breath, knowing full well that he should stand up and walk you out of his bedroom…but he can’t bring himself to leave you hanging like that.

Instead, he stands, and walks over to the bed.

Your face flashes with surprise that you try to hide, and he smirks.

There is a look on your face he’s seen a million times — a bolstering sort of lift to your chin, the look of a tough girl that would follow his brother anywhere. A girl who never backed down, even when he could tell she was nervous.

A girl he knows he shouldn’t want, but does anyway.

He tests the waters, crawling onto his bed. Stretching out next to you, he sprawls across the mattress, his broad form partially covering yours in shadow. He can feel the heat gather between your bodies. You look even younger close up, and he leans closer, unable to stop himself from pushing to see how far you’ll go.

He recognizes that same determined look on your face now, only this one is slightly different. This one is laced with lust, and want. So much fucking want it makes him ache.

“Okay, big girl,” he drawls. “Now what?”

–

It’s his turn to be surprised when you lean in and press your mouth to his.

You can tell because he momentarily freezes when your lips meet, his stubble brushing against your skin, your lips fitting neatly along the seam of his own. You kiss him again, this time opening your mouth just enough to let him in and he takes your invitation, the taste of beer thick on his tongue when he slides it against yours. His hand comes up, cradling the curve of your jaw as you tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss and a soft sound that catches in the back of your throat has his fingers flexing, pulling you closer.

The sheets rustle beneath you when he takes over, his hold guiding you beneath him on the bed. He kisses you harder, longer, a deep groan rumbling from his chest, the light of the room blocked out behind him. His solid body weighs heavy on top of you, his denim clad hips pushing between your thighs with a grind and you open your legs wider, his hand sliding up the outside of your leg to hitch your knee around his hip.

It’s sensory overload after wanting him for so long. You’ve daydreamed about this a million times, imagined it happening a million different ways, but you never thought it would be anything like this. Lost in the weighted haze of lust, drunk on the way he feels against you, head swimming with arousal, the crotch of your panties already so fucking wet that they slide over your achingly empty core with every rock of his hips into yours. Meeting the rolling grind of his hips with your own, you feel the weight of his cock press against you, his calloused hand covering your breast with a squeeze. His hips rock forward again, the grinding promise of what he’s capable of against the damp seam of your shorts and you are just about to beg him for more when he pulls back, standing.

In one long stride, he shoves the door shut and locks it.

Tugging his shirt off with a one handed grip over his head, you take in the sight of his broad, solid chest and the dusting of hair that scatters sparsely just under his collarbones. It’s thicker along his sternum, even thicker still just under his navel, where it leads into the waistband of his jeans. He looks so…big, from where you lay on the bed. Older, masculine in a way you’ve never seen on a boy your age. Your eyes run the length of his body and back up again, the outline of his thick cock pushing against the fly of his jeans making your cunt flutter.

He opens the drawer next to his bed, tossing a condom down and there is something so arousing about the matter of fact action, the implied sight of it just sitting there, waiting for him. Black, with gold letters. When his hands drop to work open his belt buckle with single minded intent, you reach down to slide your shorts off.

“Don’t.”

Your hands pause.

“I wanna do that.”

You don’t even know what to say in response before he’s bending to grab you behind your knees, hauling you to the edge of the bed. Your shirt rides up your back, and sit up enough to tear it over your head, your bra following shortly after as his greedy eyes track every movement. His thick fingers pop open the button on your shorts, hooking under the fabric and he drags them down and off, bringing your panties along with them.

Then he stands there, his hands on your knees. He pushes them apart, and you try not to squirm as he spreads you for him.

“Goddamn.” The word pours out of his mouth, saturated with awe, low with lust.

Your thighs flinch, your knees trying to pull together to hide yourself from the heat of his gaze, but he keeps a firm grasp on them, holding you open.

“Don’t try to hide it from me now, honey.”

His eyes drop from your face to the gleaming spread of your cunt. He reaches down, his thumb brushing over your opening, and it’s so fucking filthy the way he drags it through the mess you’ve made for him.

“Especially not when it’s this pretty,” he murmurs.

He drops to his knees, your breath hitching when he tugs you closer to his mouth and guiding your legs over his bare shoulders, his mouth immediately seeks you out.

“ Fuck .”

The word slides into a moan when your body bows off the bed to chase the slick heat of his tongue. It smears wetness over everything, dipping inside you to drag upwards to your clit and then he’s fitting the bottom half of his face along your cunt with a messy, open mouthed kiss.

He devours you there the same way he devoured your mouth earlier, and the sensation is simultaneously too much but not enough, your hands finding purchase in his sheets. You fist them, twisting them in your grip as you start to rock your hips and you have never - never - had this done to you before, a tremble pouring sweet and thick down your spine to pool right under his mouth.

His hands keep your thighs forced open, his shoulders spreading you wider and when his tongue starts to swirl firm, tight circles over your clit, it drags a hoarse moan out of your throat.

Too consumed to care if you’re being too loud, every thought leaves your head when two thick fingers stroke delicately along the dip of your opening, before sliding inside you with a filling stretch just as he starts to suck . His whiskered cheeks hollow with it, your words breathless and pleading. A stretch just to take his fingers , you close your eyes and feel your stomach drop when you think about taking his cock.

The thought alone sends you flying over the edge.

When it happens, he groans into you just as loud as if he’s the one who’s come, and a second wave washes hot over your limbs when you peek down to see the upper half of his face between your spread thighs. His brows pinched together, his eyes closed tight, his white knuckled hold on your thighs.

The music turns up louder downstairs, a shout of a crowd greeting new arrivals – but it’s lost in the intimacy of the bedroom. His satisfied low groans, your trembling thighs, his damp beard against your skin.

Pulling back, he wipes your slick from his face with his hand – and then gives your cunt a sharp, flat swat.

The action shocks you, your eyes widening and the grin on his face is charmingly boyish. Or would be, if he didn’t follow it with a filthy suck of the fingers that were just inside you. He stands, shucking his jeans and briefs off in one movement, and puts a knee on the bed between your legs, reaching for the condom. His large hands rip it open, and though you can feel his gaze rest heavily on you as he puts it on, your eyes are fixed firmly on his cock.

It’s – big. Much bigger than you’ve ever seen, a grown man’s dick. He fists it lazily for a moment, the weight of it evident in his grip and when he places the condom over the tip and rolls it down to the base, you openly stare. The translucent rubber fits snug and tight, down to the thatch of hair at the base of his cock.

When you finally drag your eyes up to his face, he looks smug.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. It’ll fit.”

The amount of times you’ve thought about this moment is nothing compared to the real thing. The man standing in front of you has always been off limits, a complete mystery to you all these years, even as the subject of most of your debased fantasies. The realness of him — the solid width of his frame, the flush to his skin, the amount of bare, firm skin on display. You swallow hard, a bundle of nervous anticipation even though he just fucked you with his mouth.

He settles his body on top of you, caging you underneath him and the press of his hot skin has all of your nerves scattering, evaporating into need .

His mouth rests right next to your ear, a kiss brushed against the divot below it.

“We’ll make it,” he whispers.

If you thought his fingers were a snug fit, it’s nothingcompared to how full you feel as he slides in. The stretch almost to the point of pain save for how wet he got you beforehand, it still steals the air from your lungs as he pushes inside. You squirm underneath him, shifting to accommodate every single inch and his hand curls around your waist, his hips pushing forward with a final, hard thrust.

His mouth brushes tenderly along your clenched jaw, letting you get used to it before his hips find a rolling rhythm. Every downstroke shoving you up underneath his hold, you hold on tight, hitching your knees up along his ribs and your feet slide over his tailbone, a whine crawling out of your outstretched throat.

“This little pussy is so tight ,” he groans, his hot breath gusting over your skin. “So fucking tight.”

His hand shoves itself under your tailbone, angling your hips to take him deeper and his own groan sounds deep over your softer, higher one.

“Do you have any idea how much I thought about fuckin’ you? How many different ways I’ve wanted to?”

Hearing him utter those words makes your chest crack open, your heart thundering underneath your rib cage. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear, paired with more than you ever thought you would.

He picks up pace, his hips a relentless, heavy pound into the cradle of your own, each thrust punching the air out of you – and your fingers claw into his forearms when he sits back on his heels, pushing your knees to your chest to fuck you harder.

The bed pounds lewdly against the wall, the music from the party covering it up.

“Joel,” you whine, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. It feels like you’re being used by him, your body a tool for his own pleasure, your pliant, moldable body being positioned just for his use. It sends you higher, thinking about him doing the same for others, right here in this bed.

You start to tense underneath him, the wave of slick, brutal pleasure pulling you under and when you come, it’s a wordless, breathless thing – your body pulling taut, your cunt squeezing him tight. He groans, dropping forward to cover your mouth with his, his hand sliding up to wrap around the nape of your neck with a grip and he forces himself deeper, his strokes urgent in their snap against you.

He rests his forehead against yours, and through the haze of your freshly fucked gaze, he recognizes the same look from before. A girl who never backs down, a girl who knows how to hold her own.

“I already want it again, Joel,” you breathe against his mouth, his heavy pants washing over your lips. “Next time, I’m gonna ride you. I’m gonna sit on your lap and you can watch me take it, okay?”

“Fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering. They chase the slick warmth of your cunt, his eyes closing tight.

“You’re fuckin’ trouble, you know that?” he rasps, his fingers threading into the hair at your nape, fisting it with a tug. The motion tips your head back for him, a victorious grin stretching across your face.

“A pain in my ass since I met you,” he pants, letting out a deep groan. “A sweet piece of ass in my bed.”

You nod, the smile on your face melting into something pleasure soaked when he shifts the angle of his hips.

“I’m gonna come inside this little cunt, okay? And then I’m gonna do it all over again. You ready, honey?”

“God yes.”

He buries his face in the damp crook of your neck when he comes, he back rounding as his hips still in their push against yours. He’s so deep you know you’re going to feel it tomorrow – more than you’ve ever taken, a stretch you know will make you ache every time you sit down. He holds onto you so tight that you can barely breathe, and it’s a special sort of heaven to be buried underneath the bulk of his body. Your cheek pressed against his curls, your chest compressed under his. Your hips sore from being spread so wide, your cunt still snug around him.

He lifts just enough to see you, and opens his mouth – right when something crashes beneath his room.

“What the fuck , Tommy,” he grumbles, and you laugh at his instant change of expression. He slips out from inside you with a groan, his hips imperceptibly shifting forward to chase the heat between your thighs. He presses a quick, hard kiss against your lips and then he’s dragging himself from the bed, tugging the condom off and tying it in a neat knot.

Tossing it in the trash next to his bed, he grabs his jeans off the floor.

“I’m gonna go downstairs and see what the hell that was,” he says, sliding them up over his bare ass. Buttoning them, he shoots you a look. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ get dressed.”

You gesture a wordless salute, and he shakes his head, smiling.

“Smartass,” he grumbles, picking a shirt up off the floor. Sliding it over his head, he opens the door and disappears.

“Tommy!”

You hear him shout and a laugh bubbles up from your chest.

“What the fuck was that?”

Stretching out, you slide against the warm, rumpled sheets and listen to the familiar sound of their deep voices. For the first time since you’ve been back, you feel like you’re home.

Pressing your face into his pillow, you take a deep breath – and grin.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction

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thediaryofaurora · 8 months ago

Note

ticci toby nsfw headcanons 😭🤲 can’t express how much i love your hc’s bro its so good 🥹💗 pls keep cooking

☆Ticci Toby Relationship HCs☆

CW: NSFW, f!reader

THANK YOU SO MUCH! This ask single-handedly brought me out of my writing slump. I went ahead and added SFW dating HCs as well, a little bonus 🙌 Also I’m in a leg brace from soccer so I’m stuck in bed.

•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

★SFW★

- This guy has got a LOT on his mental plate, be prepared for that.

- He is 100% a friends to lovers type of guy. He’s not easily trusting, so that relationship really has to be built up.

- When he does have a crush on someone he beats himself up about it because he feels so stupid for thinking you’d ever like him back.

- Moving onto actually dating him, he is so so so insecure. Lots of reassurance is needed, but if you’re able to get through to him he eventually realizes you actually like him.

- Crazy touch starved. In the first few months of dating he’s super unsure of if he can kiss you or even put his arm around you, he’s HORRIFIED of crossing any boundaries and you leaving. You’ll probably have to make the first move.

- He most likely won’t be the one to ask you out. If you’ve known eachother for a while and he’s feeling a little confident there’s a possibility, but in his mind he’d rather stay friends and get to see you rather than get rejected and you not talk to him anymore.

- LOVES going on dates with you, but he’s a ball of anxiety. It should be easy to cool him down and let him know you’re enjoying it, he’s just so worried about if you’re happy or not.

- Usually thinks going on walks or sitting on a curb together is like the perfect date, ESPECIALLY in the fall. He keeps an old camera on him that he got from Brian so he can make little home videos and capture the moments you spend together.

- Picks up cool leaves, glass shards, or other things left in the forest and makes sure to show you.

- He’s actually not an awful cook. He’s a fast learner in pretty much every aspect and he already knows the basics. His mom taught him when he was young how to make some baseline German dishes, and this man can WHIP that shit up.

- Once you two are to the point in your relationship where you can cuddle, he is ALL OVER YOU. Especially when it’s raining/ thundering out and you two can lay in bed together. Since he overheats easily due to his CIPA, in the colder seasons you’ll have to leave the window open so he can stay cool.

- After seeing how his dad treated his mom, he has a pretty good grasp on how to treat a partner. At times he can fly off the handle, especially with his bipolar disorder, but afterwards he breaks down and apologizes. If at any point you even SEEM like you don’t like him anymore he gets defensive, it makes him very standoffish or snappy.

- Won’t shut up about you after you start dating. Not in a rambling way, but he finds a way to bring you up in every conversation. He doesn’t meant to, but how could he go without telling someone you’d like the flower he just walked by?

•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

✩NSFW✩

- VIRRRRGINNNNNNNN.

- I mean VIRGIN virgin, like this guy has had NO activity. No first kiss either. All the knowledge he has is from porn, so he’s completely clueless. If you’re both inexperienced you’ll just have to persevere.

- He’s the kind of person to get turned on looking at a picture of you fully clothed, he’s just so in love with you.

- Before you two start dating he’s 100% taking candid pictures of you or finding your instagram posts and jacking off to them.

- Massive bottom. He puts out a front for a WHILE before you’ll be able to realize he’s not a top, he doesn’t want to look like a sissy. If you suggest being on top he’s BLOWN AWAY. Acts like he’s just doing whatever you want, but afterwards you definitely realize he’s been waiting for it.

- Sensitive as hell. He’s a loud one, but again he doesn’t want to look weak or not masculine enough. He tries to hold his moans and whimpers back and grunt instead, but if you do it just right he’s a whimpering, whining, PANTING, mess. Kiss his neck? He’s rock hard. Even if you’re just giving him a hickey he’s whimpering and bucking his hips into you.

- Tits man 100%. Doesn’t matter what size, the fact that they’re there is enough. When you’re on top of him he prefers for you to face him so he can watch them bounce. When he’s on top he’s usually in missionary so he can still see them.

- Hair pulling kink, specifically his. He can’t feel the pain, but the yank drives him CRAZY.

- Big on oral. Giving or receiving, he doesn’t care. If he’s giving he prefers for you to sit on his face, but he’d never admit that.

- His favorite place to do it is tight spaces. Closets, cars, narrow alleyways. Especially if it adds to the thrill of getting caught.

- STAMINA. He cums crazy fast, but he’s definitely able to make up for it with how many rounds he can go. Even if he came a few minutes ago, it’s already up and ready to go again.

- Likes to have music playing in the back while you do it. He probably already made a playlist the second you started dating, but if you ever want to choose the music he doesn’t mind.

- At first he’s self conscious about his abilities, but after some time and seeing how good you feel he’s a cocky motherfucker. Slyly grinning and looking at you all worn out after a few rounds boosts his ego to the moon.

- Dim lighting all the way. He wants to be able to see you, but he feels too exposed when it’s too bright.

- Not completely opposed to a threesome, it depends on who it is. He’s more protective than possessive, so if he trusts the person enough he’d be okay with it. If it had to be anyone in the mansion it would probably be Cody or Liu, but he’d make sure you’re okay with it.

- Rabid horny teenager.

•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

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veaspo · 1 year ago

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heyy can u write hcs for ej , brian , liu and bloody painter with a s/o who seems rlly innocent and sweet but when they do the dirty shes a freak ?

imma try my best, trust🙏🏼

-------

•SLIGHT NSFW IN EVERY CHARACTERS HC .

CREEPYPASTAS WITH AN "INNOCENT" S/O

EYELESS JACK

- In Jacks "eyes", you were perfect. Innocent, Caring, Loved him for who he was even after the whole demon thing.

• or so he thought...

-He came back from a mission one day, eager to get to bed and go to sleep with the comfort of his lover.

• When he walked into the shared bedroom, he was met with you fucking yourself with a dildo.

-He was just standing there staring, waiting for you to notice him.

•Once you did finally notice him, he just smirked under his mask and walked out. Allowing you to finish.

BRIAN/HOODIE

-Brian was out recording nature and things of those sorts.

•Then he ran out of storage on his SD card, so initially he had went back to your guys' house to transfer them to his computer.

-Before he put them all on there he had looked to see if there was any he didn't want.

•Then he came across this certain one.. 🙊

-It was you. Recording yourself as you were humping a pillow 🙀.

•He stared in shock for a few minutes but then Brian then went to the kitchen where you were cooking lunch. He proceeded to fuck the life out of you.

- and the rest is history .

HOMICIDAL LIU

•Liu was writing poetry at his desk you guys had found.

-He was getting thirsty, so obviously he went into the kitchen to grab him something.

•You were on the couch with your headphones in, oblivious to him coming downstairs.

-Liu grabbed a water from the fridge and he had noticed you on the couch and had called your name out. You didnt respond so he decided to sneak up on you.

•When he did, he noticed you were watching something. He looked over you shoulder and was met with you watching porn.

-He didn't want to embarrass you (although he would tease you about it later) so he just smirked and went back upstairs.

BLOODY PAINTER

•Helen was in his studio painting. (obviously)

-He was missing his lover so he had quickly left his studio room.

•When he walked into the shared room and was met with you taking pictures in lingerie that you most likely would put under his pillow... (yall i just found out theres male lingerie🤕)

- or hide in his studio somewhere later .

•He stood frozen in shock but then leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. Staring at you take pictures that he knew would be all for him.

-You had noticed him in the camera and quickly turned around and grabbed your robe from the bed to cover yourself.

•Helen walked up to you, "Don't cover yourself baby, I was enjoying it." he said as he walked up to you.

-He basically tore the robe off your body.

•Im gonna leave the rest to your imagination 😣

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i was struggling with this guys🙏🏼

but trust, i got the job done😝

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Feel free to leave requests and tips!🩷

#fanfic #x reader #creepypasta smut #creepypasta x reader #smut #headcanon #fanfiction #veaspo #creepypasta x you #eyeless jack #eyeless jack x reader #brian thomas #brian thomas x reader #hoodie #hoodie x reader #homicidal liu #homicidal liu x reader #bloody painter #bloody painter x reader

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norrisleclercf1 · 8 months ago

Note

OKAY I LOVE YOUR WRITING STYLE PLEASE

can you do a charles x reader fic about her leaving marks on him and him being proud if jt

A/N: Charles would lowkey be so smug about it

Charles just smiled at you, waving softly across the garage, but you ignored him as you stared at the marks you left a little too high and how he wasn't even attempting to cover them up.

Last night you had gotten a little jealous, unable to help as pretty girl after pretty girl took pictures with Charles and gushed over him. Granted you were so happy for the fans to meet him and take pictures with him, but hey, you still get jealous.

So, when you shoved him against your hotel wall, he happily let you leave your marks all over him. He left before you, kissing your cheek and slipping out of the room. When you woke, to your phoen going crazy you didn't even check the messages going straight to Twitter and suddenly your thought of coffee was gone, instead the adrenaline kicked in.

There he was, wearing a black shirt that was practically see-through shirt and there he was smirking and angling his head perfectly for your marks to be seen and that's how you ended up here.

One his side of the garage, his hair messy as he pulled his fireproof down and little bit more you felt the mechanics stare at you, your face warming and you look away and slide on your sunglasses.

You don't bother to turn feeling his presence as he slides his arms around your waist and places a soft kiss on your shoulder "Love you," He whispers, but you just nod and go back to watching the screen where he chuckles and leans around, stealing a kiss.

"Cover the marks," You hiss, but his smirk just grows and shakes his head no. "No way, love, when you leave marks on me," Charles whispers and nips your neck which has you shoving him away. "Don't you have a car to drive," Charles chuckles and walks off, pulling his neckline down further. People staring at him and then at you. Yeah, you were so going to kill him tonight.

"Leclerc," You threaten and he stops seeing how people were staring at you and him, "Okay, okay," He whispers and walks back over quickly kissing you before rushing to the car and hopping in.

"Vampira," Brian coughs and you turn glaring at your boyfriend's engineer. "Skeleton," And he turns a bored expression on his face. "Touche," You smile and nod turning as Charles pulls out onto the Monza track, this was going to be a long weekend.

598 notes · View notes

halfmoonaria · 6 months ago

Text

what i can’t undo

pairing: tara carpenter & reader

summary: tara goes down a path she never expected to take.

word count: 9.9k

author’s note: part two of ‘what i can’t undo’

The bathroom was small, its walls painted a faded cream that reflected the golden glow of the single overhead bulb.

You didn't care about the way it flickered slightly, nor did you care about the damp towels tossed over the hooks or the cracked soap dish on the sink.

None of it mattered because your mind was spinning, your heart racing like you'd just stepped off a rollercoaster.

Brian had kissed you.

You stood in front of the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink to steady yourself as your reflection smiled back at you, wide and unabashed.

A soft squeal bubbled out of your throat before you could stop it, your hands flying up to cover your face as though you could somehow hide from your own excitement.

It didn't work.

A grin tugged at your lips anyway, spreading until it hurt your cheeks, but you couldn't stop it. How could you? Brian—the boy you'd been dreaming about since you were old enough to understand what a crush even was—had kissed you. He'd actually kissed you.

The memory replayed in your head like a favorite scene from a movie. The way his hand had lingered on your waist, the faint taste of his drink on his lips, the way he'd smiled at you before leaning in—it was perfect.

Everything about it felt perfect.

You leaned closer to the mirror, running your fingers through your hair to fix the strands that had fallen loose in your excitement. Your reflection stared back at you with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine what Tara would say when you told her.

She'd probably tease you about how long it took for Brian to finally get the courage, maybe roll her eyes and say, "Took him long enough."

You couldn't wait to tell her all about it.

So, with one last look in the mirror, you smoothed your hands over your outfit, took a deep breath, and turned for the door. The night felt like it was only just beginning.

The hallway outside the bathroom was crowded, a line having formed sometime during your moment of excitement.

You squeezed past a few impatient faces, murmuring quick apologies as you tried not to push too hard. The music from the party thumped louder now, vibrating through your chest as you re-entered the main part of the house.

The crowd had only grown, spilling into every corner of the space. People leaned against walls, danced in the middle of the living room, and sat sprawled on furniture with red cups in hand. It was warm and hazy, the air thick with a mix of sweat, spilled beer, and perfume.

You tucked yourself into the flow of the room, weaving between bodies as you excused yourself with a polite smile here and there.

Your head felt light, your steps unsteady—but it wasn't entirely from the alcohol.

At least, you didn't think it was. Was it the kiss? The way Brian's lips had lingered on yours, soft but sure, like he'd wanted it for just as long as you had?

Or was it the remnants of the few drinks you'd nursed earlier, finally catching up to you? You couldn't tell, and honestly, you didn't care.

A few familiar faces stopped you along the way, their greetings overlapping with the music. You smiled, exchanged quick hellos, and let their words pass without really processing them.

Your mind was focused on something else entirely—getting to Tara and Brian. You couldn't wait to see Tara's expression when you told her how the kiss had happened, how perfect it had felt.

You rounded the corner toward the spot where you'd left them just a few minutes ago, threading your way through another group of people. But when you got there, the space was empty.

The corner of the room where Tara had been leaning, arms crossed with her sharp smirk, was now vacant. Brian, who'd stood beside her looking effortlessly charming, was nowhere to be seen either. Your brow furrowed as you glanced around, scanning the crowd for any sign of them.

At first, you didn't think much of it. Tara and Brian probably went to grab another drink or stepped outside for some fresh air. Maybe Tara needed to use the bathroom after all, or Brian had spotted someone he wanted to say hello to. In your slightly drunken haze, every excuse you came up with felt perfectly reasonable.

Still, a faint unease bubbled at the edge of your thoughts, though you quickly brushed it away. There was no reason to overthink it. So, instead of lingering, you turned to walk to the dance floor.

You exchanged a few fleeting smiles as you passed familiar faces—people you recognized from school or other parties, their names blurred in the haze of your tipsiness.

Someone called your name from across the room, but when you glanced back, you couldn't place who it was, so you just offered a polite wave before continuing.

The crowd was packed tighter here, bodies moving in time with the heavy bassline that vibrated through the room.

You slipped into the mix, weaving your way through swaying shoulders and raised arms until you caught sight of a familiar face—Aria, one of your relatively close friends, standing near the edge of the makeshift dance floor.

Her dark curls framed her face, damp with sweat from dancing, and her eyes lit up when she spotted you. She tilted her head, raising her eyebrows in a teasing question as she motioned for you to come closer.

"Where the hell have you been hiding all night?" she asked loudly, her voice barely cutting through the music.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face as you stepped closer. "Everywhere except here," you answered, your voice light.

Aria gave a short laugh, her shoulders shaking, before gesturing vaguely to the crowd around her. "You missed the fun," she teased, but her tone was warm, her teasing meant for banter, not criticism.

The moment felt light—like a reprieve from the chaos of the party—but something in the back of your mind nagged at you. Tara and Brian weren't where you had left them.

The question slipped out before you could overthink it.

"Hey, have you seen Tara or Brian?" you asked casually, scanning her face for any hint of recognition. "They were over there earlier, but now I can't find them."

Aria's smirk widened, and for a second, she didn't say anything, just let the music thud around you like she was holding onto some secret. Then, without shame, she leaned in, almost laughing as she said, "They're at it upstairs."

You blinked, leaning closer to her to make sure you heard her right. The music pulsed too loud, swallowing her words, and your mind tried to fill in the blanks. They're sitting upstairs? They're chatting upstairs?

It was almost funny—her tone, the absurdity of what she'd just said—so you laughed loosely, shaking your head. "What?" you asked, still grinning, your voice light, almost teasing.

She leaned back slightly, her expression practically glowing with drunken mischief, and repeated, louder this time, "They're fucking upstairs."

The smile fell from your face.

At first, the words didn't feel real. They felt distant, like they'd been said about someone else, not Tara and Brian. Not the Brian who had kissed you. Not Tara, your best friend.

You stared at Aria, blinking, waiting for her to break the joke. Surely, she was messing with you. Surely, it was just Aria being Aria, drunk and teasing.

"What?" The word came out soft, barely audible, trembling on your lips like it wasn't really yours.

It couldn't be true. Tara and Brian? Brian kissed you. His lips had been on yours, his hand on your waist. Just minutes ago, it had felt perfect—like something out of a dream.

You tried to rationalize it, to push the idea out of your head.

Sure, people had teased about Tara and Brian before, said they'd look cute together. But that was years ago, back when it was nothing more than an innocent observation. Not now. Not when Brian kissed you.

Aria, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you, kept going, her smirk growing even wider. She leaned closer, her voice teasing but louder, like this was all just harmless fun.

"What, you wanna go join them?" she joked, laughing lightly as she nodded toward the stairs. Her finger lazily pointed in their direction. "Because if that's the case, they went up there."

Her grin was huge, too wide, and you forced a laugh—tight and nervous—just to play along. But it didn't sound right, even to your own ears. Your lips twitched into a smile that didn't reach your eyes, and you felt your head buzzing, like there was a ringing in your ears, a static you couldn't shake.

Not from the music. Not from the alcohol.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true.

Your mind scrambled for reasons, for excuses. Tara would never do something like that—not to you.

You knew her, didn't you? She was loyal, maybe reckless when alcohol hit her senses, but not cruel.

And Brian? Sure, you didn't know him as well, not as deeply as you thought you knew Tara, but you'd grown up in the same spaces. You'd been close enough to see him on the field while you stayed on the sidelines, cheering from afar.

Your stomach twisted again, bile rising in your throat as you forced yourself to ask the question, the only question that might give you an out.

"Are you sure it was them?" Your voice was quiet, barely audible over the music, but the words came out steady despite the pounding in your chest.

You clung to the hope that Aria had been wrong, that she had seen someone else, that this was all some stupid misunderstanding.

Aria tilted her head at you, her expression slightly confused, as if she couldn't understand why you were asking. "Oh yeah," she said, her tone as casual as if she were talking about the weather. "They were making out in the kitchen too. It was pretty gnarly."

Her words hit like a second blow, stealing the breath from your lungs.

She didn't even seem fazed, just took a lazy sip from her red cup, her lips curling into that same amused smile.

The ringing in your ears grew louder, drowning out the music, the chatter of the party, the sound of your own breathing. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your body frozen between fight and flight, between storming upstairs and pretending this wasn't happening.

Because it wasn't happening. It couldn't be.

You scanned the room desperately, your gaze darting between the couples tangled up on couches, slipping away toward the stairs. People you didn't know. People who didn't matter. It could be anyone upstairs, couldn't it? There were so many people here, so many faces that blurred together in the haze of alcohol and sweat and flashing lights.

But the image of them—Tara and Brian, together, doing what Aria said—burned behind your eyes like a brand.

The bass of the music pounded in your chest, an unrelenting rhythm that only made the nausea clawing at your throat worse.

You couldn't stay in there. The walls felt like they were shrinking, the air thick and stifling as if every breath you took was doing nothing. Your chest was tight, your stomach turning violently, and the music was a cruel, unrelenting pulse in your skull. You felt like you might throw up, or cry, or both.

But you couldn't. Not here. Not in front of Aria, not in front of anyone.

You turned sharply, barely aware of the steps your feet took as you wove your way through the crowd. It was a blur of faces and noise, laughter and voices blending into a shapeless roar.

Your legs felt shaky, your knees unsteady, but you kept moving, forcing yourself toward the front door like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

The cool night air hit you the second you stepped outside, but it didn't bring the relief you were hoping for. Your breaths were shallow and fast, coming out in sharp gasps that did nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

You stumbled down the steps, the wooden ground feeling unsteady beneath your feet, your hand brushing the railing just to keep yourself upright.

It was quiet outside, but not enough.

The ringing in your ears wouldn't stop, and it wasn't the music anymore—it was the words Aria had said, looping in your head like a cruel joke. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep going, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes as you moved further down the walkway, away from the house and the noise and the suffocating heat.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, blurring the porch lights and casting halos around the shadows. You blinked rapidly, trying to force them back, but it was no use. They slipped free anyway, streaking down your face in hot, silent trails.

Your hand shot up to your mouth, your fingers pressing hard against your trembling lips as if that would stop the tears, stop the shaking in your chest. You couldn't breathe—your lungs refused to fill no matter how hard you tried, and the ache in your throat only grew sharper with every failed attempt.

You leaned against the wooden railing at the base of the stairs, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ached. The nausea rose again, sharp and overwhelming, and you hunched forward slightly, gasping for air like you'd just run a marathon. The tears came faster now, hot and relentless, and you gave up trying to fight them.

Your mind screamed that it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true. Aria was drunk—she had to be wrong.

There were so many couples here, so many people sneaking away. She probably confused them with someone else. But even as you tried to convince yourself, you could feel the doubt creeping in, winding its way around your chest and squeezing tighter and tighter.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be Tara. It couldn't be Brian.

___

Tara laid on her back, staring at the ceiling, the hazy glow of the bedside lamp casting uneven shadows across the cracked plaster.

Her chest rose and fell quickly, her breath catching in her throat like a sob she wouldn't let out. The room reeked of sweat and stale alcohol, and every inch of her skin felt wrong—sticky and stifled, like it didn't belong to her anymore.

The air felt heavy and suffocating, the dull thrum of the music outside the door a distant reminder that the party was still going on. But in this room—in this bed—everything had gone horribly, irreversibly wrong.

She could still feel Brian beside her, his warmth radiating off the sheets they had shared, and it made her skin crawl. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, and the sweat slicking her skin wasn't from exertion or alcohol anymore—it was shame, seeping out of her pores and clinging to her like a second skin.

She sat up abruptly, the motion making her dizzy, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted for a second, and she dug her nails into the mattress to steady herself.

The sheet slipped down her shoulders, and she yanked it off like it had burned her.

She couldn't even look at Brian, couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. She didn't need to; his lazy grin was practically tangible in the air, smug and satisfied in a way that made her want to throw up.

Her mind raced, fragments of the last hour playing on a loop she couldn't stop.

The way he had touched her, kissed her—none of it had felt like it was supposed to. It had been mechanical, hollow, every moment an act she had performed because she had to. Because she was the one who had started it.

She pressed her palms against her forehead, digging her fingertips into her temples like she could claw the memories out. She hadn't wanted him.

Not really. But she had kissed him first, hadn't she? She had leaned in when she shouldn't have, her lips brushing his in a moment of weakness, confusion, or something she couldn't even name.

And he'd kissed her back. Of course, he had. Because he was an idiot.

From there, it had spiraled—hands that didn't belong on her skin, whispers she didn't want to hear, a weight pressing her down until she felt like she couldn't breathe.

She had gone along with it, letting herself sink into the numbness because it was easier than facing the truth. She had laughed when he made a joke, arched her back when he touched her, gasped in all the right places like she wasn't dying inside.

Like she wasn't drowning in disgust.

But the truth was suffocating now, wrapping around her throat like a noose. She had let it happen. Worse—she had made it happen.

Her body felt heavy, her limbs sluggish as she stood and began searching for her clothes. Your shirt lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, but when she reached for it, her hand froze. She couldn't put it back on. It didn't feel right. Nothing felt right.

Your shirt. Tossed carelessly over the back of a chair in the corner, the one you had given to her earlier. Because you thought this night would be fun, for both of you.

You had wanted her to come.

The sight and thought of it sent a pang through her chest, sharp and unbearable, but she grabbed it anyway.

She pulled it over her head, the familiar fabric brushing against her skin, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like a lifeline. Like she could pretend this hadn't happened. That it wasn't real.

But the sweat was still there, sticky and vile against her skin, and no amount of fabric could hide it. It felt like it had seeped into her soul, tainting her in a way that no amount of scrubbing would ever erase.

Brian shifted on the bed behind her, and she stiffened.

"Tara," he said, his voice low and lazy, like he had just woken up from a nap. "What's the rush? Come back here.”

She didn't even look at him. Her jaw clenched as she yanked her skirt on, her fingers fumbling with the piece. The lump in her throat grew thicker with every second, threatening to choke her.

"Seriously, are you mad or something?" he asked, a hint of confusion creeping into his tone.

Her response was the click of the door latch.

The hallway felt brighter than it should have, the overhead light buzzing faintly as her bare feet padded against the cool floor. She could feel the stares the moment she emerged, the way the noise in the hallway quieted just slightly as people turned to look.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat as she caught sight of a group of guys leaning against the wall. One of them smirked at her, elbowing his friend, and she wanted to scream. She could feel their assumptions, their judgments, and the heat of their eyes burned into her skin.

Someone let out a low whistle as she passed, and her fists clenched at her sides.

She kept her head down, her hair falling like a curtain around her face as she descended the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last, her legs trembling under the weight of what she had done.

The air felt colder when she reached the ground floor, the faint draft from the open door biting at her skin. She scanned the room automatically, her eyes searching for you, even though she wasn't sure she could face you now.

But you weren't there.

The corner where you had stood earlier was empty, the space where she should have been—where she wanted to be—gaping and hollow. Her chest tightened, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear the music anymore.

She didn't know what she would say when she found you. If she would tell you the truth or if the words would choke her before they ever left her lips. But she knew she needed to see you. Right now.

Because this—this thing that had just happened—it wasn't who she was. It wasn't who she wanted to be. And it wasn't supposed to happen.

It wasn't supposed to happen.

Her breath hitched as her gaze swept over the empty space where you should have been. Her chest felt like it was caving in, the weight of your absence pressing against her ribs.

She lingered at the base of the stairs, her hand gripping the banister so tightly her knuckles turned white. The urge to turn around, to flee back up the stairs and disappear into the bathroom, was almost overwhelming.

Her hands moved to her hair, fingers threading through the strands as she tugged at the roots, trying to ground herself. Her mind raced with thoughts she didn't want to think.

The walls of the house felt like they were closing in, the noise of the party distorting and warping around her. She could still feel Brian's touch, still feel the sweat clinging to her skin, and it made her stomach churn violently.

She wanted to throw up. God, she needed to throw up. She wanted to purge every trace of him from her body, like vomiting would somehow erase what she'd done. Her body screamed at her to turn back, to lock herself in the bathroom upstairs and sob into her hands until the party was over. Until she could leave without facing you.

Because seeing you would mean telling you. And she didn't want to. She didn't want to tell you.

Her chest heaved as the thought of your face swam into her mind, unbidden and crystal clear. She could already see it—your wide, questioning eyes, the way your lips would part, trembling as the realization hit.

It would look just like it had when you were kids, back when Tara had lied to you about something stupid or broken a promise. The memory of it felt like a punch to her gut, and she nearly doubled over with the force of it.

She didn't want to see that look on your face again. She couldn't bear it.

But she had to.

Tara's legs felt rooted to the ground, her body teetering on the edge of a decision she didn't want to make. Her nails dug into her scalp, her breath quick and uneven as she fought the overwhelming urge to run.

Every instinct screamed at her to hide, to shove this moment into some dark corner of her mind and bury it where it couldn't hurt either of you.

But she couldn't.

She had to find you. She had to see you. Because no matter how much she didn't want to face what she'd done, no matter how disgusted she felt with herself, she knew that running wasn't an option.

Her feet finally moved, one step at a time, as if the very act of walking was a war against gravity. She let her hands fall from her hair, clenching them at her sides, and forced herself to keep moving. The knot in her stomach tightened with every step, but she pressed forward anyway.

Because she owed you the truth. Even if it destroyed her.

Tara scanned the dance floor, her eyes darting from one face to another, searching desperately for a glimpse of you. The flashing lights and shifting bodies blurred together, and no matter how hard she looked, no head turned out to be yours. The longer she searched, the harder it became to breathe. Panic clawed at her chest, her stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Then she saw Aria.

Tara didn't know Aria—not really—but she recognized her. She'd seen the two of you together before, laughing at something Tara hadn't been privy to. And now Aria was looking at her, eyebrows raised, her lips curled into an amused smirk that made Tara's skin crawl.

Before Tara could decide what to do, Aria lifted her hand, her painted nails catching the light, and pointed to the door.

Tara froze.

It wasn't the gesture itself that hit her; it was what it meant. Aria had caught her looking, and she knew. Whether it was some instinct, some unspoken understanding, or just Aria being perceptive, it didn't matter. She knew.

Tara swallowed hard, her throat dry. She didn't know why Aria was pointing, but she could only guess it had something to do with you.

Had you gone outside? Or had you left entirely?

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her toward the door. If there was even a chance you were out there, she had to find you. She couldn't let you leave, not without telling you.

The knot in her stomach tightened, her pulse pounding in her ears as she pushed through the crowd. Tara didn't look back at Aria—she couldn't. Whatever silent judgment lingered in that smirk would haunt her later. For now, all that mattered was finding you.

So, she pushed through the crowd, the sweaty, swaying bodies pressing against her as the stench of spilled beer and cheap cologne filled her nose.

Her breaths came fast and shallow, the air in the house too thick, too stifling. She couldn't stop imagining what she'd see when she finally found you—if you were even still here. If you weren't, she wasn't sure she could handle it.

Her nerves twisted into something sharp and unbearable, clawing at her insides.

How could she look you in the eye? How could she possibly explain that she'd ruined everything?

Every step closer to the door made her chest tighten. She couldn't picture your face, not without picturing the moment it would change—when you'd realize what she'd done.

How your eyes would harden, your lips press together, and then your expression would crumple like it always did when you were trying not to cry. That was what would kill her. That look.

And then what? Would you ever speak to her again? Would you ever let her near you again? She'd ruined everything. All of it.

When she finally shoved her way to the front door and pushed it open, the cold air hit her like a slap. Her bare legs prickled, and the chill seeped into her skin, but it wasn't enough to wash away the sweat clinging to her body.

That disgusting, sticky sweat that felt like a mark of her guilt. She shuddered, her arms crossing over her chest as she stepped out onto the porch.

She looked around carefully, her heart pounding. The street was mostly quiet, save for the faint thrum of music from the house and the occasional passing car. For a moment, she thought you weren't there, and her stomach dropped.

But then she saw you.

You were sitting on the stairs, hunched over slightly, your arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to block out the cold. The soft light from the porch cast a faint glow over you, illuminating the curve of your shoulder, the tilt of your head.

Tara froze.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she couldn't move. Couldn't think. She just stood there, staring at you, her hands trembling at her sides. The weight of what she'd done pressed down harder than ever, making her legs feel like they might give out beneath her.

You were right there. Right in front of her. And she had no idea what to say.

For a second, Tara wanted to turn around again. Her feet twitched like they might carry her back inside, up to that bathroom where she could lock the door and collapse on the tile floor. She didn't have to tell you. She couldn't tell you. She couldn't even look at you.

Her chest heaved, her breath catching as she stared at the back of your head. You sat there so still, so quiet, and she felt like an intruder just being here, like her very presence was an assault on whatever moment of peace you were trying to hold onto.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't tell you.

Her stomach twisted, the nausea bubbling up again, and she swore the sweat clinging to her skin got colder, thicker. The words she needed to say tangled in her throat, choking her. She didn't dare to move. Didn't dare to speak.

But then, before she could stop herself, before her brain could stop her body, her mouth opened.

And your name slipped out.

"Y/N?"

It was small, barely audible over the faint hum of the night. Raspy, broken, like it had been clawed out of her throat. It wasn't even a word, really—just a sound, raw and desperate, heavy with everything she couldn't say.

You flinched, your shoulders jerking upward like a startled reflex, the same way you always did when something scared you.

It was such a specific little quirk, one Tara had known since you were kids—how your hands would shoot up, brushing at your face as if shielding yourself from something unseen.

It almost made her smile. Almost.

But she didn't deserve to smile around you anymore. Not after what she'd done. The thought hit her like a slap, and whatever faint curve had started forming on her lips immediately dropped.

You didn't need to look back to know who it was. That voice was ingrained in you like muscle memory. It was the same voice that had yelled your name when the ice cream truck jingled down the street, excitement cracking through every syllable.

The same voice that had pleaded between gasps of laughter, "Y/N, stop! Please, I'm begging!" when you'd tickled her so hard she'd collapsed onto the carpet, tears of joy streaming down her face.

But you did look back.

And when you did, Tara's breath caught in her throat.

Your face was streaked with faint trails of tears—not many, just a few—but they were enough to break her all over again. Enough to twist that growing knot in her stomach so tight it felt like it would crush her from the inside out.

Your mascara was still perfect, though. Of course, it was. Everything about you always seemed perfect. You looked beautiful, even now, even when the evidence of your sadness glimmered faintly under the dim porch light.

But then there was the look on her face, the faint crease of her brows, the way her lips parted like she couldn't quite piece it all together. Why were you crying? Did you already know?

Or was it something else?

Had someone else hurt you tonight? Had someone been rude to you, said something that cut too deep?

Her chest tightened at the thought, an instinctive protectiveness surging up despite the shame gnawing at her. If someone had hurt you, if someone had dared to make you cry, she'd—

But then it hit her: it didn't matter. Whatever had happened, whoever had said or done whatever—it wouldn't erase what she'd done.

She didn't know what to say.

Her mind was blank, drowning under waves of guilt and shame that threatened to pull her under, her breath catching painfully in her throat. What was she supposed to say? How could she possibly say it? Every sentence she tried to form shattered before it could even reach her lips, the jagged pieces cutting deeper into her as the silence stretched on.

And yet, even as her chest heaved, even as her hands trembled, and every instinct screamed at her to speak—to do something—Tara stood frozen. She stood there, her entire world crumbling beneath her feet, unable to find the words that might save her from this moment.

But she didn't have to think.

Because you spoke first.

"Is it true?"

Your voice wasn't loud or sharp. It wasn't angry or demanding.

It was soft. Raspy. Raw, like it hurt just to speak.

And it was worse than anything Tara had prepared herself for.

The sound of your voice sliced through her like a blade, sharper than anything she had ever felt. Her stomach twisted violently, a sickening churn that made her want to double over. The cold night air wasn't enough to stop the heat rushing to her face, or the prickling sensation behind her eyes that threatened to spill over.

Her breath hitched, and for a second, the world around her seemed to stop.

Tara froze, her heart slamming against her ribcage as though it were trying to escape.

You knew.

The realization hit her like a freight train, leaving her reeling, unable to breathe, unable to think. You knew, and she hadn't even been the one to tell you.

Her chest constricted painfully, her shame deepening into something far more unbearable. Who had told you? Who?

The question burned in her mind, the thought of someone else's voice breaking this news to you making her stomach churn with nausea and fury. She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch whoever it was. To yell at them for stealing this moment from her, for forcing this confrontation before she'd had a chance to figure out what to do—how to fix it.

But then another, far more horrifying thought crept in.

Were you talking about Brian?

Were you talking about what she'd done with him?

Or was it something else entirely?

The flicker of hope—the desperate, irrational wish that this wasn't about what she had done—was crushed almost immediately under the unbearable weight of her guilt.

It had to be about Brian.

It had to be.

Her throat tightened, her mouth dry as the silence stretched on between you. She needed to say something, to explain, to beg you to forgive her. But she couldn't move, couldn't force the words out of her throat.

Her knees felt weak, her chest heavy, like she might collapse at any moment. All she could do was stand there, trembling and small, as the world continued to crumble around her.

"No," she said finally, the word slipping out too fast, too sharp, too desperate.

The sound of her own voice made her wince, the harshness of it only amplifying the crack in her composure. She swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she tried to reel herself back in.

"I mean..." Her voice broke, cracked open like a wound as she scrambled for some semblance of control. "What are you talking about?

Her words sounded weak, hollow, dripping with guilt so heavy she felt like it might crush her. She hated how obvious it was. How every crack in her voice betrayed the truth she was trying so hard to deny.

Her hands were trembling now, clenched into tight fists at her sides as if holding onto herself would stop her from falling apart entirely. But it wasn't enough.

Silence passed between you, thick and suffocating, wrapping around Tara like a noose.

She thought she heard you sniffle, a soft, broken sound that barely reached her ears but still managed to pierce her heart. It sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing down on her, nearly knocking the air from her lungs.

Her chest ached with the overwhelming urge to do something—to move, to reach for you, to fix this. She wanted to sit down next to you, to wrap her arms around you and hug you so tight you could barely breathe.

Like she always used to.

Like she had done every time you cried about the thought of never having Brian. How she would shush you, brush her fingers through your hair, and promise that no one would ever make you feel that way again.

But this wasn't like those times.

This wasn't her comforting you over some distant, unreachable heartbreak.

Now, you were crying because of her.

Tara's breath hitched as the thought echoed in her mind, her legs trembling as she fought the overwhelming instinct to fall to her knees in front of you, to beg you to tell her how to make this right. But the guilt—the shame—kept her rooted in place, her fingers digging into her palms as she struggled to keep herself upright.

She wanted to say something. To ask if you were okay. If you were mad. If you hated her.

But then you spoke, and everything around her shattered.

"Did you fuck him?"

Your voice was quiet, soft in a way that somehow made the question even sharper. It wasn't an accusation or a scream—it wasn't even a demand.

It was a plea.

And that made it worse.

Tara swore the ground beneath her feet disappeared, a sickening freefall that left her stomach in knots. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out, her throat tightening like a vice as the words refused to form.

She could barely breathe, barely think, as your question lingered in the air, heavy and unbearable. You didn't look at her as you said it, your head tilted slightly away, as though the very idea of meeting her gaze hurt too much.

And God, she wanted to fall apart right then and there. To drop to her knees and tell you everything. To grab your hands and promise you that she didn't mean for this to happen.

But all she could do was stand there, her chest rising and falling in uneven gasps as the question echoed in her ears.

Tara couldn't hold it in anymore.

Her hands felt clammy, trembling at her sides as tears blurred her vision, spilling over before she could even blink them away.

Her chest ached, heaving with shallow, panicked breaths that she couldn't seem to steady. And then, when she opened her mouth to speak, her voice cracked—fragile and uneven, the way it always did when she tried to talk through her tears.

"I'm sorry," she almost sobbed, the words escaping her lips before she could stop them.

Her voice trembled, heavy with guilt and desperation, breaking apart on the syllables like she couldn't even hold herself together long enough to say the words properly.

She felt her knees buckle, her legs trembling under the weight of everything she'd been holding in. It was too much, far too much, and she swore she was going to collapse right there in front of you.

She couldn't even pretend it hadn't happened. She didn't have it in her to lie to you—not to you. Not ever.

Not since you were kids, when you could always tell if she was hiding something. She could never play Mafia with you during those endless summer afternoons because she couldn't keep a secret from you, not even a small one. You always saw right through her, always caught her when she tried.

And now, you'd caught her again.

Tara's throat felt raw, her tears spilling faster now as her whole body seemed to betray her, shaking like she couldn't stand under the weight of her own shame.

You didn't say anything.

Tara couldn't even make out your body language—not with the way her tears blurred her vision, turning you into a hazy shape against the dim light of the porch. It made her feel even smaller, even more pathetic, knowing she couldn't even look at you properly. The space between you both felt impossibly vast, though you were so close.

Her sobs came in uneven gasps, too loud, too sharp, filling the silence like a jagged edge tearing through her. It was almost unbearable, the way the quiet stretched on, the way you didn't speak or move. It felt like you were waiting, like you were letting her cries settle into the air before either of you could do anything else.

And eventually, they did.

Tara's sobs began to quiet, the frantic hitching in her chest slowing to an uneven rhythm. She was still crying, though. The tears kept falling, one after the other, hot and relentless, dripping down her cheeks and onto the ground beneath her.

Her breaths were shaky, catching now and then like she might start up again, but the storm was beginning to fade.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, quieter this time, but no less desperate. She was clinging to the words like they were her last hope, like repeating them enough might somehow make them mean more, make them matter.

But the silence between you both pressed back at her, heavy and suffocating, and she didn't know what else to do.

Then you spoke.

Tara's breath caught at the sound of your voice, soft and filled with emotion, yet still unmistakably yours—the voice everyone loved. It was steady, even now, even when it shouldn't have been.

She could see it, imagine it, the way everyone at school hung on your every word during presentations. The way people complimented you, envied you for the way you spoke so clearly, so beautifully.

But now, it wasn't a presentation.

"It's fine," you said, so softly it almost sounded like a sigh.

Tara froze, her whole body stiffening at the words.

A brief silence followed, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest, each beat echoing louder in her ears. And then you continued.

"You could've told me you liked him, Tara... because I didn't know that you did."

You still weren't looking at her, but Tara could hear the strain in your voice. The slight quiver that betrayed you were on the verge of crying. She could picture it—the tears welling in your eyes, the way you'd blink them back like you always did, refusing to let them fall until you were alone.

And it shattered her.

Anger and sorrow crashed over her in waves, pulling her under until she could barely think, barely breathe.

Why would you say it was fine? How could you say it was fine? It wasn't.

It couldn't be fine.

Tara wanted you to spit in her face, slap her so hard her cheek stung, shove her down the porch stairs— anything to show her how much she'd hurt you. Anything to prove she hadn't ruined this for nothing. Anything to show that what she'd done mattered.

But she wasn't surprised.

You were a forgiver. Always.

You forgave the girl who spread rumors about you in middle school, the bus driver who skipped your stop in the pouring rain, Sam when she didn't make enough food for dinner when you were over and you had to go hungry. Every time, you brushed it off with a smile and moved on.

And now, even this.

But Tara couldn't take it. She couldn't stand that you thought she liked Brian, even for a second.

Liked him? She despised him.

She hated him so much it burned, hate so deep it made her sick to her stomach. She hated the way he smirked, the way he touched her, the way she could still feel his hands on her skin if she thought about it too long. She hated his voice, his eyes, his existence.

How could you not see that? How could you not understand that you were the one she wanted? That it had always been you.

"I..." Her voice cracked as the words clawed their way up her throat. "I don't like him."

It was barely audible, so soft and stammering that she wasn't sure you even heard it.

But she couldn't say more.

She wanted to. The words were right there on the tip of her tongue—I like you.

But she couldn't say them.

Of course, she couldn't.

Tara didn't know if you'd heard her. She couldn't tell, and she wasn't sure if it even mattered. It wasn't like she could confess that she'd loved you since the day you two were each other's first kiss at ten years old.

Even then, it hadn't been serious—just a joke, a silly little "practice" kiss to prepare for middle school. But Tara had carried it with her ever since.

She watched as you stood up from your makeshift seat on the stairs, brushing off your dress—the dress you'd worn to impress Brian. It was pretty on you, almost too pretty, and Tara hated how much she loved the way you looked in it.

When you turned to face her, the dim light caught your face, and Tara's heart sank at the sight of your teary, bloodshot eyes.

She couldn't tell if they were red from crying or from the alcohol you'd been drinking, and that thought filled her with an ache she couldn't describe. She didn't know how much you'd had to drink after you left the bathroom and disappeared into the party, alone.

But it didn't matter.

You didn't acknowledge her quiet confession.

Instead, you said, "I really don't want to talk to you right now... so I think I'm going to leave."

Your voice was steady, even soft, but it held a distance that made Tara's chest tighten.

You turned away, muttering something about how "it's getting boring anyway," and that was when Tara realized what you were planning. You were going to leave. Alone.

You'd promised to leave together.

Tara had come to the party for you, to take care of you, and now you were walking away.

She saw it before it happened—the way your steps faltered on the stairs, your balance tipping as if you might fall.

Tara was moving before she could think, catching you, her hands gripping your arms tightly to steady you. She felt the panic rise in her throat, her breath hitching at the thought of you stumbling home, drunk and vulnerable, without anyone to protect you.

"I'll call Sam," she said quickly, nervously, brushing her hair behind her ear. Her voice wavered, soft and hesitant. "She'll come pick us up."

But you pulled your arms free from her grip, stepping back.

"I really don't want to be anywhere near you right now," you said, your voice quieter now, but just as sharp. "I'll walk. It's fine."

Tara scrambled for another option, her words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. "I—I don't have to go with you! I'll call Chad, or Mindy—they'll take you home. Please."

You were already heading down the outdoor stairs, your steps uneven but determined.

"I said it's fine, Tara," you said, your voice cutting through her rambling. You didn't stop, didn't turn to look back.

"I'll walk."

Tara instinctively began to follow you. Her feet moved on their own, driven by the thought of you wobbling down the dark streets, vulnerable in the cold night air. But she stopped herself after a few steps, freezing in place as her guilt pulled her back.

She'd done enough already.

Sleeping with Brian—your crush since you were five—was bad enough. Chasing after you now, invading the space you clearly wanted, would only make things worse. She had no right to follow you, no right to protect you after what she'd done.

So she stayed rooted where she was, watching you disappear into the night. Your steps were uneven, your shoulders hunched against the cold, and Tara could see you trembling. She didn't know if it was from the icy air or the tears she could still hear in your voice, but the thought of either made her stomach twist.

She wanted to help you. She wanted to run after you, throw a jacket around your shoulders, and walk you home, just to make sure you were safe. But she didn't. She couldn't.

It was a long walk to your house from here. Tara knew the streets you'd have to take, how dark and empty they'd be at this hour. The thought of something happening to you made her chest ache, but the weight of her guilt held her back. She couldn't follow you—not when you'd made it so clear you didn't want her there.

Instead, she turned back toward the party, the sounds of music and laughter filtering through the air, mocking her.

She stepped inside, the warmth of the crowded room doing nothing to ease the cold settling deep in her bones. Without you, the party felt hollow. Pointless. She couldn't even remember why she'd agreed to come in the first place—oh, right. You.

Tara lingered near the door, scanning the room as if looking for someone she knew. But no one else mattered. Aria, not Brian, not anyone else who might've offered a distraction.

You weren't here.

And without you, she couldn't stay.

___

friday (11:24pm)

im so sorry y/n

can you text me once you're home so I know you're safe?

11:56pm

did you get home safe?

pls answer

saturday (9:15am)

can you please just text me back?

im sorry. im so sorry.

2:42am

how are you? are you okay?

can i come over so we can talk? please?

2:56am

i don't know what to do... just please answer me. i just want to make things right.

sunday (10:31am)

are you coming to school tomorrow?

1:25 PM

if you want, me and sam can give you a ride. we'll pick you up, i promise.

5:58 PM

please don't shut me out like this.

Tara's eyes were glued to her phone as she pushed through the school doors, her thumb scrolling through the unanswered messages she'd sent over the weekend.

One after another, each one a desperate attempt to reach you, to say something—anything—that might make things better. But the blank screen staring back at her was the only response she'd gotten.

At first, when the silence stretched into the early hours of Saturday, Tara was terrified. She couldn't shake the thought that something might have happened to you.

Her imagination ran wild—someone approaching you while you were walking home, dragging you into the shadows. Her chest tightened every time she pictured it, and no matter how tightly she wrapped herself in her blanket, she couldn't stop shaking.

It wasn't until she remembered Life360 and checked your location that she finally exhaled. You were home. Safe. She stared at the little pin marking your house for what felt like hours, the relief flooding her body so quickly it made her dizzy. But the relief didn't last long.

The rest of the weekend was a haze of disgust and self-loathing. Tara couldn't eat. Every time she tried, her stomach twisted, and she had to stop before she threw up.

She spent most of the time curled up in her room, alternating between clutching her phone and pacing like a trapped animal. The guilt was unbearable. Every second she replayed the night in her head, wishing she could take it back, wishing she could erase the hurt she'd caused you.

Now, walking through the school hallways, the weight in her chest felt heavier than ever. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to face the stares, the whispers she knew were waiting for her. It felt like everyone could see through her, like they all knew what she'd done.

But to her surprise, the whispers weren't as loud as she'd expected—if they were there at all.

A few people glanced her way, and while some looks were judgmental, others seemed... impressed. Tara's stomach churned at the thought. She didn't want their admiration, their approval for something so vile.

She made her way to her locker, her steps dragging with every step closer. Your locker was right next to hers, and she'd been bracing herself to see you there, to finally face you in the harsh fluorescent light of the school hallway. But when she arrived, the space next to hers was empty.

Tara stood frozen at her locker for a moment before typing a quick message, her fingers moving faster than her thoughts. She wasn't expecting an answer—she hadn't received one all weekend—but the hope still lingered as she sent it anyway:

are u not coming?

are u really going to put me through history with mrs. johnson alone?

She stared at the screen for a few seconds, almost willing the writing bubble to appear. It didn't.

Sighing, Tara grabbed her books slowly, dragging out the process as if that would somehow make time pass faster—or maybe just delay the moment she'd have to admit you weren't coming.

When nothing changed, her frustration bubbled up. What else could she do? She'd apologized, begged, and explained everything she could think of.

And yet, you still weren't here, still weren't answering. With a sharp slam, she shut her locker harder than she meant to, the sound echoing down the hallway and turning a few heads. Tara didn't care.

Clutching her books against her chest, she walked toward her first class, her eyes darting to her phone every few steps. Maybe this time, the bubble would be there.

Maybe this time, you'd reply. But the screen stayed empty, and the knot in her stomach tightened with every passing second.

As she rounded the corner, her head down and shoulders tense, someone grabbed her forearm.

The sudden force pulled her off balance, dragging her closer to them in one quick, fluid motion.

Her heart skipped, and for a split second, she thought it was you. The possibility almost made her legs give out. But as her eyes darted up, the hope drained out of her when she saw who it really was.

Brian.

Her stomach twisted violently at the sight of him, and her body tensed as she tried to pull her arm free.

Brian let her arm go as quickly as he had grabbed it, holding his hands up slightly in mock surrender. "Whoa, didn't mean to scare you," he said, his voice softening. He must've seen the tension etched into her face—the way she couldn't even hide how much she didn't want to be there.

He shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "Look, I know we didn't exactly leave things on the best terms..." His words trailed off, and then he let out a nervous laugh. "You know, after you left me alone just minutes after we, uh... finished."

Tara's stomach churned, her jaw tightening. She avoided his gaze, but her silence only seemed to encourage him to keep going.

"I guess I'm just a little confused," Brian admitted, his tone dipping with hesitation. "I mean, you left like... like it burned you or something."

It did, Tara thought bitterly, the memory flashing in her mind like an open flame she couldn't put out.

"But..." he continued, stepping a little closer, "I really liked it."

Tara flinched at his words, the knot in her chest tightening with every syllable.

"And I think you're a great girl," Brian added, his voice soft and earnest, like he thought he was paying her some grand compliment.

She nearly scoffed. A great girl? The thought made her want to laugh or cry—or both. She wasn't a great girl. A great girl wouldn't have lost her best friend over a guy she didn't even want. A guy who was now standing in front of her, completely clueless to the destruction he'd unintentionally helped cause.

And then he said it.

"So... I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me?" He paused, his eyes hopeful. "You know, just try again?"

Brian looked sincere as he waited for her response. Nice, even. Of course he was—he had to be. You wouldn't fall for a prick.

At first, Tara wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to tell him that she never wanted to see him again, let alone entertain the idea of going out with him.

As if sleeping with him hadn't been enough to upend her entire world.

Why wasn't he asking you out? That question burned in her mind. He'd kissed you first, flirted with you first. He'd made you feel special. So why was he standing here, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered? Why wasn't he chasing you?

Her chest tightened as anger bubbled just beneath her skin, hot and unrelenting. But then, as she looked at him, something shifted. His face wasn't smug or calculating—it was sincere. He looked like he meant it, like he actually wanted this, and the fire in her chest began to dull. Her expression softened against her will.

Did he really want to be with her?

The thought felt impossible at first, but the longer she considered it, the more it began to make sense. Or at least, she convinced herself it did.

Because you weren't coming back to her. That much was clear. You hadn't answered a single text, and you weren't waiting at her locker like you always did. You didn't even want to look at her, let alone talk. And why would you? She'd ruined everything.

The ache of losing you hit her again, sharp and suffocating. You were her best friend—her only true friend. And now? She had no one. Sure, there were Mindy, Chad, and Anika, but they didn't share the same schedule. She didn't see them enough to cling to them like she clung to you.

So what else was she supposed to do? The least she could do was try to fill that void with something. With someone.

And Brian... well, he was here. He wanted her—or at least, he seemed to. Maybe this could go the right way. Maybe this could be enough.

Tara swallowed hard, trying to steady her thoughts.

It wasn't about replacing you—not really. Nothing could. But if you weren't coming back, if you weren't going to forgive her, what was she supposed to do? Sit alone, wallowing in her mistakes while you moved on without her?

The sincerity in his voice and the way he looked at her—like she wasn't the terrible person she knew she was—made it easier to rationalize. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea. He wasn't a bad guy, after all. He was sweet in his own way, and clearly, he liked her. That had to count for something, right?

You wouldn't even care. The thought stung, but it came unbidden. You were probably glad to be done with her. Maybe she was the only one left mourning what you'd had.

So Tara forced herself to take a deep breath, her gaze softening completely as she met Brian's eyes.

"Sure, I'd love to."

#jenna ortega x reader #mabel x reader #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #vada cavell x reader #wednesday addams x reader #melissa barrera x reader #sam carpenter #ask #sam carpenter x reader

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skzophreniic · 1 month ago

Text

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content., semi-public sex, dom!changbin, spanking, gagging (panties), rough sex, degradation, manhandling, dirty talk, creampie, overstimulation, valet kink (??)

⍣ ೋ notes: shoutout to that one ask i got asking when i was gonna write for han and changbin and they ended up being the next two

🧾 FORMAL INVESTIGATION REPORT

Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Subject: Mustang Inspection Staff Member Under Review: Changbin Seo Guest Involved: Room 101

You weren’t expecting to be summoned like a misbehaving schoolgirl.

The envelope was slipped under your suite door sometime mid-afternoon—gold-trimmed, obnoxiously elegant, as if a wax seal would’ve been too gauche. The message inside was short:

To our valued guest, Concierge Aeryn requests a private audience regarding your submitted complaint. Please meet in the Executive Lounge on Level 3 at your earliest convenience.

Right. Because when you file a totally reasonable complaint about a gremlin in a sleeveless shirt launching himself across your Mustang like he’s in The Fast and the Furious: Valet Drift, you clearly need to be summoned.

You’re already bracing for nonsense by the time you step into the lounge.

But even you didn’t expect this level of bullshit.

Because there he is—Changbin, the human embodiment of “I bet I could fix it with a wrench and three flexes”—sprawled in a leather armchair like he owns the place. One leg thrown over the other, glass of whiskey in hand, smug little smirk already in place like it was professionally installed.

“Of course you’re here,” you mutter.

He raises his glass in a lazy salute. “Wouldn’t miss it. I love a formal meeting. Really brings out my diplomatic side.”

Before you can strangle him with the decorative throw pillow, Concierge Aeryn stands.

She’s terrifyingly elegant—adorable pink blazer and skirt but sharp dark eyes, clipboard in hand, expression politely unreadable.

“Thank you for joining us,” she says smoothly. “This is a voluntary resolution session in response to your recent concern about one of our valet attendants. For transparency, the staff member has been informed and is present for discussion.”

You blink. “Discussion? I didn’t ask for a conversation. I asked for a reprimand. Or a refund. Or a ceremonial beheading. I’m flexible.”

Changbin coughs into his drink.

Aeryn doesn’t flinch. “We believe some conflicts are best resolved through direct communication.”

“Through… conversation,” you echo flatly. “About how this man violated my Mustang’s personal space and then revved the engine like he was about to take it to prom.”

Changbin shrugs, all fake innocence. “You left the keys in it. I assumed she was into me.”

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls with 5.0L V8s and ceramic coatings.”

His eyes glitter. “Only the ones with leather interiors.”

You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair just enough to seem unimpressed. “I don’t even know why you’re here. Is this what the hotel does? Hosts dramatic little interventions instead of just, I don’t know, issuing formal warnings like a normal HR department?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Changbin drawls, “you’re looking at HR.”

You blink.

He grins wider and gestures vaguely at his upper lip, where the faint remnants of adhesive still cling.

“You were the guy in the fake mustache earlier?” you say, absolutely not meaning to sound that incredulous or amused.

“Technically still am.” He pulls a tiny plastic mustache from his back pocket like it’s evidence in a murder trial. “I moonlight as ‘Brian from Human Resources.’ He’s got three kids, a mortgage, and a deep passion for employee accountability.”

You stare at him. He gives you a solemn nod, like this is completely normal. Like he’s not sitting here with the fakest mustache known to mankind and a whiskey glass he definitely wasn’t authorized to have.

Aeryn makes a note on her clipboard. Possibly “burn everything.”

“I want Brian to be fired,” you announce, deadpan.

“Brian’s unionized,” Changbin says gravely. “You’ll have to go through corporate.”

“They’ll definitely hear about this,” you shoot back.

“Shit,” he says, and sips his drink like this is suddenly a high-stakes legal drama and not the most unprofessional mediation session in hotel history.

Aeryn looks up with the calm of a woman mentally browsing job listings. “If we’re finished with theatrics, perhaps we can proceed to the next steps. Our records show the Mustang was returned in excellent condition. However, as a courtesy to you, we’re offering a full inspection—car wash included—free of charge.”

You blink. “Wait. That’s it?”

“That, and a voucher for one complimentary spa treatment,” Aeryn adds. “Redeemable at any time during your stay. Though I suggest sooner rather than later. For stress relief.”

Changbin perks up. “We could do a couples massage.”

You don’t even dignify that with a response. You just turn to Aeryn.

“Is he going to be the one inspecting the car?”

“Only if you consent,” she says, already expecting the answer.

“I don’t.”

Changbin leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice dropping just a notch. “I’m very… thorough. When I inspect things. Very… hands-on.”

Your stomach does something wildly inconvenient. You chalk it up to caffeine withdrawal and the fact that he’s objectively hot in that smug bastard who probably has his own protein line kind of way.

“Tell me,” you say slowly, “do you flirt with every guest whose car you manhandle, or was I just lucky?”

“You were lucky,” he says without missing a beat. “That car was sexy, but you—”

“Stop.”

“—you made her look tame.”

You blink slowly. “Are you actively trying to get fired?”

“Depends. If it gets me alone with you in a parking garage… maybe.”

Aeryn closes her folder with a snap. “This concludes the resolution session. Miss, if you’d like to supervise the vehicle inspection, please meet Mr. Seo in the parking garage in thirty minutes. If not, he’ll be supervised by a senior valet.”

You nod stiffly and rise. “Fine.”

Changbin’s already on his feet, stretching in that obnoxious, broad-shouldered way like he’s warming up for something more intense than a paint check. He winks at you as you turn to go.

“Don’t worry,” he calls after you. “I’ll be gentle with her this time.”

You don’t turn around, but your voice drifts back cool and clipped: “Can’t say the same for me.”

And just like that, you leave them both stunned—Aeryn in amused disbelief and Changbin with his jaw halfway to the marble floor, clearly unprepared for a guest who plays the game better than he does.

_____________________________________________________________

The parking garage is dim and humming—low lights buzzing overhead, the distant sound of tires squealing somewhere in the bowels of the building. It smells like concrete, polish, and testosterone. Probably imported.

You’re not sure what you expected when you agreed to this little charade of an “inspection,” but it wasn’t a fully detailed, sparkling version of your Mustang parked dead center in the valet bay like it’s on display at a car show.

And definitely not Changbin leaning against the hood like he’s auditioning for a gritty magazine spread titled Torque and Temptation.

He’s swapped the sleeveless shirt for a black fitted polo that’s somehow worse. Tighter. Smugger. The sleeves cling to his biceps in a way that should be illegal in most countries.

“I figured she deserved a little TLC,” he says, pushing off the hood with that maddeningly lazy swagger. “Did the wash myself. Waxed her, too.”

Your gaze darts to the faint water trails drying along the edge of the fender. You narrow your eyes.

“She doesn’t need waxing,” you deadpan.

He smirks. “Thought she liked it smooth.”

You don’t blink. “You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Just inconveniently available.”

You square your shoulders. “You’re here to inspect for damage, not flirt like a used car salesman.”

He grins like he is the six-pack. “Multitasking is a skill, sweetheart.”

God, he’s infuriating.

But then he crouches beside the front wheel, fingers gliding along the curve of the rim with surprising delicacy. The shift from cocky to focused is disorienting.

He looks up at you from beneath his lashes, voice lower now. “You see this?” He taps lightly against the edge. “No scratches. No dents. And trust me, I’d notice. I’ve got… very sensitive hands.”

You fold your arms, because the way he’s crouched—thick thighs straining, lips just parted, that teasing glint never quite gone—is more than a little distracting.

“I’m sure you do,” you say tightly.

He stands again, slow and deliberate, brushing his palms off on the seat of his pants. “Want to see how good they are?”

You blink. “What, are you offering a back massage now?”

He grins wickedly. “Only if you’re parked face-down.”

You choke on your own inhale.

He steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. “You don’t scare easy, do you?”

“I drive a Mustang,” you say coolly. “I scare other people.”

He whistles low. “So that’s what this is. You’re trying to out-alpha the valet.”

“No,” you say, stepping into his space. “I’m trying to keep the valet from jizzing on my engine block.”

That actually stuns him for a second. His jaw drops. Then—laughter, full-bodied and infuriatingly attractive.

“Goddamn,” he mutters.

And then he’s moving—no more teasing, no more playful quips—just pure, deliberate intention. He crowds you against the car with all the subtlety of a freight train, body heat pouring off him like a goddamn furnace. One hand plants beside your head on the roof, the other slides around your waist, dragging you flush to him.

“You think I won’t?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Think I won’t bend you over this car right now and fuck you like I’m marking territory?”

Your breath stutters. You don’t answer. Can’t.

That’s when he glances up, eyes flicking to the discreet little security camera nestled in the corner of the ceiling. Red light blinking. Recording.

You expect him to flinch. Maybe ease off. Instead, he smirks. Reaches into his back pocket. Pulls out a microfiber towel—the same one he probably used to lovingly polish your hood—and with one casual flick, he tosses it over the camera lens.

No words. No hesitation. Just the silent, arrogant kind of dominance that says: watch time is over. Now it’s for me.

Your heart lurches. Your thighs clench.

And then he moves.

No smirk, no warning. Just heat and mass and intent, crowding you back against your own car like he’s staking a claim. One thick thigh forces between yours. His palm finds your waist and drags you into his chest, hard enough to make your breath hitch. His hand slams beside your head on the roof, and suddenly you’re caged—nothing but steel and heat and him.

“You think I won’t?” His breath ghosts over your ear, deep and dangerous. “Think I won’t bend you over this fucking Mustang and ruin you?”

And you should say something. Should push back, throw that cocky tone right back at him like you always do. But your brain short-circuits the second his thigh flexes between yours, pressing up just right, like he already knows how to cut you off at the source.

“You’re full of shit,” you mutter, breathless, but it’s weak. A pathetic swing when you’re already spiraling.

Changbin huffs a laugh against your skin, and it’s so smug. You feel it in your bones. “Yeah? Keep running your mouth, baby. See how fast I shut it.”

Then he’s spinning you—just grabbing you and turning you like it’s nothing. Your chest hits the hood of your car with a dull thunk, the cool metal shocking against your flushed skin. You’re spread out like a meal, and he doesn’t even pause to admire. Just acts.

His hand plants between your shoulder blades, pinning you. His other hand shoves your skirt up without ceremony. You hear him groan behind you—raw and low—when your lace panties are revealed, the dark patch of wetness front and center.

“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters, hand sliding down to cup between your thighs. His fingers press right into the soaked fabric, rubbing a slow, dirty circle over your clit. “This from just me talking, baby?”

You bite back a moan, but your hips roll into his touch, helpless and aching.

He tsks. “You’re filthy. Fucking soaking. You want me to wreck you out here, huh?”

“Like you’d know what to do with it,” you snap, still clinging to whatever dignity you’ve got left.

The air shifts.

You feel the tension coil in him before he moves, and then he grabs your panties—fistful at your hip—and rips them down in one rough pull. They get caught at your knees, tangled in your thighs, and before you can protest, he snatches them up and shoves them into your mouth.

“You don’t get to talk anymore,” he growls, voice like gravel as he looms over you. “You get to take it.”

And you whimper. Because god, yes. That mouth of his, the size of him behind you, the weight of his cock already pressing to your soaked folds—it’s too much.

His cock drags over your entrance, heavy and hot, and so thick you twitch just from the feel of it against your slit. He’s not even in yet, just teasing, sliding the head through your slick—smearing it, soaking himself in the mess between your thighs like he’s painting you in it.

And fuck, he loves how wet you are. You can hear it in the way he grunts—like the sound alone punches the air from his lungs.

“Shit,” he breathes, almost reverent. “You’re dripping for it. Didn’t even get my cock inside and you’re already desperate.”

He grips your hips tighter, thumbs digging into your skin, spreading you open with no finesse—just a filthy kind of urgency like he needs to see you split for him. Like he’s starved for it.

“You ready for this, baby?” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. “Gonna fuck you so stupid, you forget your own name.”

And then he pushes in.

The stretch is immediate. Relentless. You cry out into the panties stuffed in your mouth, back arching as your cunt fights to take the girth of him. He’s thick—not overly long, but the kind of cock that makes you feel full right from the start. That kind of stretch that burns and thrills and tears your breath from your lungs all at once.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, hips trembling as he sinks in slow. “You’re tight. Holy shit, baby, you’re gonna make me cum before I even start.”

You clench, and he whines.

It’s broken and breathy—boyish and wrecked. The sound of someone already spiraling, trying to hold back and failing miserably.

His fingers dig harder into your hips like he’s anchoring himself to reality, like if he doesn't hold on right now, he’s going to lose it completely. He’s inside—barely—but it already feels like too much. Too hot. Too tight. Too fucking good.

“You’re squeezing me like a fist,” he gasps, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second, sweat slicking his skin. “You want me to blow already, huh? Want me to cum like a fuckin’ virgin just from putting it in?”

He groans as he pulls back, just a few inches, then slams back in.

You choke on the scream behind your gag, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the force of it. Your body jerks forward from the impact, tits dragging over the hood of your car, and the friction only makes it worse—better. You don’t even know the difference anymore.

“Yeah,” he pants, breath stuttering against your neck, “that’s it. Take it. Take all of it, fuck—look at this little cunt stretching so fuckin’ wide for me.”

He sets a rhythm that’s brutal and hungry—driving into you like he’s got something to prove. Like he needs to make you feel every last inch of him. The slap of skin on skin echoes around the garage, mixing with his ragged breathing, the squelch of your soaked pussy, and your muffled moans.

“Fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Like this pussy was built to take my cock. You feel that, baby? Feel how good you’re takin’ it?”

You nod helplessly, drool starting to leak around the edges of the panties stuffed in your mouth. It’s messy, degrading, and you don’t care—don’t want to care. Not when he’s fucking you like this.

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” he growls, thrusts getting harder, deeper. “Say the word and I’ll flip you over and fuck you through the windshield. Make you sit on my cock while I drive you home, legs spread, dripping all over my seat.”

You whine, hips jerking back into his, and he laughs—low, breathless, filthy.

“God, you’re such a fuckin’ mess. Look at you. Cryin’, droolin’, gagged on your own panties, and still grinding back on me like you want more.”

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back, makes your back arch like a bow.

“Still got attitude left in you, huh?” he taunts, voice right in your ear. “Still think I don’t know what to do with it?”

Then he pulls all the way out—slow, deliberate, dragging the full thickness of him against your raw walls—and slaps the head of his cock against your clit. Once. Twice. You jolt with each hit, body twitching like it’s trying to run from the pleasure and the pain and the fucking overstimulation.

But there’s nowhere to go.

Because he won’t let you.

One hand fists in your hair, the other pins your hips down, and he’s not gentle. He doesn’t want you squirming. He wants you still, wants your legs open and your cunt dripping and your body exactly where he put it—used and needy and begging for more.

“Look at you,” he grits out. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. All wrecked and spread out for me.”

Then he does it again—slaps your clit with the flushed head of his cock, and this time your whole body jerks, a strangled moan escaping around the gag. You’re already trembling, nerve endings fried, and he’s not even back inside you yet.

He hums like he’s delighted by it, like he’s admiring the effect. “That sensitive already? Poor baby.”

He slides back in with one smooth, slow thrust, and the way your body clenches around him—wet, twitchy, desperate—pulls a broken fuck from deep in his chest.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, grinding his hips slow and filthy, like he’s making you feel every single inch, like he’s daring you to fall apart on him again.

“I could do this all night,” he breathes, nose dragging up your spine. “Just stay right here, keep you full, keep you dumb. Ruin you over and over until you can’t think of anything but my cock.”

Your body throbs around him, a pulse of heat so intense it makes you whimper, makes your knees buckle under the weight of it. His arm snakes around your waist, hauling you up just enough to keep you upright, to keep fucking you through it.

“You gonna cum again for me?” he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, breath hot and mean. “Gonna soak my cock like a good little toy?”

And you do—can’t not. Your whole body seizes, spasming around him in a sudden, violent wave of pleasure that makes you scream around your gag, makes you claw at the hood of the car, makes your vision go white.

He groans—low, choked, nearly broken—and the sound of you falling apart seems to shatter whatever restraint he had left.

“That’s it. That’s fucking it.”

He slams into you again, faster now, harder, a man possessed. His thrusts are erratic, savage, and he’s panting curses against your neck.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he growls. “Gonna fill this little cunt so full, it leaks all the way down your thighs. Gonna mark you—ruin you—until everyone who looks at you knows who you belong to.”

He thrusts in deep—so deep it knocks the air from your lungs—and stays there, hips twitching as he cums with a guttural moan, body trembling against yours. You feel it—hot and thick—spilling inside you in pulsing waves, flooding you, claiming you.

Neither of you move for a long moment.

Just the sounds of panting, sweat-dripping silence. Your thighs shaking. His breath against your back. The weight of him still buried inside.

Then—finally—he pulls out with a filthy, slick drag, and you whimper, overstimulated and ruined. Cum leaks out of you immediately, sliding down your thighs in warm rivulets.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice smug and low.

“Still think I don’t know what to do with it?”

______________________________________________________________

[TRANSCRIPT – INTERNAL SECURITY SYSTEM, 21:03]

Jisung is in the control room. It’s quiet. Late. He’s alone, legs kicked up on the console, one hand in a snack bag, the other toggling through camera feeds with minimal enthusiasm.

Han (deadpan): “Another thrilling night at the SKZotel. Let’s see which part of the building needs Jesus today.”

Camera 19 loads: P3 Valet Bay. Changbin is visible, leaning against a black Mustang. He’s not in uniform. Technically not even supposed to be down there.

Han (frowning): “…Why is he always shirtless-adjacent? Who approved that fit?”

He watches. Changbin steps closer to a guest. Close-close. Hand on the roof. Whispering something. The guest presses back against the car.

Han (snorting): “He’s about to fuck that guest or buff the car again, and honestly, I don’t know which one he’s thirstier for.”

21:08 — Guest is visibly flustered. Changbin crouches. Jisung zooms in, bumps the desk with his knee, curses, and knocks over chips.

Han (frantic whisper): “No no no—get back in frame—oh god he’s crouching—oh god he’s got thighs. This is a hate crime.”

21:09 — Changbin looks directly into the camera. Smirks.

Han (gasping): “He knows. He knows. That smug bastard—”

21:09:06 — Changbin reaches into his back pocket, flicks a microfiber towel over the camera lens with the flair of a man who’s definitely committing at least three HR violations.

Han (screaming): “NOOOOOOOOOO—

cut to static

[ADDITIONAL NOTES:]

Officer Han has submitted a formal request to install thermal imaging in the garage.

Request has been immediately denied.

Counseling has been suggested. Han has declined.

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx @miyaluvvsyou @jisuperboard @fackeraccount @silly250 @lov3rachan @lze325 @angel-writes-here @jesuisstay @lov3rachan @lze325 @scribblesnsketches05 @jesuisstay @slut4junho @wickedbutlovely @woozarts @pixie-felix

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butterbabyflapjack · 3 months ago

Text

chapter3 . hypocrites

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount: 3.3k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° taglist: @fionasapple88 @alllaboutangel @fan-goddess @ireallydontknowohcrabs

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, dubious consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

okay. so guys. the next and final part ended up being like 30k, so I’m splitting it up into multiple chapters.

PLEASE BE AWARE: the “enthusiastic consent” tag remains and is 100% valid, but I’ve also added “dubious consent”. having both will make sense by the end of your night. lots of shit going down lol

✧˖° chapter 3

Something hangs in the air of this moment. Flexes through it like light before rain. Something heavy, that sticks to your skin; dragonfly wings trapped in the sugar-sheen of Florida sweat. And even now, when it’s so quiet that you can finally think, it’s all you feel—those wings, trapped and buzzing on your skin, discomfort raking all across you.

In the hush of Brian’s car, speeding forward through the night, you reach for the knob of the radio between you. Cranking up whatever song is playing though you can hardly hear a thing.

You don’t want to be alone with your thoughts anymore tonight.

You’re over second guessing.

If you’re losing your mind, there's no gaining it back now. What’s done is done, and what’ll happen as a result was always going to happen.

There’s nothing you can do to stop what's in motion tonight, so why are you even still questioning? Why are you anxious ? This was all your idea.

Beside you in the dark, Brian glances your way. One hand on the wheel as it seems your silent tension’s somehow caught in his periphery. Street lights strobing in and out of both your visions as his sleek car races past them; ruby-black in humid moonlight.

”Seems you have a lot on your mind…” he observes. And his tone doesn’t press you for more, not really. The watchful hush which follows left only for the willing to fill it, and it seems you aren’t willing, seeing as how you more or less ignore him. Folding your stony arms across your chest as you stare out that window beside you.

He turns back to the road as you hide within that music you can’t hear. Doing your best to distract from all those discomforting wings still caught on your skin; to flee from thought entirely. From that little voice in your head that warns you in a language you can’t comprehend. Left in a nervous stalemate between yourself and your rage and your disquiet, hoping it won't all rend you raw as you tumble again and again and again through all those fatal things that might occur tonight. That’ll possibly stain your hands red, as your own hands enact them. All those bloody things that could come back to bite you should anything go wrong, should anything unexpected happen, and it feels like the world’s slipping out from under you, that everything’s unexpected, that nothing can be predicted in the tempest of what may come tonight.

Brian’s car speeds toward more residential streets, a crimson comet eating all before it as it smoothly roams toward that address you’d given him; the address of that man you’re going to kill, if you can actually do this, and– fuck, are you actually going to do this? Are you actually going to kill this guy instead of turning him in? Instead of any less violent alternative?

There’s no coming back from murder.

At least, you don’t think there is.

The music’s a failed distraction from the constricting spiral of your thoughts. But as the tires of Brian’s car begin to slow, you’re slowly dragged into the present, where a long, dim road stretches out before you. One you recognize as Gary’s street, having been there yourself not so long ago. Blinded and bound there by a vengeance so fierce you weren’t previously aware such fury existed.

Your expression darkens as you’re once more swept out in the wartorn sea of your mind at the memory of it.

You would’ve killed that fucker then if you hadn’t so recently come across Dexter. Came across who he really is; a monster who pretends he’s not.

So what does that make you?

You’d waited in Gary’s office for what felt like forever that night, and even longer after finding those hard drives. Gun numbing your rancorous hand. And it slowly hit you. How it wasn’t enough; not nearly. Pressing down with more and more insistent weight with just how much you wanted to draw out that bastard’s suffering for as long as humanly possible. A single bullet was far too kind after what he did.

So. You’re worse than Dexter.

Cool. Very cool. Very—

“You’re not second guessing this now, are you?”

Brian’s tone is a jaded edge, and again, you’re snapped back to the present. Seeing him eye you from across the dark center console of his car, with one sculpted bicep hitched up along the top of his chair. And it gradually becomes clear that you guys have been parked here for a while, now. Who knows how long he’s just been sitting there like that, watching you silently struggle within yourself.

Embarrassment peeks its ugly head before you stuff it back down again. Doing your best to steel your gaze before fully looking at him.

“No,” you lie. Quite convincingly, you think.

He studies you for drawn out moments, his expression veiled by midnight, until eventually he quirks an idle brow.

“Looks like you could use a pep talk,” he states.

Your own expression’s pinched at how nonchalant he’s still being about all this. Like tonight’s just a game, yet it would see your life forever altered.

“A pep talk?” you wryly question. “This isn’t a soccer game.”

He merely shrugs, the leather of his seat twisted beneath his leisured weight. “All the same. You seem to have forgotten why you’re here. That this was all your idea.”

You definitely haven’t forgotten that part.

He glances out at that beige house he’s parked in front of, its clay roof bathed in the same darkness encompassing the lightless street.

“You wanted this,” he tells the window, before meeting your worried gaze again. Seeming to decipher something from some hidden place inside you, despite all your attempts to keep how perceptive he is at bay. “...You still want this. And sure, Dexter helped in orchestrating what’ll happen tonight, but he far from put the idea of it in your head.”

From where he idly watches, one corner of his lips forms a devil’s curve.

“That was all you, my woeful student. So. You can follow through with your own plans tonight and cut that paedophilic mongrel down, or ,” he shrugs, just slightly, “we can drive away right now, and he can go on living. Relatively unpunished, all things considered–and there’s a lot to consider where your niece’s concerned, by the sound of it. I’ll even throw in the added bonus of taking our little deal off the table for the time being, and not allowing him his chance to off you–a one time offer, so make it count.” His lifted brows are a listless provocation. “Your choice, killer. Just say the word, and I’ll drop you off home, safe and sound.”

Even with how unsubtly sardonic he’s being, you’re more enraged at Gary than you are aggrieved at him because of it. And though you’re still enrobed by doubts, the weight of hatred spills over until you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt without a word, eyes hard as your jawline tightens.

He merely chuckles as he watches this newfound gusto he’s easily inspired.

“Not yet, little killer,” he cuts your ambition short. Leaning across the center console in reaching toward you, and though you flinch as though in anticipation of his touch, he merely unlatches the glovebox before your knees. Reaching in for a small, leather pouch that seems it’s precisely where he’s left it. And as distant lamplight shines across its silver buttons while he brings it back to himself, you realize that pouch is Dexter’s. That it’s his little holster of M99.

Unsnapping its delicate buttons within his lap, Brian reveals a neatly tucked syringe with a soft-green cap, alongside a small vial of clear liquid. And as he takes that needle out, idles it in his hand with a physician's sureness, a small frown weighs his lips. And you suppose, perhaps, that Dexter’s knives aren’t the only item of his brother’s he’s loath to use this evening.

“This isn’t really my thing,” he says, more to that syringe than anything. Seeming to admire how its liquid gleams with starlight against the dark, before re-sheathing what’s assured is all here. “But, Dexter’s the savant in relocating victims. Or, rather, dragging their dead weight around for no apparent reason other than what that precious code of his requires, for which he so obediently dances. So I suppose we’ll play things his way tonight…” A slip of thought glides by his mind so briefly. “At least partially.”

Looking back, it’s quite unfortunate you’re too currently absorbed by all that tension in you to really question how exactly his plans might deviate from what Dexter had in mind.

“He could always skip that part and just kill his victims where he finds them, but,” with a tensely released breath, he seems quite exasperated, “he’s so particular about that kill room of his. So painfully rigid beneath the thumb of all those rules.” Annoyance weighs his brow. “So dramatic.”

At this point in his aggrieved monologue, you can’t help the little huff of laughter that clips right out of you, and his dark eyes pivot to yours as though actually offended by it. Which, in truth, just makes it even funnier.

You can’t help it. He’s such a hypocrite. And at that look, you’re forced to bite back a heightened shade of amusement.

“Dramatic,” you restate. “Says the guy who used Miami as a theatrical, murderous stage just to catch his little brother's attention. When you could have, just… I dunno…” Guile hints one corner of your lips. “Sent him a letter…?”

That look Brian tosses you, as the strong line of his shoulders flexes tight, is perhaps the flattest you’ve ever seen.

“Oh, goody,” he says. “I was hoping someone would come around with a better idea for reuniting my long lost family. A letter. How didn’t I think of that? And how do you suppose that letter would read, I wonder?”

Something in his tone has you opening your mouth to deter him, but he’s already continuing, “Why don’t we draft it right now?

“Hey, baby brother–it’s me,” he recites, as though penning this message out loud. “You know. The big brother you don’t remember? ”

He’s so measured, yet you already regret bringing this up. Some wound you sense in him scratched open as your stomach slowly shrinks from where you watch him.

“Guess you’ll have to take my word for it. Anyway; this life you’re living? We both know it’s all a lie.

“Oh–you don’t know that? Well, allow me elaborate: your fake dad made it all up. All these rules. All these lies. Created this cage for himself to keep you in. That fake dad you’ve practically deified. The guy who tore our lives apart. Who strong-armed our mom into being dismembered alive right in front of us. Who took you from the only family you had once he was finished ransacking our lives, burying you so deep in his lies that you’d never even know I existed.”

That tension in his dark-scruffed jaw seems to hold back more than what he’s already stated, which is already more than you meant to tease out of him, before he’s casually continuing:

“He’s not your real dad, Dex, and he’s not your real family. So fuck him and everything he’s ever said. You don’t need his rules, nor his falsehoods, nor his family–you already have a family.

Me .

So throw his fabricated bullshit behind, and we can be together like we always should’ve been. As we were, before that lying, manipulative piece of shit came around and ruined absolutely everything.”

Your lower lip aches the more you gnaw it. And Brian eyes you a moment, in your reluctant silence, before adding:

“Oh, and–by the way, little side note here–I know what you are, Dex. I know what you're hiding. But I suppose that's a conversation for another time; bit heavy for a letter, don’t you think? Then again, a letter is apparently the right response to a lifetime of suffering and fighting my way toward reforming my shattered, stolen family, so…”

He listlessly shrugs, though his eyes remain sharp.

“ Anyway . Xoxo, all the best, till next time~ Signed, the Ice Truck Killer.”

The tension in the darkened car is palpable upon his impromptu letter’s end. Something far more edged in him despite what his careless charade might offer. And more than anything, you wish you could swallow back your attempt to ever taunt him; realizing upon him sarcastically making it crystal-fucking-clear just how far you’ve overstepped into something you don’t know nearly enough about to give advice on, to pretend you understand; to press upon or joke about in the slightest.

All mischief in you has died, in favor of chasing after words you cannot catch, that are too heavy to wage from you. Because though you want to apologize–for bringing this up, for making light of something held in such darkness–each attempt to say a thing remains held on your tongue, lodged there, unable to leave you, because can you really apologize for having anything questionable to say–joke or otherwise–about a long anticipated family reunion that led to the deaths of so many innocent women? So many working girls who never hurt him, or anyone else?

Women whose murders you personally sought to find justice for.

Whom you failed to find justice for.

Brian’s plans–those plans too complex for a letter–led them all to their deaths. And they would all be rolling in their graves right now if they saw you, feeling bad for him. Working with the man who slaughtered them instead of cuffing and dragging him in, or–better yet–lodging a bullet in his deceptively handsome head.

So you can’t say a thing, as he and you watch each other in the dark. Both of you shut off too different things, it seems, yet with pieces of you fraying. Abraded threads that half-unravel, before they’re boarded so swiftly up.

“I’m sorry,” you say at length–the words fighting their way from you, regardless of their disloyalty toward those you’ve failed to protect. And you swiftly look away, avoiding both Brian and yourself; staring hard out the window. “I… I didn’t mean, to…” Your arms tightly fold across yourself as emotion too obscured to unravel knots your brow. “I don’t know your guys’ history. Not fully, at least–not even slightly, really, and…”

At your pause, an image flashes in your mind. One he painted for you earlier, of him and his brother. Two little boys trapped in blackness and blood by the remains of their mutilated mother. And how long must it have felt, holding Dexter in the dark? What must he have said to in any way calm him? Two little boys forced to witness such savagery. Two children, reliving in the dark what had happened whilst held in that blanket of red; that final comfort spilled from their dying mother.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you slowly shake yourself. All other words failing you as, eventually, you force your gaze back to the watchful snare of his, to how his study’s never strayed. And you should just stop talking, but you hear yourself carrying on all the same.

“And that’s not to say you should explain, or elaborate, or… or anything, I just… not if you don’t want to, anyway, I just…”

Of course he doesn’t want to–why would he open up about any of what he and his brother have been through more than he already has, and especially to someone like you? What are you even going on about?

Again, your words peter out. Wishing you could read his watchful silence, though to do so seems a task beyond anyone.

“I’m sorry,” you say again weakly, at last.

He watches you for so long you think he may never respond at all.

“Are you done awkwardly rambling yet?” at last he blandly wonders, as embarrassment once more sparks your throat, rising up it.

Biting back on retorting with something more blunted, you say stiffly, “Yes,” instead.

His expression’s a mask; his eyes a glimmered shadow in its darkness. And for a while, more, he simply studies your reaction to him. That embarrassment. That conflict in you. Your stunted lack of spiteful tongue.

“You keep apologizing,” he says at length. So close to reprimand, and yet it seems he doesn’t fully understand it.

You don’t know how to respond, and it seems there’s distant words trapped in you both.

“There’s no need to be sorry for things you haven’t done,” he lowly says, as that tension continues to drag. “But it’s funny, ‘cause…” His brows briefly knot in his consideration. “You’re the only one. The only one who's sorry. The only one who apologizes, even when you don’t need to. The only one who does so without the threat of a gruesome end loosing it from their lying tongues, anyway.”

It feels there’s some splinter in his facade that you could slip through if you tried, though it’s stapled gruffly closed again before you get the chance, the very second you even think you spot it.

“I don’t think that’s funny,” you hushly say, but he smiles like it is; soft, and with little warmth to it. Not even close to melting through all that ice in his eyes, that cold which buries everything beyond it.

“Sorry,” he says, mocking you. Though some part of him seems to mean it. Something more solemn. “Truth be told, I never know what’s funny anymore.”

He’s the first to look away. Staring instead out the darkened window. Out at that house you’ve come to hate, with all its windows dark save for one. That one which Gary must be in.

“We should go,” he tells the darkness. “We’re burning moonlight. And it seems your unfortunate friend is already patiently waiting for us to find him.”

When his gaze finds yours again, its blackness is lowly biting. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

It’s near impossible to disentangle all those warring notes inside you, but still you grit your jaw and mutter, “What happened to you being my soccer coach? Stop trying to make me second-guess myself.”

Through the shadows, he’s gradual to smile. Roguery smoothing out all his previous edges. “Really… Do I actually seem the type to talk you out of anything this fun or potentially dangerous? I’m willing to see where this road takes us. I’m just wondering if you are.”

That little curve of his lips slowly broadens as he eyes how you manage nothing more than a tight-lipped stare. Unwilling to let your voice further betray your lingering uncertainty, or anything else for that matter, though it seems he’s stolen enough of your thoughts as it is. Thumbing through them at his leisure; all those secrets of mind and heart you’d rather hide.

“C’mon,” he says at last, with the sureness of having an answer you never gave him. Already unlatching his door and stepping out onto the moon-lit walk, while you’re left with no choice but to follow. The events of this entire evening were your idea, after all, and it's far too late not to see through what you’ve started. And in the back of your mind, it somehow feels that, despite all his offers to escape what’s yet to occur, Brian’s made absolutely sure that won’t happen.

#brian moser x reader #brian moser x you #brian moser #dexter #reader insert #slasher x reader #fanfiction #rudy cooper #ice truck killer #wild animals

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javelinbk · 4 months ago

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John Lennon, Ringo Starr, George Harrison, Pattie Boyd and Jenny Boyd board the train from Euston to Bangor, while Cynthia Lennon is prevented from boarding and left on the platform with Peter Brown and Neil Aspinall , 25th August 1967. Part 2 - gifs.

Part 1 - photos and newspaper reports

Part 3 - Cyn talks about missing the train

“It was a bright, sunny morning when we set off. I was ready early, but Pattie, George, and Ringo were coming in our car, and were late.

“By the time Anthony drew up at the station entrance we were cutting it fine and had five minutes to catch the train. John leapt out of the car with the others and ran for the platform – leaving me to follow with our bags.

“It was the result of years in which he’d taken it for granted that others would see to all the details. I followed him as fast as I could. The station was mayhem, with fans, reporters, police and passengers all milling around. I struggled to push my way through, but when I got to the platform my way was barred by a huge policeman who, unaware that I was with the Beatles party, said, ‘Sorry, love, too late, the train’s going,’ and pushed me aside.

“I shouted for someone to help. John poked his head out of the train window, saw what was happening and yelled, ‘Tell him you’re with us! Tell him to let you on.’

“It was too late. The train was already pulling away from the platform and I was left standing with our bags, tears pouring down my cheeks. It was horribly embarrassing. Reporters were crowding around me, flashbulbs were popping and I felt a complete fool. Peter Brown, Brian’s assistant, had come to see us off: he put his arm around me and said he’d take me to Bangor by car. ‘We’ll probably get there before the train,’ he assured me, anxious to cheer me up.

“But what neither he nor anyone else knew was that my tears were not simply about the missed train. I was crying because the incident seemed symbolic of what was happening to my marriage. John was on the train, speeding into the future, and I was left behind. As I stood there, watching the train disappear into the distance, I felt certain that the loneliness I was experiencing on that platform would become permanent one day.”

Cynthia Lennon, John

#poor cyn #the fact that john was one of the first on and she didn't make it #can’t help but compare this to the first flight to new york #walking side by side and john making sure she was ok #I love the way peter brown looks down at her like 'oh shit one of them is still here'#she did not have a lovely time the day they went to bangor #oh please believe me I'd hate to miss the train #cynthia lennon #john lennon #john and cyn #george harrison #pattie boyd #jenny boyd #ringo starr #peter brown #neil aspinall #javelin's gifs #javelin's gifs: 1967

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rainrot4me · 5 days ago

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Yo I've been a fan of your art/writing for a while now and I am really excited to see more of your work!

So I was wondering (for I am a slut for angst/hurt with comfort) how you imagine the characters like Jeff (my fav), Toby, Jack, etc. to be when they hit that breaking point? Like tears, snot, can't breathe, can't talk, kind of breaking point. And how they would act once comforted (or on their own)?

P.s. What animal, alive or extinct, would you want to be and why?

WOOO, I’ve never really been the best at writing angst, but I’ve always loved consuming it letting it rip my soul apart, so here’s my take:

P.S. I’d love to be a timber wolf! They’re gorgeous, and I’ve always had a serious love for them!!

✦ . jeff the killer

Breaking Point: It’s not loud, it’s violent, toward others and himself. Blood under his fingernails from clawing at his scalp, his mouth twitching in a broken grin he can’t stop. He laughs hysterically, wet and ugly as tears track down his scarred cheeks. But eventually, it cuts off. Just silence and trembling. He curls in on himself like a wounded animal, too proud to ask for help, too exhausted to push it away.

Response to Comfort: If you touch him, really touch him, gently, it short-circuits him. He jerks like he’s been struck. But if you don’t back off? If you just hold him? He breaks all over again, but softer this time. Barely whispers out,

“Don’t look at me.”

But he doesn’t move away.

✦ . ticci toby

Breaking Point: It starts with the stuttering, then the twitching worsens, hands shaking uncontrollably, gasping breaths like he’s choking on air. His mind overloads and the tics spiral into chaos. He’ll collapse into a corner, pounding fists into his legs or slamming his head back into the wall. He wants to scream but can’t form words. Just sobs through gritted teeth. He’s virtually seizing, absolutely at the mercy of his overworked body finally taking its toll on him.

Response to Comfort: He doesn’t know how to accept it. If you try, he’ll resist at first, flinch away, say,

“I’m fine! I’m fine, I’m—”

But if you stay, if you’re calm and quiet and real, he’ll eventually melt into you. He doesn’t speak, just grabs onto your sleeve like a lifeline and holds until his body is finally too tired to hurt itself any more.

✦ . eyeless jack

Breaking Point: It’s rare. But when it happens, it’s silent devastation. He hides it at first, locks himself away, curls up in the dark with blood on his hands and nothing left to justify it. There are no eyes to cry, but the tremor in his breath and the stillness of his body tell the story. Sometimes he tears off his mask, clutching it like a broken relic, like it’s the only thing left of his long-gone humanity.

“I’m not even human anymore…”

Response to Comfort: He won’t ask for it. But if you offer, not with pity, but with understanding and compassion, he’ll sit beside you in silence. Eventually, he’ll lean his head against your shoulder, and it’s the first time in years he lets himself believe someone might not flinch.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Breaking Point: Explosive. Rage masks the grief. He yells, throws things, punches walls, and then just collapses, chest heaving, vision blurred. His mind loops between past trauma and the present until he hits the floor, crying so hard he can’t breathe. Hyperventilating. Only The Operator himself could handle the devastation he’d cause if he got around other people.

“Make it stop. Just make it—make it STOP.”

Response to Comfort: Physical touch works, but only if it’s steady. Too fast and he’ll lash out. He needs you to ground him, press a hand to his chest and say his name firmly (if you can derive which one is fronting at the time). If you can keep him from spiraling, he’ll eventually grip your wrist tight and fall apart in your arms like he’s got nothing to be ashamed about the next day.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Breaking Point: Doesn’t allow people to see it. If he hits rock bottom, it’s behind a locked door. Tears are silent, shoulders shaking, fists clenched, rocking back and forth like a man trying to hold his insides together. He talks to himself under his breath, trying to reason his way out of a mind that’s far too loud to be heard in.

“It’s fine. You’re fine. No one has to know. You can fix this.”

Response to Comfort: He doesn’t want comfort, would much rather ride out whatever anguish he’s in than have someone he knows see him in that state. But if you refuse to leave, he’ll try to hide his face in your shoulder and quietly say,

“Don’t… don’t say anything. Just stay.”

It’s not trust, not yet, but it’s close.

✦ . laughing jack

Breaking Point: Utter meltdown. Laughter turning into hysterical sobs mid-sentence, his colors flicker, his body glitches, and he crumbles into a heap of striped limbs and smeared makeup.

“Why won’t they love me? Why do they scream when I try?!”

His clown exterior is shattered, and underneath is someone aching.

Response to Comfort: If you reach out with genuine affection, he doesn’t understand it at first. He cries harder, buries his face in your chest and sobs like a lost child. The moment is short-lived, but real. He’ll pretend it didn’t happen, but part of him remembers.

✦ . clockwork

Breaking Point: Hers is quiet devastation. She’ll try to act normal until she’s alone, then she just sinks. Slumped against a wall, fingernails biting into her thighs, eyes wide but seeing nothing. The tick of the clock embedded in her face becomes the only sound. Her tears are angry, full of shame, and inconsolable.

“You’re weak. You’re weak. Stop it.”

Response to Comfort: She fights it at first, tries to joke, to deflect. But if you sit beside her and just say “You don’t have to do this alone,” something in her breaks. She might whisper,

“I don’t know how to stop.”

If you stay, she’ll finally let herself cry with someone.

✦ . ben drowned

Breaking Point: Like a glitching program, he paces in circles, muttering code and fragmented memories, tearing at his hair. He doesn’t cry, he screams, digital distortion cracking through his voice.

“They deleted me. I was never real to them.”

He spirals into identity collapse, unsure what’s code, what’s emotion.

Response to Comfort: At first, he thinks it’s a trick. But if you show real warmth, like holding his hand or telling him he matters, his entire demeanor flickers. He softens, cries like a corrupted file: broken audio and blinking static, but it’s still a cry.

✦ . slenderman

Breaking Point: Almost incomprehensible. He doesn’t sob, he trembles. His tentacles writhe uncontrollably, psychic static screaming through the air like a storm. If he’s hurt enough to break, reality around him starts to fracture, trees bend, clocks melt, and time warps. Every person within a mile radius has a splintering headache worthy of tears.

Response to Comfort: No one would dare comfort him… but if someone did—touched his arm, whispered they weren’t afraid, the static would dim. He’d pull them into his arms, not for violence, but to hide the quaking of his form. He wouldn’t speak. Just hold them in an impossible silence, grateful but never saying a word.

꩜ .ᐟ

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incognitonoggin · 1 year ago

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Hi wondering if you could do them together? If not do separate and what you feel comfortable with 🙏🏼

Yan proxies with an s/o that tried escaping and failed-nsfw if you can-again only if ur comfortable

SJSHSJEHEH ANON I LOVE YOU TY FOR THE ASK!!

YANDERE PROXIES WITH A S/O THAT TRIED TO ESCAPE

NSFW . MINORS DNI

GN! READER

Includes: “Ticci” Toby, Masky/Tim, Hoodie/Brian

TOBY

• You seriously thought you’d get away? How cute.

• The second you had kicked ��em off of you and began to run, he was quick to yank your arm back and have you shrinking under his gaze.

• You could immediately tell he was kind of pissed, but you’re his sweetheart! He has to be patient with you.

• … Doesn’t mean he’s going to be gentle though.

• Will drag that same arm to the nearest flat surface (be it a wall for Christ’s sake) and off to pound town you go!

• Sex will be full of.. I guess.. Claiming???

• He’ll go on and on about how you’re his and how your hole(s) belong to him and how you’ll never amount to anything without him and you’re better off stuck with him (in a positive way, I suppose…)

• You’ll be left with dozens of marks afterwards and he wont hesitate to be passive aggressive and rough😭

HOODIE

• Have fun with this man!

• He’ll pull you back tightly by the waist, and drag you on into his lap

• Will yank your pants off right then and there, just barely giving you the time to process everything.

• “You want to leave? Really? How about we change that.”

• As i said in a different fic, he will be silent but you can tell by his never ending glare that if you fuck up he will NOT hesitate to get violent.

• Very fast and roughly paced. Gonna have your eyes stinging and your lips moving in a repetitive motion as you mumble your pleas

MASKY

• Why would you run away from this man WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU /HJ

• He’s running up behind ya and covering your mouth with his hands like he’s got chloroform or something on them

• It’ll feel suffocating at first, but similarly to Brian, he will just throw you down and start fucking torturing you 😔

• It’s worse compared to the others, he’d be VERY cocky (ha, get it?) about it and mock you whilst you beg.

• Lord, the repeated slamming into your hole while he yanks your hair back (damn near breaking your neck) must be so violating 😟

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intheupside · 5 months ago

Text

Had to ask about a very pressing issue at the Penguins' morning skate on Saturday -- the locker room DJ situation. For those not aware, P.O Joseph was the DJ after Brian Dumoulin left, then Kevin Hayes succeeded Joseph as DJ this year. Well, now that Joseph is back, does he reclaim his spot? Or does Hayes keep the title?

"No, no, no," Joseph said with a laugh when I asked if he was the DJ again. "We're fighting, Hayes and I right now, who's going to be the DJ. There's only gonna be one, so I'm letting him to do the job.

P.O Joseph is one of the guys on the team who is especially close with director of security Ed Joyner. He loves messing with him too -- though maybe not as much as Evgeni Malkin does. I asked Joseph just how much he missed Joyner while he was in St. Louis.

"I feel like he missed me more than I missed him," Joseph quipped. "The smile on his face when he saw me, I feel like it says a lot. But honestly, we've had a really good connection the last couple of years, and he's been great. So it was fun to see him again."

After hearing Joseph's comment, Joyner claimed Joseph was so excited to see him post-trade that he leapt into his arms and wrapped his legs and arms around him for a hug. Joseph claimed it was the other way around, and Joyner jumped into his arms. I'm not saying I believe Joyner, but if you've ever seen how big he is ... I definitely don't believe Joseph here.

😂 from taylor

#pittsburgh penguins #po joseph #kevin hayes #evgeni malkin

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finelinevogue · 4 months ago

Text

insufferable

summary - you and emily have a soft moment together on the sofa

pairing - emily prentiss x reader

word count - 600

You woke up feeling warm.

A blanket had been draped over you that definitely hadn’t been there when you’d fallen asleep. You remember that because you had felt cold but also too tired to actually do anything about it.

“Oh hey, you.” Emily’s voice startled you.

You realised then that she was sitting on the couch and your head was resting on her lap. You looked up at her with a sleepy smile.

“Hey.” You said sleepily.

Emily had a glass of wine in hand that was resting on the sofa arm, her hair was down and her makeup taken off. She looked so domestic and so, so, pretty.

“You must’ve been tired.” She threaded her fingers through your hair, because she knew how much you loved it.

“I was. Work was… a lot.”

“Brian still giving you trouble? Because I swear I will–.”

“Em,” You chuckled, stopping her mid-threat, “No. I’m fine.”

“Yeah well I still want to punch him.” She took a sip of her wine and it was honestly the hottest thing ever.

It was kind of sick and twisted to get hot over watching your girlfriend threaten a man for you, but you didn’t care. Being in love just made you feel crazy.

“How was work?” You asked.

“Paperwork day.”

“Oh… That bad huh?”

Emily chuckled, placing her glass of wine on the table beside the sofa. She turned back to you and leant over your face to give you a soft kiss. It was a weird angle to receive a kiss from but you weren’t complaining about it.

“Better now.” Emily mumbled before kissing you once more.

“Are you this soft in front of your team?” You teased her, knowing the answer was no.

You knew Emily was a completely different person in front of you compared to her work team, but that was okay. You got to have the soft, tender and loving side of Emily. You got to comfort her when the work days became too much. You got to love her when she’d seen unspeakable things. You got to remind her that there was good in the world.

It was a privilege loving Emily Prentiss.

A privilege you would never take for granted.

You lifted a hand from underneath the blanket and scrunched and opened it in signal to Emily. She got the signal when her hand came down over you and took your hand in hers.

“Did you see the dinner plate I left on the side for you?” You asked.

“Yes, thank you baby.” She smiled at you.

“I tried making this fancy pasta dish but I ended up not having all the ingredients and you know I don’t like touching raw meat, so it just ended up being pasta in a sauce.”

“That’s perfect.”

“You’d say that about anything I cook. Probably even if I accidentally gave us food poisoning.” You teased her.

You and Emily both knew how rubbish you were at cooking. You were also a slight danger to yourself in the kitchen, so Emily often did the cooking whenever she could. Emily often said that she’s more likely to have an anxiety attack with you in the kitchen than being held at knifepoint by an unsub.

Whatever.

“Probably.”

“You’re insufferable.” You rolled your eyes.

Emily pointed her eyes at you as if to question what you’d just said to her.

“That’s just another way of me saying I love you.” You backtracked.

Emily nodded, raising her eyebrows in disbelief, “Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Well in that case, you’re insufferable too.”

#emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss x y/n

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koibitogata · 10 months ago

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okay okay. dancing w the pasta hcs. how do they dance?? how shitty are they at it?? or good are they?? whos the best?? who would just spin you both in circles and count that as dancing?? (no nsfw pls!! minor anon here) IVE SEEN YOU SAY THAT YOU WANT REQS BUT IGNORE THIS IF THAT CHANGES!!!!

jeff

- knows NOTHING about dancing

- so you (attempt to) teach him, but he has two left feet and keeps stepping on you.

- he mutters quick but genuine apologies under his breath, and you forgive him.

- arguably the worst of the bunch at dancing.

- surprisingly good at it

- in fact, he’s good enough to instruct you here and there, and understands what sort of dance is suitable for what kind of music

- if you can keep up with him, he’s actually good at the stuff

- but if you need to slow down, he’ll act as an instructor of sorts

slenderman

- the best by far at dancing.

- having been alive for ages, Slender possesses bits of trivia even scientists wouldn’t get their hands on for the next few decades to come.

- at his full potential, he could be mistaken for a professional ballroom dancer…except for the fact that he’s 3 meters tall and definitely could not fit into society.

- he even has his own collection of ballroom music to dance to.

BEN

- “isn’t that just stepping randomly together in the same direction at the same time?”

- he knows the definition of dancing…but cannot dance.

- actually ACTUALLY unironically thinks that whatever he said earlier is correct. you spend about 10 minutes debating over it before he finally agrees to it, albeit reluctantly.

- he ends up just spinning you in circles and counting that as dancing because he’s so against “spamming WASD”. (he means walking in circles together.)

- but a couple days after this, you catch him researching ballroom dancing.

tim

- grumbles a little at the beginning, but takes you in his arms nonetheless.

- takes very careful steps around your feet to make sure he doesn’t step on you. you suppose he at least knows where he can mess up, and takes care not to.

- he gets better at it as you go along, his steps getting a little less clumsy and hesitant.

- and by the end, you swear you catch him enjoying himself a little, a crinkle of his eye and a curl of his lip upwards.

brian

uses common sense through it all.

was never taught to dance, but can guess what it is.

his footsteps are light and surprisingly nimble for someone who claims to not know what he’s doing.

at the end of it, when he pecks you on the lips, you’re left wondering if he really didn’t know what dancing was.

toby

an absolute disaster of two left feet and a palm on the floor. which is what he actually thinks you’re asking him to do—breakdance.

“…Ballroom dancing?” he repeats after you like it’s a foreign phrase.

it’s going to be a long day, you think to yourself, as you take his trembling hands in your own.

by the end, he’s stepped on you about 52 times.

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lordprettyflackotara · 1 year ago

Text

hitchhiker || chapter one || the proxies

tw: mentions of murder

<— prologue

Brian frowned as he picked up a can of soup, examining the label.

Grocery shopping is pointless.

He sighed as he put the can in his shopping cart. His gaze didn’t stray from the shelves, searching for his favorite. Tomato soup.

Not like we stay in one place long enough to really eat all of this shit.

Brian pushed his shopping cart forward, grumbling to himself. Since your meeting the proxies, they had done everything to avoid you. He cringed at the thought of Tim’s weakness. For the first time in years the roles were reversed, Brian the harsh one and Tim the blind softie. He reached forward to grab a can of chicken soup, his cart ramming into something.

His eyes flickered over to the hard stop, shock washing over him like a brutal wave. There you stood, a tiny red shopping basket accompanying your arm. In your hand sat a can of his beloved tomato soup. “Holy shit, Brian?” You asked. No no no no. What the actual fuck were you doing here? Brian awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. They had driven outside of the city to avoid you and here you stood.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else-” Brian began. An overly optimistic Toby popped over his shoulder, dropping a container of oreos into the chart. His face lit up at the sight of you.

“Hi Y/n!”

Goddammit.

This reminded Brian why he thought Toby was a liability a smooth eighty percent of the time. The other twenty was Hoodie being impressed someone as slender as Toby could chop up a body so fast. You grinned as you walked around the shopping cart. “I didn’t realize you guys lived so far away from the city, I would’ve driven you closer,” You say. Brian admired your sober look, your face flushed with more color and your words no longer slurred.

“We work out here. Just grabbing some groceries on the way home,” Brian answered. Toby pranced around behind you, peaking over your shoulder. “T-t-tomato soup is H-, Brian’s favorit-te,” Toby said. Brian sighed, silently wishing Hoodie was fronting so you couldn’t see his face. You held out the can to him. “You can take it, it’s the last one,” You say, offering him a small smile. Brian hesitated, before remembering how much he enjoyed tomato soup. He reached his hand out, grabbing the can. His fingers brushed against your soft skin, which was radiating a comforting warmth.

You were like a bundle of touchable joy.

Oh fuck he was becoming soft.

“Thank you,” Brian mumbled, placing it in the cart. You eyed the cart suspiciously, noting the lack of substantial food. “I know you guys are middle aged men, but shouldn’t you have some real food in there?” You asked curiously. Not exactly like we have a lot of time for cooking. “We burn a lot of calories when we-” Toby started. Brian sent him a look so viscous he was surprised the kids head didn’t explode. “When we’re a-at work,” He finished. You raised an eyebrow, exchanging glances between the two. You were about to question the men’s relationship, the faint sound of static causing you to close your mouth.

It was overwhelming, the sensation making the left side of your temple throb. Brian was about to excuse them from the situation, a familiar voice interrupting his saving face. “Hey what’s taking so long?” Tim asked. His eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight of you. “Hi Tim,” You greeted. It was interesting to you that not only had you ran into them again, you had managed to run into all three of them. Your drunken night had wiped away the awkward moments during your interaction.

Tim had thought you would’ve forgotten them entirely, but it was the rather opposite effect than he wanted. Instead of forgetting them, you only forgot the awkwardness and tenseness of the car ride. “Hi there,” Tim greeted. Brian could practically feel Tim’s flusteredness. Over the years they had slaughtered many women without a second thought, including attractive ones. And sure, the three of them hadn’t had intimacy in God knows how long. But Brian just couldn’t understand Tim’s infatuation with you. You were just a girl.

“So um, about dinner,” Tim continued. Brian refrained from visibly showing his distain. There was always the possibility you would’ve forgotten about the dinner proposal. What the fuck was Tim’s problem? It wasn’t as if Brian wanted them to all die practical virgins, it just wasn’t logical. Having any form of relationship would only result in a tragedy. Brian had racked his brain about it long ago, back when his freedom was first stripped away from him. What could he say? He was a horny motherfucker whose potential lovers would be slaughtered or tortured.

“Yeah?” You say. Brian could tell you were getting excited. You were practically bouncing on your heels. Man, maybe you’d make a good match for Toby. Brian shoved the the thought out of his head, looking away. “Why don’t we go grab some burgers or something tonight?” Tim suggested. Brian noticed the slight raise of your left eyebrow. Tim must’ve too, clearing this throat before following up with, “All of us. Our treat.”

You couldn’t have put on a bigger smile even if you had wanted to. “That sounds great. How about the corner burger joint on twenty eighth avenue? It’s near my apartment,” You suggested. Brian watched in horror as Tim grinned, giving you a confirmative nod.

“It’s a date.”

Brian couldn’t usher the three of them out of the store fast enough. Once comfortable in the car, Brian turned towards Tim. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You practically gave her a headstone with her name on it,” He spat. Tim rolled his eyes, digging in his pocket for his faithful box of cigarettes. “One dinner is harmless, isn’t it kid?” He asked, glancing at Toby in the rearview mirror. Brian sighed as the younger man nodded excitedly. “M-most interaction we-ev’e had with another human in a longgg time,” He agreed, his neck twitching to the side again. Brian pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Don’t weaponize Toby against my argument. We both know this is a terrible idea,” He said flatly. Tim started the car, driving past a fallen over shopping cart on the overgrown field. “If the Operator gets interested in her for even a split second-” Brian continued. Tim rolled his eyes, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Thats not going to happen, we’d never bring her to him. Besides, she’s just a girl. What’s the worst that could happen?” Tim answered. Out of the seven years they had been partners, Brian had never heard Tim be more nonchalant.

“O-one of us could g-get laid for once,” Toby added. Brian frowned as he reached into one of the grocery bags, pawing away to find the oreos. “Yeah we won’t bring her. But you know they will,” Brian pointed out. The sound of Toby crunching on oreos and the smell of Tim’s cigarette smell overwhelmed Brian’s senses. “They have no reason to be interested in her, nor do they have any reason to front tonight. We already took care of our mission for today. Boss gave us an easy target,” Tim reminded him. It was true, the latest assignment one that would begin easy.

In the trunk of their car sat a corpse of a middle aged man, one who was a detective. He had been investigating the proxies symbol and the various murders they had committed. He was putting all the pieces together, something that led him to a dangerous fate. It was the proxies responsibility to conceal the identities of all creeps. It was their literal job to clean up the messes the Operators mansion residents had made. It became more than personal though once someone began looking into their lives more than they should.

After all, Toby was still considered wanted. Tim and Brian were considered missing. Brian folded his arms, frowning as he looked out of the window.

“Oh yeah that reminds me, how the fuck are we going to discard of the body before dinner?”

You held your phone to your ear, navigating through the whimsical rack of your closet. Your closest friend Nova was on the other end, helping you choose an ensemble for your dinner with the boys.

“Who are these guys again?”

Her voice was laced with concern. You held up a black dress to your figure, analyzing every last detail. “I met them on Halloween. Just a couple of hitchhikers,” You replied. You tossed the black dress aside, grabbing a white one instead. “I read cases of hitchhikers being cannibalistic murderers almost daily you know,” Nova replied. You had grown up with Nova, the two of you remaining close friends into adulthood. Despite the two of you having gone two separate waves career wise, you always made time for each other. She had chosen to be a detective. Despite her constant complaining, her passion was truly driven to seek justice for the victims of psychopaths.

You on the other hand, had made a more reckless choice. Your childhood dreams of being an actress had traveled over into adulthood. Leading in your long term employment at the Steak and Shake as a waitress. “Not all hitchhikers are crazy Nova. Besides, these guys seem nice. You’re the one who’s been telling me to get out there again,” You reminded her. After your nasty breakup with your ex boyfriend, you had become a bit of a reclusive. Halloween was the first time you had been out in months, Nova leaving early with her hookup of the night.

“Yeah but there’s three of them. They’re going to make you pick one,” She informed you. You rolled your eyes. You set your phone down on your dresser, putting it on speaker. “You know with how woke you are i’m surprised you don’t believe in being polygamy,” You said. You shoved your jeans down to your ankles, stepping out of them. You glanced up at a photo of you at graduation, Nova occupying your side. Her caramel skin was always polished and soft, her soft brown eyes always lit up in a smile during photographs. Her hair framed her face just right, giant curls practically bouncing in the picture.

“It’s not that I don’t, I just don’t see you being the polyamorous type,” Nova told you. You shoved off your shirt, tossing it aside carelessly. “If you’re so worried why don’t you go with me?” You suggested. You knew Nova would immediately decline, you just wondered what excuse she would come up with this time. The two of you ran with two very different crowds. Hers more professional, yours more wild. “You know I don’t have time for that right now. Winston just disappeared. Godwin couldn’t wait to throw this case in my lap,” She sighed. You began putting on the dress, struggling to put your arms through the complicated arm holes.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” You asked, trying to sound out together as you put your neck through the wrong hole. You awkwardly shifted on your feet, questioning why you bought this dreaded thing in the first place. “There’s a bunch of murders he thought were connected by some weird symbol. All of them have been gruesome. The chopped up bodies have all been dismembered the same way,” Nova informed you. You grinned as you finally managed to maneuver the dress, admiring yourself in the mirror. “Dude i’m going out to eat in like fifteen,” You reminded her.

“Yeah yeah my bad. I forget regular citizens don’t interact with this kind of stuff,” She said. You refrained from rolling your eyes, reminding yourself she wasn’t being egotistical. She just lived in her own world a majority of the time. You picked your phone up off of the dresser, taking her off of speaker before putting the phone up to your ear. “Well do you think Winston was onto something?” You suggested. Nova seemed to ponder it for a moment before responding. “You know I thought he ran away with his mistress but you’re onto something. He must’ve been on the right track,” She said.

“Most detectives don’t disappear overnight with their wallet still at home,” You reminded her. News headlines had been broadcasting Lewis Winston’s disappearance all morning. “Look at you becoming a little detective. You gotta get your degree so we can become partners,” Nova chuckled. You smiled, pulling on a pair of shoes. “Let me star in at least one blockbuster hit before you force me to change career paths,” You replied. You admired yourself in the mirror, ignoring your antsy nerves. How long had it truly been since you had been out on your own?

“You know i’ll be in the front row of the premiere. Maybe your hitchhiker boyfriends will be there too,” She laughed. Nova meant it as a harmless joke, but the idea alone made you incredibly flustered. “Yeah yeah very funny, i’m going to go have dinner with my hitchhiker boyfriends now,” You told her, guiding the conversation to end.

“Uh huh. Call me if your hitchhiker boyfriends are killers!”

You took your friend’s warning as a joke, but looking back, you should’ve taken her advice.

—> chapter two

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