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joosthead · 16 days

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finally // beautiful stranger || j.k. f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ part 3/prequel to normal au — this is a standalone fic but here’s part 1 and 2 if you want a little lore down the line : ). or if you’ve already read p1&2–this is how normal au joost and reader meet :3. set in december 2019.

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not from nl

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 11k (exactly !! :3)

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (strangers to…lovers?, f&m!receiving oral, eating it through panties, protected piv), smoking, drinking. mentions of violence. reader and joost are kind of dicks to each other + pouty and annoying but dw it's ok bc theyre cute. unironic use of the word yolo. reader is apprehensive about receiving oral—references being self-conscious because it’s been a while. unironic ome robert during sex : ( teehee op does not drink or club sorry for inaccuracy

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “finally // beautiful stranger” by halsey :'')

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: plushies!!! thank you for your patience and the love on normal au :''') i absolutely adore this au and i'm so glad to know you guys do too!! much more to come ;)))) honestly this isn't extensively edited i was just so excited to drop it : 3 thank you so so much to @howisjoostfanfictionforfree and @killerlookz for hearing me out on my decisions on how to place this in the normal au verse >-< I SO APPRECIATE YOU GUYS!! <3333

₊˚⊹⋆ translation: "Zo mooi, liefje, ik heb zoveel geluk." - "So beautiful, I'm so lucky." / "Je smaakt zo lekker, ik vind het geweldig." - "You taste so good, I love it."

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

You should’ve brought a jacket.

If you were someone else, you’d have blamed it all on your roommates, their insistence that since your shared townhome was “only a few blocks away” from the club you were going to and “the snow isn’t even that bad” and “see it’s not even that cold” convincing you that an extra layer wasn’t needed. You’re you though, and you’re bearing the entire brunt of your regret as you trudge through the sleet covered footpath, the snow shoveled to the side and yet still not enough to keep the wetness off of your strappy heeled feet.

Why didn’t you bring a jacket? Why is it so cold in the Netherlands? Why did you move here for university? Why did you even sign up for that many courses this term, and why did the weather have to be like this right after you took your last final?

When will it end? Never, you think, but at the very least—tonight you get to party. After trudging through a kilometer of snow, of course, your roommates trudging right in front of you and suffering just the same. The snow that falls melts as soon as it hits the ground, your skin, dampening your hair and chilling you with the wind that whistles past.

Maybe you shouldn’t have even gone—but you promised that you’d loosen up after how hard you’d been going at work and school. Either way, you wouldn’t pass up the chance to meet your roommate, Ruby’s…Ruby’s boy-thing, an up and coming music producer with big eyes and a soft voice stage-named Tantu; and you wouldn’t pass up seeing Alanis, too, an acquaintance of your other roommate, Marina, turned your own friend.

It’s okay. Before you even know it (feels like an eternity), you’re through the line and through the threshold of the club (after getting squished and cut in front of and annoyed), and now you stand in front of the bar, trying (and failing) to get the bartender’s attention.

The club is packed to the gills with people—it is a raucous Friday night, and it’s been months since you’ve been in a place so full of people that wasn’t a library, a lecture hall, or some work event you had to attend. Still, though, it feels natural getting back into the groove of things, holding hands with Ruby as she leads you through the dance floor, checking on Marina behind you before she leaves to find Alanis.

The cold you were blanketed with outside is no more, not even close now that you’re slipping in between and through grinding bodies and flashing lights, the background music to your night a thumping beat you’ll feel in your bones tomorrow and a fast rapping Dutch voice over it. It’s overstimulating in a good way, you think, much preferred over the overstimulation of your packed schedule—you'll have a few weeks of this before it all starts again, and you're happy to be here at the end of it all.

Eventually you make it to the bar. Someone stepped on your foot on the way there, you lost sight of Marina, you have to adjust your little black dress constantly—whatever. Ruby’s boy thing is unmistakable, giant blue eyes and typical dad cap, and he stands at the bar with three shots waiting for you both.

“You must be Ruby’s other roommate!” he yells over the music and you nod, smiling at him as Ruby goes to hug him around the waist, giggling as she does.

You prop your elbow up on the bar for support—god, these shoes suck—and yell back, “You’re Teun? Is this your song?”

“This is my friend’s song, actually, Joost!” He looks around for a bit before giving Ruby a smile; her excitement is contagious owing to the fact that she’s almost never so animated, like she’s bouncing on her heels with her movement. “He’s supposed to be here tonight, I think he’s late.”

“Joost?” you yell, and he nods—you nod back in approval. Very pop, very gabber (if you’ve judged the subculture correctly in the 2 years being here), very loud, but you like it.

“He’s a really cool guy, I promise!” Ruby says, giggling even more and sharing a mischievous look with Tantu that you’re not sure means something.

“Mmm, sure,” you smile, scrunching your nose. You have a feeling that Joost, whoever he is, will become someone important later on in the night, but you put him on the back of your mind as you pick up your shot glass alongside the two of them and down it—you expect it to burn on the way down, seeming like some kind of vodka, but it’s smooth and sweet, only slightly burning. “Thanks Tantu,” you say, holding your hand up for a high five which he reciprocates, laughing.

“You’ll like Joost, I think,” he nods, and you cock an eyebrow.

“Are you trying to set me up with someone?”

“You need something to distract you from all your work, babe,” Ruby says, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Hopefully expensive vodka will loosen you up a bit.”

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, “I didn’t ask for a distraction.” Work and school are already difficult enough to juggle as is, let alone your abysmal social life only kept alive by Ruby and Marina’s wide circle of friendly, eccentric creatives. You’d rather just keep your circle small, keep your head down and focus, but your friends always have things up their sleeves.

Ruby orders 3 Bacardi colas for your small group and turns back to you. “We’re gifting you one, okay?”

You shake it off, focusing more on the lovely rum and cola once it comes into your possession. Sipping at it, you follow Ruby and Tantu onto the dance floor, the bustling crowd jostling you around as you teeter on your heels, keep your purse close to your body, and try to keep your drink from spilling.

Truthfully, the purse (the purse!!!) is one of your most prized possessions—you don’t think yourself too materialistic, but scoring a 90s Dior saddlebag for less than a thousand euros, with your first big paycheck… you reason that that’s more than enough to get you to be materialistic.

You cover it with your arm as best as you can as you try and follow Ruby’s pretty lion’s mane of brown curls, turning to make sure you’re still there every once in a while but mostly just hanging onto Tantu’s hand—you don’t mind third wheeling when Ruby’s being so cute, a side of her you've never seen before.

The three of you make it to the heart of the crowd, running into Alanis and Marina and picking them up along the way, the thrumming beat of some early 00s song until it transitions to something so hyperpop your eardrums might rupture.

You mouth the lyrics, bright lights shining into your eyes, your dancing constricted by being way too close for comfort with a bunch of drunk and sweaty strangers, but. You’re trying. That’s for sure.

Marina’s hands snake around your waist as you sway together to the music, eyes closed and letting the alcohol get to you; you would go back to the bar and get another drink if it wouldn’t be such a damn hassle to do so.

You’re enjoying every single moment, the time passing by in a blur of dancing people and loud voices and sweaty bodies—you’re almost in a haze, all you’d need is a drunk cigarette to make this night perfect, but then Marina lets go of you, and you get disoriented. So many lights, so many people, not enough of your people.

You get elbowed in the back by someone and it takes you out of your trance completely. You look back in annoyance, the culprit being a tall blonde guy with douchey sunglasses who’s whooping and hollering with a friend who looks just as rambunctious as he is. Scowling, you turn back to where Ruby and Marina are, speaking/yelling with Tantu and Alanis, somehow several feet away, but then you stumble over your feet, and the guy behind you stumbles into you, and you feel a cold liquid run down your arm, your side, all over your dress.

Shocked (and frankly, about to cry) you look down at your now dripping arms, your purse and the stains on it obvious even now in the dim club light. A mixture of anger and pure disdain for the guy behind you comes over you as he turns around—what the fuck!!! Almost four months of utter bullshit at work and university and this is what happens to you the night you get back.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’ll pay for it, just find me later!” he yells, looking down at you, turning back to his friends and laughing, and you practically gasp in shock with how rude he’s being. Can’t even give you the time to make things right now, what makes him think you’ll trust him enough to leave it later?

You tap on his shoulder, making him turn his attention back to you. He’s wearing earphones for some reason, and the big sunglasses really are so douchey. You’re normally not so judgmental—but he ruined your night. “Are you fucking serious? Sorry doesn’t cut it—this is vintage,” you shout, pointing at your poor purse. “And you’re a fucking asshole!”

“Oh, it’s vintage?” he scoffs, and you—you want to punch him in his smug face. You can’t even look him in the eye, his stupid sunglasses blocking your vision of him, but you know that you’re glaring holes through him.

Any night else, you would’ve left it alone, probably. At the very least, get a yell in; at the very least, get his info and give him an angry text the next morning. Tonight, though, you have nothing to lose and a chip on your shoulder. You get up closer to him, in his face as best as you can with the height difference and the close quarters.

“You wanna take this outside? You can yell where I can actually hear it, my music’s playing too loud!” he smirks, tapping on his stupid earphone, then pointing to the ceiling as the music keeps playing around you, as the people around you still keep dancing and hollering. He starts moving away from you, and you catch a glimpse of all of your friends—the puzzled stares from Ruby, Marina, Alanis, the concerned expression in Tantu’s eyes. You can't pretend to care about what you look like at the moment, except that’s all you care about at the moment. Your once perfect black dress, your mint-condition bag.

You bring your purse up to your nose—fucking Baco, not even a clear drink that you can get out relatively easily. Maybe if you’d just brought a jacket, you wouldn’t have a Bacardi cola spilled all over everything and ruining your life. You forgot how intense you are when you’re tipsy.

You follow behind him, practically stomping—you notice that people are parting for you more than they did in the beginning, and it’s likely because of the anger just radiating off of you in waves as you fume. Every once in a while, he turns and sees if you're still following…of course you are. You're not going to let him off the hook that easily. Any of your other friends would handwave it and just go back to partying. You’ve got an agenda, though.

When you make it out of the club, jostling through what feels like a million people, you're a bit sobered up and it’s so late—it’s so cold. In the lamppost light, you see he’s much taller than you, wearing a heavy jacket and a wrinkled white button-up underneath it, baggy jeans with writing over the crotch. He looks exactly what you’d expect. “I already said I’d pay for your things,” he says, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and offering you one, which you take as you roll your eyes halfway to the back of your head. “You have a stick up your ass.”

You take the cigarette between your fingers, bring it up to your mouth and he cups the end, holding the flame of his lighter to it—it sparks, and you take a long pull before sighing, “It’s gotten me much farther places than you, I know that for sure.” A smile teases on his lips, and you can't help but smile back, your anger already melting away like the snow on the ground. The two of you walk a little ways down, trying to get away from the loud clubbers and failing. It’s peak business right now; you couldn't escape them together even if you tried.

In your head, you tell yourself that it’s because of the nicotine, the smoke in your lungs, but you have to be real with yourself. Whoever the asshole who ruined your night was, whether he was a friend of a friend or the soundtrack to this club—he has pretty blue eyes and a prettier smile, and you…you are weak. And sobering up and realizing that making a scene was a bit embarrassing.

“Yeah?” he asks, and you nod, proudly, smugly, because you'd earned the right to after the way your life has been the past few months. “Sure it has.” Mood ruined again. You walked straight into that.

Again, you roll your eyes. “I'm not here to try and convince you of my accomplishments.”

“‘Accomplishments’,” he says, lighting up his own cigarette. “So accomplished but you didn’t bring a coat for this weather. Smart.”

This makes you realize just how freezing you are, one of your arms hugged close to your body for what little warmth you can muster from it—your dress is quite short, not to mention damp from this guy’s Bacardi cola spilled all over it, and you’re feeling the consequences. Goosebumps line your skin all over, the breath that leaves your mouth is not only smoke but the cold condensation in the chilly air, and you shake your head.

“I didn’t think I’d have to come out here and yell at you, but here we are.”

“How much is your dress? Your purse? I'll send you the money and more for your trouble.”

“I can't just replace vintage,” you fuss, looking down at your outfit. Your purse was once pink and white and Dior-monogrammed—now it is a muddy brown. Still Dior-monogrammed, but uglier. You never thought yourself a fusser—maybe this season of your life has changed you more than you thought. “I got this at a thrift in Berlin, you know how hard that is these days?”

A heavy weight gets put upon your shoulders; his jacket that he places around them wafts the smell of expensive men’s cologne and smoke. You look at him, incredulous; he gives you a quick glance, then averts his gaze. “You're shaking like a dog,” he says, taking a puff from his cig. “You need it more than I do.”

“Thanks,” you nod, and he gives you an acknowledging hum. “You don't have to. I was an asshole to you and you give me your jacket.”

“Don't apologize for something that was my fault.”

“It was both our fault.”

The night is silent as it can be—not silent at all with clubbers streaming in and out, the music and the talking leaking to the outside. The two of you are a bit farther away from all the people—everyone is walking the other way to another club or bar to continue their outings.

“Do you want to sit down? We can exchange info and stuff here. Your shoes look uncomfortable.”

Now that you’re warm, you realize another thing: your feet are aching tired from the dancing, the minutes of stomping after him. The curb in front of you is damp from the snow, but his jacket is so big on you that it can cover your ass—it’s not like you have much else to lose with this outfit, anyways. You sit and he settles down next to you. The sky is a deep purple canvas marred by light pollution, yet you can still see a few stars. Same stars here, same stars back home.

Another realization: you’re sitting in a foreign country, in almost silence next to some stranger, smoking a cigarette, wearing his jacket after calling him a dickhead and after he’s implied that you’re some airhead.

Maybe you're just boring (you're not), but life has never taken you to a place like this before.

To the side, he stubs out his cigarette, and you take a better look at him. Pink creeps up his neck, and when he turns back, you see how vibrantly rosy his cheeks are. If you're seeing it right, his eyes are a little heavy lidded, probably as a result from all of the alcohol. He has a beauty mark underneath his lip, and his lips are just as pink as his cheeks as he brings another cigarette to his mouth. “Do you want another? Or do you just want to keep staring?” His voice is playful, enough so that you bite your tongue for the quip back.

“I shouldn't. I’m trying to quit, anyway,” you say, still breathing yours in. He nods and you notice that you can actually see his eyes now—no douchey sunglasses, or whatever you called them in your head back there. “Why aren't you wearing your glasses anymore? The ones you wore inside?”

“I don't need to wear them now that the lights aren’t crazy. It gets very overstimulating in there, the glasses help.”

“I assume your earphones are for the same reason?” You point at his dangling white earphone, and he nods. “I should try that. Maybe it’ll stop me from yelling at strangers.”

“Maybe it will help you, too. Want to listen?”

He offers it to you, tonight’s symbolic olive branch, and you take it. “Sure,” but you take it out of your ear almost as soon as you put it in, the music extremely loud and blaring. “How do you not lose your hearing?”

“I’ll lose it anyway—YOLO,” he says, shrugging, and amuses you how serious he seems saying it. “YOLO” is a fitting mantra for him. “I'm a performer, anyway, so—YOLO! Accelerate the process.” The music turns down considerably; if you're hearing it right, it sounds like Flemish dad rock, something you'd hear on the radio if you grew up here.

“YOLO, I guess,” you laugh, and he nods like he’s proud of you, laughing himself. It sounds more like a bark, voice now raspy because of the cigarettes, because of the cold, but it sounds nice. “You’re a performer? What have I seen you in, then?” His appearance is so distinctive—hair so bright it almost glows, eyes reflecting an icy grey from the dark of the footpath in front of you. His style is even more distinctive, all Supreme and Bathing Ape and hype beast brands you’ve never heard of.

But it is Amsterdam. Curly blonde haired, blue eyed hype beasts are a dime a dozen here. You’ve probably seen him around somewhere, it seems like even your roommates know him pretty well through their scene of creatives—but you can’t seem to connect him to anyone you’ve ever watched or heard before.

“Let me pull up my music for you.”

“Soundcloud rapper?” you tease.

“Adjacent.”

He takes his phone out of his jeans pocket, and you peer over his shoulder, watching as he scrolls through a different playlist. He looks back at you, smiles, looks at your lips then back up at your eyes—it takes a little out of you to keep from rolling your eyes, it takes a lot out of you to keep your composure when he does it. Ugh. “I don’t know what to play you,” he admits, turning back to his phone. “Feels like you’re just going to mess with me when I do.”

“I'll try not to. Can't promise anything, though.”

You put your hand on his shoulder—he feels warm, sturdy, and he’s taking way too long to pick a song out of the apparently many he has under his name.

Finally, he clicks on a title and it begins playing; 1 second in, you say, “Skip,” just to fuck with him, and it works well—he looks back at you, mouth agape and eyes wide, expression so earnestly incredulous you have to laugh. Your faces are closer than they have been the entire night, but you can't even focus on that as you laugh. “Skip?!” he exclaims, getting closer to you, all up in your face.

“Yeah, skip,” you giggle, nodding exaggeratedly as you lean into him like he just did to you. He’s so close, and he grins at you as your noses come close to brushing.

“This is the first song of mine I’ve played the entire time, and you want to skip it.”

Obviously, it isn't actually a skip for you—”Ome Robert,” a really fun song about…sucking dick? Being a god? Either way, it’s incredibly catchy and well produced, but you don’t want to let him know that just yet. “Yeah, I wanna skip it. You’ve gotta have better than this.”

“I work hard on this song, I release it myself, it goes platinum in the Netherlands, I make it to impress beautiful strangers at the club just like you—and you want to skip it. All that work, what did it even get me?”

Beautiful. This counts as a win. “I admire your work ethic and I think it’s so commendable that you set up a record label for you and your friends—but it’s a skip, I’m sorry to say.” You shrug, putting your hands in the coat pockets once you stub your cig out. The air is so cold—honestly, you worry for him, his disheveled white button-up the only thing shielding him from the weather now that he’s given you his coat.

“Tell that to everyone in the club, you saw it back there. You probably even danced to it, too.”

“Did you have to pay the DJ to get him to play your song?”

“No, we’ve been friends for years.”

“Ah, so it’s nepotism. I see,” you state proudly, and he groans.

“Nepotism? I will let you know, I established a record label myself. Fully independent, no nepotism.”

Though Joost’s tone is annoyed, there’s nothing but an amused grin on his face; you smile back, “Is he signed to your label?” He nods, and there, just as easy, you have another piece of ammo. “Ah, so he’s kissing up to the boss.”

“You—“ he starts, eyebrows furrowing, then stops, shaking his head at you. “I've been talking to you for an hour and I don’t even know your name.”

“We’ve been busy.”

You offer your name and he repeats it, question mark at the end. You nod and he smiles bigger, if that’s even possible. In the streetlight, his eyes shine, long blonde eyelashes almost covering them. “We’re supposed to meet, did you know that?”

“Really?”

“I’m Joost. Friend of Tantu and Alanis. They said they wanted me to meet…their friend’s friend? If you are that. Friend’s roommate?”

“What a way to meet.” You didn’t think this would be the Joost that Tantu was talking about at the bar, fiery yet sweet making loud and proud music you’d never heard before.

“We made great first impressions on each other, I think. You are unforgettable.”

“Mine worse than yours,” you sigh, and Joost hands you his cigarette to smoke the final few puffs. You take it even though you should quit, even though you told him you’re quitting, your lipstick staining the butt.

“We can put it behind us, yeah?” he says, holding his hand out for you to shake. “Friends?”

“Acquaintances, for now,” you tease, but shake his hand anyway. “Fuck, dude, your hand is so cold.” Your brows furrow in concern as you squeeze his hand, surprisingly freezing, surprisingly soft save for a few callouses.

Joost laughs smaller than you’ve heard him all night, your hands practically in his lap; his cheeks are glowing pink with how long you’ve been out here—your cheeks are warm, but likely not for the same reason.

“Acquaintances? Don’t play hard to get.” On instinct, you wrap your other hand around Joost’s in an attempt to warm it. “Your hands are so warm, I appreciate you for trying,” Joost remarks. “Very small, too, Christ.”

“Oldest trick in the book, Joost, my god,” you laugh, exasperated, yet still, you let him move your hands so they're flat against each other, palms touching. He holds your wrist gently so he can line your hands up; his fingers are much longer and thicker than yours, and the sight brings warmth to your cheeks—it shouldn’t have the effect it does on you, but it does.

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

You bring his hand into the coat pocket with yours—it worked enough for you to now willingly share this tiny pocket, that’s for sure. “It’s working,” you say softly, averting your gaze now that you both know that whatever it is is something that’s felt mutually. “Do you do this with every pretty stranger you meet in the club?”

If Joost is a performer like he says he is, a big time independent record label owner like he says he is—there’s sure to be a line of people out the door, or at least a few groupies or someone. Someone in that club who recognized those songs, recognized the mop of blonde hair sitting in front of you now. Over several failed situationships and romps with people this side of Europe, you learned: there is always someone. Someone who’s less busy, less distracted, more interested.

You know you fit the bill for the interested part, at least—less busy is something you’ll be for a short time, less distracted…well, you have your full attention on him right now, don’t you? It’s been so long since you’ve done something like this, maybe you’re just feening for an excuse to check your own boxes for him, maybe you want to do this for the sake of the line out the door or the groupies.

Or maybe he’s just Joost. Whoever Joost is, considering you just met him. And maybe you just want him to keep holding your hand, or talk to you more, show you more of his music or go back home with you, slip into your bed, stay until the morning.

“I can't say I have. I’ve never had a conversation like this with anyone, really, so it wouldn’t even be worth it if I did,” Joost says. Your faces are close again—you would bridge the gap if you just let yourself, but you can’t; you can only muster the courage to let your noses brush against each other, only the courage to smile. “Can I kiss you?”

It seems, he’s checked your boxes for you.

“Are you fucking crazy?” you scoff, though you lean in at the same time. Joost leans back when you do, teasing grin upon his lips, and you furrow your brows, shaking your head. “Don’t play hard to get,” you mumble as he untangles your fingers in your coat pocket, takes your face in his cold and gentle hands and presses his lips to yours.

He tastes like cigarette smoke; his Bacardi cola on your dress and your shoes, and now the taste on your tongue; he tastes like smiling into a kiss with a pretty stranger, the way you both do now.

Joost kisses like he’s scared to broach you, like it’s the first time he’s been delicate in a while—you kiss like you’re hungry for him, because you are, not a single care about your lipstick on his face or the people walking past or the fact that he’s a stranger. His hand slips under your coat, gripping your hip as you pull him closer by the lapel; you beckon him to kiss you harder when you let him lick into your mouth and you lick back.

It’s your turn to pull back, come up for air; Joost chases you when you leave, hand running down your body as you go to stand up, a soft little, “what no” leaving his mouth when you do. The look on his face—his face!!! Fuck.—is so cute, big wide eyes and hand on the back of your thigh. You cup his face (is this too tender?), rub your thumb at the edge of his lips where your lipstick has smudged in an attempt to clean it off. Turning his head, he kisses your palm, and your breath catches in your throat.

Wordlessly, he gets up, stands next to you. “What the fuckkkk!!!” he whisper yells, gesturing wildly, and the street echoes the sentiment back. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” you say, laughing, and then stumbling because he’s gotten you in his arms again, kissing you, stumbling with you back against the brick wall of the building behind you as he laughs into your mouth to your whining between giggles about how he almost made you trip.

Caged between his arms, you wrap yours around his neck so you can get up higher to kiss him—“I don’t regret spilling my drink on you at all,” Joost mumbles when you kiss his chin, nip at his jaw, go down to suck at his pulse point and nip at it too. “Can I touch you like this?” he whispers, and you nod as he brings his hands down to your ass, presses you harder against the wall, grinds against you as you kiss him breathless again.

When Joost pulls away, you know—you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. Breathing almost heavy, pink lips dropped open, face more serious than he’s been the entire night and scanning your features in a way that is truly disarming—you don't want to admit it, but Joost has got you wrapped around his finger, too.

A group of people from the club pass behind—you hear a few whispers of, “Is dat Joost?” and a few wolf whistles. Someone gives him a few congratulatory claps on the shoulder which he cringes at, giving you an apologetic smile. “Don’t listen to them.” Once more, he kisses you.

“Your place?” he breathes, and you sputter for a response. This is going a bit too well. Your silence seems to speak for you, but really, you're just thinking about if your room is clean, if your everything shower was enough, if you’re ready to do this with him. “Too much?” he winces, giving you a weak smile, and you shake your head.

“No, no, my place is fine—my roommates might be home, though.”

“I can be quiet.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.”

“It’s a half-truth.”

“I’ll take that.”

—

After a kilometre walk the direction of your house chock full of giggles and pauses to keep kissing against brick walls, dark store fronts, alley entrances, you finally make it back to your house.

You hurry up the icy steps to your townhome, taking Joost by the hand as he trips his way up the flight. “Schat,” he breathes, and the pet name makes your heart skip a beat, “My house was closer the other direction.”

“You suggested my place, Joost,” you laugh as you unlock your door and step in your warm foyer—you wave him in, kicking your heels off and stepping onto the cold wood floor as he does the same with his shoes.

Closing the door behind you, you listen for a beat…voices. The walls are so thin here, you’re unsure if the sounds come from your next door neighbours or your potentially home roommates. Either way, you bring a finger to your lips, telling him to be quiet. In his normal voice, he says, “I’ll be quiet,” and you laugh together at his volume—neither of your roommates would care, but the teasing you'll receive tomorrow if they knew it was Joost you were bringing home…endless.

“Come, now,” you say, taking Joost’s hand and leading him up your steps, down the hallway to your room.

Your home is tiny and cozy and lived in—the three of you have worked very hard to make this feel like a household instead of just a shared living situation, frames lining the walls of your antics and travels together, baby pictures from home, posters of music artists and movies that one or all of you like. Joost lags behind you trying to look at them, but you just pull him along. Waiting any longer feels like a travesty.

Once you get down the hallway, open and close your door, you push him up against your door and kiss him again to his surprise, your teeth clacking together from his smile and your enthusiasm. “You want me that bad, huh?” he teases, and you roll your eyes.

The answer is yes, but you’re not going to let him know that yet.

You room is as tiny as the rest of the house, a queen bed in the middle with off-white sheets, a desk on the far side, a dresser with a mirror when you walk in.

“I don’t do things like this very often,” you mumble, fumbling with his angular belt buckle between your fingers, the cold metal of it and the jagged edges of the plate spelling “ALBINO” in a stylized font.

“Me neither,” Joost breathes as he tries to help you, but ends up fumbling with it, too. “Holy fuck, if I knew this would be so hard to take off, I wouldn’t have worn it.”

“Cool belt, nonetheless,” you say, and he kisses you thanks.

“It’s the name of my album,” Joost beams as he finally gets it unclasped, pulling it through his belt loops. You undo his button, unzip the zipper, he does the rest, clumsily pulling down his pants slightly. “We should listen to it.”

“Later.” From here, as you palm him over his underwear, feel his length through it, you can tell—he’s big. “You should’ve told me you were hiding this back there, maybe I wouldn’t have argued with you as much.”

“I was afraid you would’ve clutched your pearls if I did, schat, the way you yelled at me.”

“You would be right,” you agree, knowing you would’ve probably thrown a drink in his face if he made some remark about his dick size to you in the midst of your argument. “But if you told me, we probably wouldn’t have sat out there for so long.”

“I wouldn’t have given up that conversation for the world.”

From anyone else, these words would be hyperbole; strangely, from Joost, they feel true. it feels like you know him already, and he knows you. Perhaps it’s the result of having such a circle of a venn diagram of friends and acquaintances. Perhaps you did know him from a different time and you just forgot.

“Me neither,” you agree softly, smiling into the kiss you give him as you reach into his boxers and wrap your hand around his hard cock. He’s just as thick as you thought.

“Fuck,” Joost breathes into your mouth already, and you watch him and his face contort in pleasure as you jerk him lazily in his underwear just for the added sensation of the fabric rubbing against him. Gazing at your lips, eyebrows furrowing, chest moving up and down and breathing heavy, he says softly, “I haven’t done this in…a year? A year and a half? So please, have mercy on me.”

“Go home with someone? Me too.” You figure that it makes sense—any fling he has is probably on the road, in hotel rooms, anywhere but home. You're not exactly welcoming guests on Friday nights either, but you’re holed up in it 24/7.

“No, I mean—any of it. I don't do casual often, at all, really.”

You scoff lightheartedly, “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious,” Joost smiles as you take his length out of his boxers and get on your knees, the plush carpet cushioning you.

You don’t do one night stands and you certainly don’t do them with self proclaimed “performers,” yet here you are.

Now in front of you, his cock in your hand, you make complete peace with your decision, and it’s easy to do so.

He is so pretty—all pale, the tip a delicate rosy pink and leaking wet, a vein running along the underside. It’s nestled in a thicket of lightly trimmed dark blonde hair; you give him a few pumps, running your thumb over the head for some lubrication when you do.

“Won't listen to my music, but you’ll do this, ridiculous,” Joost says quietly, hand on your cheek as you look up at him through your eyelashes.

“You’re still on that? Big ego, shocker.”

“Obviously not a shock, you’re holding it.”

In shock at his audacity, you gasp dramatically. “Don’t get cocky, now. You still needed to beg me for streams earlier.”

You give a kiss on the pink tip, salty precum coating your lips. A perfect moment passes when you look back up at him—he rolls his head back in pleasure, a quieted moan slipping past his lips at your tongue finally on him, just one lick to the slit but enough to get him a little louder.

His cock twitches in your hand, and you grin, kitten licks to his shaft, “Too much?”

Joost says breathlessly, “I think my knees will buckle sometime tonight, schat,” and you beam up at him.

“That’s a big compliment,” you purr, taking the head of his cock into your mouth and sucking lightly, which earns a strangled groan for you, a curse under his breath. With every bob of your head, you take a tiny bit more, about half—you're ambitious, but who can blame you when Joost is so pretty? Struggling to keep it together, his stomach muscles jumping and twitching with every hollowing of your cheeks, every drag of your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

Joost’s hand comes up to the back of your head, just resting there gently as you swallow down his cock, dripping spit on your chin; it hits the back of your throat and you almost gag, having to pull back and pump him a few times, the shiny head now a deeper pink.

“You like it that much, hm?” he says, moving your hair out of your eyes as you lick a stripe along the underside.

“When you make those sounds—yeah, I do.” You lap at a bead of precum dripping from his slit, and it makes him hiss; it makes him groan even more when you pop the head into your mouth and suck again.

Involuntarily, he thrusts just a little in your mouth—”Can I do this?” Joost asks, and you nod around him. He’s gentle when he starts, and you prepare to take more of him by breathing through your nose.

He makes these little thrusts into your mouth that make your eyes water, shallow as you suck around him, steady with one hand on your head. With every thrust into your open mouth, he breathes heavier, his pretty lips are dropped open. Spit pools at the sides of your mouth; one long seat into your throat, followed by another, and you gag around him, making him groan loudly. “Holy shit, schat,” Joost breathes, and you feel accomplished. “Enough of that, I think I’ll cum.”

With his hand, Joost wipes your spit from your chin gently; brings you up to meet him for a sloppy kiss, which you smile into as he reaches around to your dress zipper, pulls it down a few inches, rough fingertips against your soft back. You start undoing the buttons of his button-up for him, fumbling just as you did earlier with his belt. For some reason, you can't find it in yourself to slow down around him.

The zipper catches and you miss a button on the way down, both of you entirely too distracted by kissing like it’s a competition, like you want to eat each other—thankfully, you get all of them undone, and so you run your hands down Joost’s chest covered in hair, his happy trail, back down to his cock again. It makes him falter as he brings down your zipper but he manages to do it, fingers light as a feather running down your spine, nudging your dress down.

Erratic and wild as the man in front of you, your heart beats a million miles an hour, your hands in his hair as he pulls down your dress completely and it crumples onto the floor.

Joost pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips, pupils blown out and wide as he scans your body, your breasts and your pebbling nipples. You move your arms in front of them, avoiding his gaze. “Don’t be shy,” he laughs softly, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed—“ he moves your hand over his heart—it beats as fast as yours, and you give him a small smile. “I’m nervous, too.” A kiss that seems to calm your nerves. “Can’t believe someone pretty as you would take me home.”

He rubs your back, and already you feel comforted—how is this the same guy who spilled his drink all over you? “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Do you forget how your dress is still very sticky because of yours truly?”

You laugh together as he kisses your cheek, the side of your mouth, then kisses your lips slow and achingly gentle, licking into your mouth and rolling your nipple gently between his two fingers, his other hand cupping your cheek. He drags his tattooed knuckles down the curve of your breast, making your breath catch in your throat, a small whine falling from your mouth when he runs them down your stomach, fingertips down over the lacy black fabric of your thong, down more and teasing at your covered clit.

“Get on the bed,” Joost murmurs, and you practically scramble to it before he stops you with a loose grip around your wrist. “Woah, woah, woah.” With a puzzled expression, you turn back to him. “We can’t have them watching, what?” he says, gesturing at your bed. Staring back at you with gigantic embroidered blue eyes: three of your cat plushies placed upon your pillows from earlier when you made your bed. You weren’t exactly planning on guests tonight. “Blasphemous, no? They can look out the window.” Scooting behind you and to the bed, Joost scoops up the three, climbing over it to your desk facing outside. The moonlight streams in through your curtains as he sits them in a line and turns them around. “Much better.”

“Much better,” you repeat, laughing. On your now clear bed, you lie back and lean over. Opening the lower drawer on your nightstand, you rummage around for the box of condoms you know is somewhere in here but is covered by notepads, extra pens, random pouches filled with indeterminate belongings. Under a folder filled with paperwork and old assignments, you find the box, opened but largely untouched except for one used for a 4th date Hinge guy from months and months ago who didn’t even make you cum.

You dig the box out and hold it out to him. Settling between your legs, Joost says, “Not yet,” taking it out of your hands and placing it on the nightstand. “I want to taste you, schat, I’ve been wanting to all night.”

…Eating it already? You’ve declared that Joost is ran through, but you find yourself caring less and less with how enthusiastic he is. Still, though, there’s a part of you that’s apprehensive about letting him see all of you so soon.

“Joost,” you blush, closing your legs. He moves them so he can see your face, and your cheeks grow hotter as you reason, “We just met.”

“And?” Tilting his head to the side, Joost scoffs. “We’re already naked in your bed, schat.”

He makes a good point, but still…you’ve never had anyone offer to do it on the first link. “I don’t know…You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“You just put my dick in your mouth, it’s only fair I do something in return.” Just a little, you part your legs for him; slowly, he takes a place between them, gaze disarming as he comes to lie on his stomach and rests his cheek on your thigh, giving it a chaste kiss. So convincing, but you don’t really need to be convinced, do you? “I will make it worth your while, baby.”

Soft mewls come out of you inadvertently when Joost noses at your inner thigh, sucks at the sensitive skin. “We could just move on—that is perfectly fine, too. But I could give you even more of a good time if we do this.”

“You talk big game, Joost,” you laugh. With his age and strange tattoos and his bleach-damaged hair and his expensive attire, you expect Joost to be bad at…all of it, really, but he’s only subverted your expectations tonight without having the chance to fully even touch you yet.

“I wouldn’t do so if I couldn’t prove it to you.” Joost presses a chaste kiss over your panties, over your clit, and somehow, your heart ups gears, beating unsteadily. “And if I didn’t want it so bad,” he adds in a low voice. Completely different from the smiling, pink-nosed boy you saw in him earlier, Joost is hungry for you, the look in his eyes telling you everything you need to know about the veracity of his words. “If you don’t want me to see, I’ll close my eyes—for now, we can just do this.”

Whoever had him last must have trained him well.

Lathing his tongue over you, Joost spreads his spit over the cloth of your thong, soaking the fabric even more than it already is as he holds your gaze. One arm is hooked around your thigh; the other hand, you’re not entirely sure, but judging from how heavy he’s breathing, how desperate he looks as he eats you out over your panties, the movement of his arm—he’s touching himself, and you wonder if he can feel how much more wet you become at the idea that he is.

A few hours ago, thought yourself unshakeable in the face of him—now you’re a squirming puddle in his hands.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to—but I promise—“ Joost says, big blue eyes shining at you, hands now clasped together as if he’s begging for it—you figure that he is begging for it, technically, and who are you to deny him the opportunity? “Do you really not want it?” Though he’s giving you an out, he sounds so resigned, and it makes you smile a little.

From the sidewalk, your front steps, the threshold of your room, you wanted Joost badly; wanted him even after considering all the outcomes of this: a waste of a free night, or an hour or two with an overconfident and underperforming boaster before you shoo him away, or a sweet but egotistical rapper in your tidy bedroom putting plushies on top of your university textbooks and leaving his clothing on your floor.

Despite yourself, you want him. The confirmation that he wants you just as badly, too—the air in your room is charged with electricity, warm and stuffy almost even with the cold outside. You haven’t felt something so strong in forever, too distracted by work and school and life to really care about your body’s needs, even less so what it wanted.

Joost is exactly what you want.

“No, no, please,” you breathe, already lowering the side of your thong. “I want you, please, Joost.”

The confidence feels more like giving permission to yourself to be so vulnerable with Joost. No one has seen you this intimately in months (feels like years) and definitely not after such short time together.

“Okay, schat. Okay,” Joost says, pressing one last kiss over your underwear before helping you pull it off. When you kick it off somewhere on the ground next to the bed, he screws his eyes shut dramatically, and you laugh.

“You can open your eyes, you know?”

“Hey, I said I would keep them closed for you, I’m not going to break my promise.” He shakes his head, moving forward to kiss…somewhere, you’re not really sure, but it ends up being the junction between your leg and your center, which tickles you.

“Break it, I don’t care.”

“If you say so.” Joost shrugs, then opens his eyes. Already, it’s as if he’s trying to study you, and it makes you want to hide. Against your better judgment, you open your legs wider for him to have more room, and he gives you a small grin. “Zo mooi, liefje, ik heb zoveel geluk,” Joost says softly, one tentative lick up your seam that makes you shudder. Your cheeks feel warm with how reactive you are to him. Synapses overloaded with his skillful tongue teasing at your clit through your lips, parting them slightly with his fingers—you don't even have it in you to translate what he said to English in your head. “Je smaakt zo lekker, ik vind het geweldig,” he groans, laying his tongue flat against the bud, lapping at it a few times, smacking his lips loudly against you.

He wraps his lips around your clit, making you moan loudly at how good it feels; you tug at his sweaty blonde hair, and he laughs, he laughs with his mouth on your pussy, and the vibrations of his deep voice make you go crazy. Already, you feel your climax about to approach—in the whirlwind of your busy life, you had no time at all for any self-love, and you guess that your heightened sensitivity is a direct result of that.

Or maybe Joost is just that good.

You watch Joost as he devours you slowly, eyes trained on yours and unflinching, arms hooked around your plush thighs and holding you down—even if you wanted to, you couldn’t get away from him.

When he reaches his right arm up to paw at your breast, you can’t help but notice—“You—is that Crazy Frog?” Crazy Frog tattoo?!?! On his forearm of all places?!?! Who exactly are you sleeping with? You are entirely and endlessly entertained and intrigued by the stranger you’ve picked up tonight.

“You know Crazy Frog?!” Joost exclaims, pulling back from you with a pop that makes you moan, lips glistening as he sits up a tiny bit.

“Yes, I know Crazy Frog, Joost.” You laugh, amused if not a little puzzled at the notion that Crazy Frog could be some niche reference for anyone who’s used Youtube in the last 15 years or born before 2003.

“I thought you would be too fancy to know him, I’m glad you aren’t.”

“I may have a stick up my ass, but that doesn’t mean I live under a rock.”

“Great,” Joost smiles, climbing up over you to give you a quick kiss before you gasp at two of his fingers circling your clit. “Then we will get along just fine.” Kiss to your cheek, and he’s back on you again.

The pause in stimulation makes you more sensitive, somehow, and when he immediately sucks your clit hard, it punches the air out of your lungs—you clench your thighs around his ears, but it just makes him suck harder. In the matter of a minute, your orgasm is coaxed out of you by Joost and his wonderful mouth, your moans no longer quiet and subdued; you have to cover your mouth with your hands, but it’s no use when he keeps licking your swollen clit on your comedown, every stroke of his tongue bringing intense waves of pleasure surging through you, making you sob out his name like your neighbours won’t have it memorized by the time tomorrow comes.

Joost pulls away from your pussy slightly when you finally release all of the tension in your thighs, your body, letting your vice grip on his blonde hair go. Every part of you feels like jelly as you try to catch your breath, sweat on your brow, the pulse between your legs strong and steady as a result of the beautiful man lying between them.

“You want another?” Joost asks, wiping his mouth, then giving you a wet kiss on your overstimulated clit that makes you curse his name to his raucous laughter. “I can give you another, I could do this forever if you asked.”

“No, no need, that’s very much enough, thank you,” you say, shaking your head. If you could stand not to have him inside you for one more minute, you’d take him up on his offer. “That was too good.”

“Dank je wel,” he grins, then kisses you, your own flavour on his lips and his on yours.

“Graag gedaan,” you giggle in your crappy accent and he kisses you again.

“Wowww, fluent. Very impressive, schat.” Joost nods, giving you a small round of applause, and you roll your eyes but pull him in for another kiss anyway. He moves to sit down so you sit on top of him—his cock is still hard as it was before, a small wet spot on your sheets next to you from where he laid down.

The feeling he gives you, it’s inexplicable—all those days writing reports and essays, brainstorming and editing, thousands and thousands of words upon paper, and Joost has rendered you speechless in mere hours. No sound between you—no jabs, no complaints or thinly veiled flirty insults, just your shared breaths in your bedroom, just the dull shuffle of your now messed up comforter against your sheets as you reach over and rip off a condom from the sleeve, the box falling over and onto the floor.

For once, you don’t quite care; you only care about ripping the wrapper, taking it out, pinching the tip of the condom, rolling it down his hard cock as you kiss him open-mouthed and thoughtless.

“All fours,” Joost whispers, and you let yourself follow his lead after so long having to be in complete control of your life. It feels good being with him, feels good when he places your legs far apart and you settle on your elbows, back arching. You’re so exposed like this—you almost flinch when he dips his fingers into your dripping folds. You turn your head to look back, let him see you and your face as he teases your clit. “Who would have thought?”

“Thought what?” you breathe, wiggling your ass back against his hand.

“Nothing to say? No teasing?”

“I’ve done my teasing.” You already knew Joost’s hands were big—but when he wraps them around your hips and pulls you to him gently, the size of them is stark, so warm and gripping you tightly. He comes closer behind you, his thighs behind your ass, dragging the tip of his cock through your slit with a groan. “Joost,” you sigh in a small voice, so overcome by your need for him. “Please, I need you, please fuck me.”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

With a few more swipes of his cock through your wetness, a few circles of the head against your clit that make arousal pool in your stomach and between your legs, he finally inches it inside of you just a little.

He’s going so slow, and you—you've never been so impatient in your life. You slide back for him, loud moans coming from the two of you at the fast stimulation, his cock dragging against your walls as you take him deeper. “Oh my god,” you whisper as he eases more of himself into you, then leans over you, chest pressed against your sweat-sheened back and a hand snaking around to knead your tits.

“‘Ik ben een god,’ I guess,” Joost says into your ear with a laugh, and you can't help but laugh too, even with all the ego dripping from quoting his own song calling him a god while he’s fully inside of you.

“Don't flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to flatter myself,” he says, and the grin in his voice is absolutely diabolical; he says it with a hard thrust into you, which you moan at, the way his cock hits your spot so amazingly, your eyes almost roll back into your head. Every nerve in your body is electric, so many months without use, without stimulation, Joost is a shock to your system. “You do it enough for me.”

You practically hide your face in the sheets as he falls into a rhythm thrusting into you at an angle so deep inside you could cry—you would never let Joost have that satisfaction, though, so you bite your lip and revel in the pleasure. Every steady seat of his cock inside you, every single breathy moan that falls from his mouth, every whispered murmur of your name accompanied by his hands roaming your back.

The sticky slap of his balls against your clit, the wet sound coming from your pussy so filthy it could take you out of this dizzying haze. Really, it sends you in deeper, burying you in it the way he’s burying himself inside of you.

“Fuuuck,” you drag out as you grip your sheets for any leverage, eyebrows furrowing with his hands gripping tightly on your hips to bring you back onto his cock. “Joost, like that.” The pace he's set for you both is aggravatingly perfect—you think you might want it forever.

“You sound so pretty saying my name like that, baby, do it again.”

“Joost,” you mewl, eyebrows scrunching that you’re letting him have what he wants. You start to say it again, but as you do—he sinks into you so quickly, so hard, then starts sliding out of you so slow you let out a strangled sob. You can’t say anything else when he continues fucking into you, only letting out stifled sighs with every movement.

“So much to say earlier, now look at you. It’s okay, I know it’s good, liefje,” he says softly.

“So good,” you murmur, the drag of his thick cock in and out of your pussy bringing you almost to the edge as you collapse your torso onto the bed, so exhausted with the endless dopamine hit you’ve managed to score with Joost—almost to the edge until he ceases his movements completely as he’s fully inside you.

“Schat,” Joost breathes, and you turn around and pout at him, completely (and justifiably) annoyed at the stoppage of his wonderful hips.

“Fuck you, why'd you stop?” you ask, propping yourself back up on your elbows and shaking your head.

Joost leans over you, lips on the nape of your neck, so you turn your head. “Fuck you,” he says, and you kiss him as he laughs. He’s so full of it—You’re so full of him, a comfortable pressure inside of you and snug against your spot. “You need me to hold you up? You can lie down if you want, schat, maybe it will feel even better.”

“Yeah, hold me up.” At your wish, he stands you both up on your knees as he supports your stomach; one hand wrapped around your waist and the other snaking down, down between your legs.

You’re sure that this will collapse you once more—you don’t mind. He resumes thrusting into you, breathing into your neck, kissing your shoulder. The wet slaps of skin against skin, the sighs and the breaths and his raspy voice in your ear when he finally touches your sensitive clit alongside the firm movements of his hips. “Let it out, lieverd, I know,” Joost murmurs into your neck as you sob in pleasure; there isn’t a single second of reprieve he gives you, not even slowing the circles he’s making on your sloppy clit.

You don't have it in yourself to argue; not against the ego or his wandering hands and his voice you’d deem condescending if you were still arguing on the stoop in front of the bar earlier—Joost is right, it is good, and this angle he has thrusting up into you is mind blowing, even as the rhythm becomes irregular and disjointed as he kisses and bites the side of your neck.

Your heart beats ever faster, the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens with every languid and messy thrust inside of you. You reach behind yourself to hold onto Joost around his shoulders, gripping his hair as you bring him in for a rough kiss, all teeth and carnality—you were so composed, once upon a time. He’s given you every reason to forget that.

“Oh, fuck, schatje,” he mumbles into your mouth. You pull back to look at Joost in his glory—he’s even prettier like this, messy and sweaty, patches of pink all along his cheeks and neck, eyes focused and almost stern. “My hand is cramping,” he says, and you laugh when he adds quickly, “And you also feel amazing, but also my hand is cramping.”

“Keep going, I'm almost there,” you say, and he obeys, still rubbing your clit, your wetness smearing on your pussy and his hand. “Do it for me, Joost, you feel so good,” you breathe, and he nods, kissing you deeply—it hits you before you even register it, takes you off guard when you climax and you have to pull back from him to moan his name, looking him in the eye when you do.

You’re never this loud—it’s very vulnerable realizing how much he’s coaxed out of you, Joost watching intently, soft smile upon his lips at your clenching pussy around him as the waves of your orgasm come through you, practically leg shaking.

He kisses you quiet again; kisses you until it’s his turn, thrusting sloppily into you, the overstimulation stinging, but so good still.

He whimpers your name, and you contemplate asking him to give you another orgasm; he whimpers again into your neck, just a soft vocalization against the still filthy sounds of the final few thrusts he can give you as he cums, the warmth you can feel through the condom flooding your pussy.

When he stills, Joost places his forehead against yours, and you breathe together in silence—if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the two of you have been with each other for years.

“I’m really surprised I lasted that long, schat,” Joost breathes, and you laugh, watching his face as he grins at you

“I’m surprised, too,” you tease, giving him one last kiss and untangling yourself from him; he’s still inside you, softening with every passing moment. When he slips out of you, you hiss—it feels empty, how sad.

“Hey, mean.” You flop down on your bed, completely spent, sweaty, still wet between your legs and watching as he takes off the condom, ties it off, and throws it in your waste bin. “I showed you a good time, didn’t I?”

“I’m not sure,” you tease when Joost comes back to sit next to you, putting his underwear back on with an annoyed rolling of eyes. “Maybe you’ll have to show me one next time?”

“Next time, huh?” he smiles, slipping his shirt on from the pile on the floor, starting to button it up. “Ehh, I’ll think about it,” he says, and you slap him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re a dick, Joost.” Joost cackles as you barrage him with a bunch of weak punches to his shoulder and back, getting your revenge for the dress and your purse, for him being a rapper and a fuckboy and the giver of the best dicking down of your life. You try not to let it kill your vibe—it likely will later, but for now, you can just be silly about it.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“The door next to mine.”

Closing your eyes, you lie back on your bed, half expecting him to just dip, hoping he’s not that much of a fuckboy. But a few minutes pass, and there’s a soft knock to your door, and Joost steps gently into your room again with a glass of water and a washcloth in his hands.

“Did you think I would just leave?” Joost asks, coming around to your side of the bed and handing you the glass. “Glassie water!” he says in a singsong voice, and you look at him puzzled as you thank him. “You’ll understand when you listen to my music more.”

“‘When…’” you laugh as he gives you an offended look and nudges your legs open. The washcloth is cold when he places it on your skin and you wince, shaking off his apologies about the water’s temperature because it’s sweet that he’d even do this in the first place.

As Joost cleans you up, delicate and gentle as ever, he says softly, “I will send you whatever money it takes to clean your purse, I will give you my number, and I’ll send you my schedule for the next month. Okay?”

“Schedule? You sure it’s not filled with other strangers from the club?”

“It’s not, I swear. You’re going to come to one of my festival shows this month, and you're going to like it.” Joost leans in and you expect a kiss for some reason, but he just takes the glass from your hand and drinks from it himself. A free festival pass doesn't sound so bad. “Ruby and Marina are back. I said hi.”

“Oh god,” you laugh, covering your face. “What’d they say?”

“They were surprised you took me home, but apparently they won a bet with Tantu, so—we did something good, I think!”

“You think?”

“I know!” You laugh at his…everything, really, sinking down in your comfy bed, realizing how heavy your eyelids are, realizing that you still haven't even exchanged numbers or last names. Does it matter this far in? “I think I should get going, schat. The sun is rising.”

In the middle of his sentence, you practically drift off into slumber, pulling your covers over your bare body. “It’s cold, stay.” You pat at the spot next to you. “But not for too long.”

thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) askbox hereeee - juno

#joost klein smut #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost x you #joost #joost smut #joost fanfiction #joost klein #joost klein fanfiction #juno's fics #juno's smut #normal au

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xo-cod · 2 months

Note

this is so weird but how about baby!141 au? i recently read a few and they’re just so cute, i just wish i had a baby simon or johnny 😭❤

if not no worries! I love your blog 💛✨

thank you lovely 🤍 this is so cute ! thank you for requesting, i hope this is along the lines of what you meant lmaoo. also don't mind the inaccuracies

no price this time, i just could not imagine him as a baby no matter how hard i tried 😭 if you want a second part with him though, let me know :)

•• assuming something happened that reverted them in their baby form ••

base was quiet, it always was but you usually heard the guys work out or wind down for the night. price had gone on an isolated missions tonight with laswell, making it one man down tonight. still, hearing no commotion was slightly unnerving but you brushed it off regardless, placing down the glass you used for water to tune in for the night.

but as you walked through you see a baby, no older than 1 sitting in a puddle of tears in the armoury his mowhawk eerily similar to your comrade. confusion and alarm passed you looking around but it was silent, not another footstep echoed as you crept closer to the scene. another baby, dressed in too big black clothes, blonde hair sparkling under the lights trying to comfort the other with a similar confused expression.

"what the-" your voice was cut off as you watch another baby come through the doors with a toy in it's mouth and depositing it in front of the baby with the mohawk with a soft hum almost talking to him in a language of their own. though the sobbing baby sniffles and shakes his little head, his lips slightly pouted almost trying to ask for something else. you contemplated calling price but your phone was left in the room and you inwardly cursed, wondering what to do. perhaps it was a hallucination, perhaps some elaborated prank pulled at your expense, you had no idea about.

it just couldn't be, surely not. though the utter disbelief and absurdity didn't stop you from hesitantly calling out their names just in case, needing confirmation it wasn't what you thought it was.

"kyle? johnny? simon?" your brow raised using their first name and you didn't expect any of them to react but their little heads turned to meet yours. eyes wide, heads tilted as you react the same way. maybe it wasn't too late to pull a runner and sleep off the clear drug induced hallucination you were going through

soap come crawling to you, small body surprisingly fast as tears tracked down his cheeks. he babbles something in baby gibberish causing you to bend down a little unsure and confused, gently picking him up in your arms while he quickly settles down against you. his small head relaxing against your shoulder

two more sets of hands whine at your feet, tugging on your sweatpants and you chuckle, raising your brow at gaz and ghost who huffed and stick their arms out wanting to be held just like soap. it was a struggle but you managed to get the three babies in your arms, a soft hum of contentment leaving their lips as they relax against your touch. soap had gotten excited, his tears long dry wondering if he was just manipulating you with his little face to be picked up. the thought made you chuckle, it wouldn't be so far off.

his mouth clamped softly onto your bicep chomping hungrily but before you could've pulled him away simon shrieked and smacked soap's head away resulting in a whine from him and a gentle kiss of appreciation from you.

there was a framed picture of the 141, everyone including you in front the vehicle after the most exhausting mission and deployment in a long time. simon laughed out happily, his small fingers pointing at the frame eagerly only causing soap to giggle and gaz to try and put the picture in mouth making you gently set all three overactive babies down on the sofa while you figured out what to do with them.

it wasn't often you got to say you were ever in this particular situation but you certainly weren't complaining. you can see their small faces in front of you, before the war and the scars and the pain. here, with you right now they're innocent little beings. curious about how the light sparkled above in the ceiling, trying to grab at it. here, they haven't touched a gun barely able to grasp the concept of walking

it makes your heart ache at their curiosity, knowing the pain and trauma they had hone through to come to this point. looking at simon whose face was constantly masked behind his skull balaclava, smiling happily at the tug of war between soap and gaz having instigated it. wondering how much his little heart had to break to make him into the cold stoic man he usually was.

glancing at gaz who usually was more composed and pensive, how carefree he seemed to be now, babbling out at soap who was frowning and rolling his eyes. taking the tug of war seriously as he tried to stand up and shove gaz. his small body collapsing into a pile of giggles from how much fun he was having. how bright johnny's spirit seemed to be, how competitive he was at winning even so small. there was no expectation on him just yet but his little hands worked deftly as he tried to tackle gaz, surprising you with the same way his adult counterpart behaved

either way you treasure every second knowing when tomorrow came, the memories would be forgotten and the guys would be none the wiser. it wouldn't change their past, it wouldn't rewrite their present but for one night you give them all the love you wished they had received in their childhood.

you make sure to make every second count, making sure that the smile never leaves their lips for tonight.

#simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #soap x reader #gaz x reader #baby!au

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beanzwrites · 6 months

Text

│Prologue│

│Human! Alastor x Reader│

Ⓢⓨⓝⓞⓟⓢⓘⓢ: (Y/n), forced to be confined by societal standards, wishes for someone to understand them. Everywhere they look, it seems as though the people they once knew have abandoned them. It's not until they are introduced to a well-known radio host that they realize their true potential.

Ⓝⓞⓣⓔⓢ: The reader is indicated to be biologically female as they will face certain challenges throughout this story due to the time period. Characters set in this will refer to the reader as she, but for the most part, it will be gender neutral. This is written to be platonic but will remain ambiguous. There may be inaccuracies to the time frame. This series may and will contain things such as sexism, classism, gender dysphoria, bullying, mentions of religion, and gore. Please read at your own risk.

〣Next Part〣

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A comfortable atmosphere bustles throughout the small diner as the sun barely begins to peek above the dazzling diversity of New Orleans. 'Leave A Little for Me' lulls about the establishment as the few patrons settled for their breakfast chat away about their own little worlds. The grill behind the counter sizzles and pops with use, an aroma of breakfast foods gnawing at any hungry stomachs that walk through the waxen double doors.

A woman, dressed in pale blush, walks out from the back with the swing of her hips and trays held skillfully above her pinned back hair. She settles plates in front of customers with a dashing smile, responding with polite and charming words as they thank her for the meal, before her gaze shifts towards a booth near the windows.

Another youthful lady settles there, a focused revelation upon their face as they lean over scattered papers on the table. The tip of a pen is wedged between their teeth, and they bite at it in thought. Swinging their leg over the other, an exasperated sigh escapes as they suddenly look up at the tin roof.

The waitress quickly strides over, coffee pot in hand. The woman lets her polished grin fall into a small smile, a gentle look in her eyes. Without a word of consent, she fills the ceramic mug long forgotten at the edge of the booth.

"Thanks, Ma." The lady, who's eyes remain upward, mutters gruffly.

"You look like you need it," the waitress chuckles, amusement crossing her expression as she watches her daughter guzzle from the steaming cup. "I will never understand how you can just drink it straight, (Y/n). You truly are an enigma."

"It helps me focus," (Y/n) states. "Especially when things don't make sense."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," (Y/n)'s mom assures, but frowns when she realizes her encouragement doesn't affect the distraught mood her child is faced with. She turns her head to the bar, noting that her co-worker was reading a magazine as the traffic coming through has died down, before setting herself across the table. "What is the matter, my sweet?"

"It was hard enough getting into the major I wanted, but now I have to worry about a suitable job too," (Y/n) grumbles.

"What happened with the secretory position at the bank?"

"Lack of experience... It's either that, or I have too big ideas for anyone's liking."

"You'll find something soon enough," the older woman persuades as she takes (Y/n)'s gloved hands into her calloused own. "The perfect job is bound to pop up before summer break comes."

"I hope your optimism comes into fruition," they say with a titter. They glance to the large clock tacked to the wall beside the island, before collecting their things with a stand. "I should head out before I'm late for class. Thank you for the coffee, ma."

"Don't forget that my first shift at Mimzy's is tonight!" Their mother calls, "It's gonna be a bit of a time crunch to get used to, so I would prefer it if you met me there after your extracurricular activities. I want to walk home with you."

"You don't have to be so paranoid," (Y/n) replies as they stand by the door. "After my studies, I'm going out with Joanne for a late lunch. I'll head over once we finish our gallivanting."

"You can never be too sure, dear. The news is heating up with all kinds of stories about that serial killer. I just want you to be safe!"

The bell above the entrance rings, a chiming announcement that a customer walked in. The cook desultorily straightens herself from her torpor, a curt welcome grousing from her lips.

"I'll see you later, Ma!" (Y/n) comments over their shoulder, but not before making brief eye contact with hickory brown. Round glasses, placed on the curvature of the man's sharp nose, reflects the gleam from the sun's light. He gestures his black-clothed hand to the entry he held open, a raffish grin on his face.

"After you, mademoiselle," He cheerfully asserts.

"Thank you," (Y/n) politely curtsies before rushing out into the streets of Louisiana.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━☻━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(Y/n)'s temple pulsates with an ache as they stir the soup in front of them with disinterest. The warmth of the spring now settled into an orange hue on their skin, drawing out the time until nightfall came. Tapping the toe of their heel against the Mandala patterned floor, their eyes gaze up at Joanne.

Joanne was a high-class type of girl, with distinguished parents and a father that ran a well-known Men's Club in town. Daffodil hair curled around her ears and tickled rosy cheeks as she ate away at her salad. Gorgeous blue peek up at (Y/n), and with a giggle, she hides her mouth with the black clothed napkin that was folded nicely by her plate.

All the eligible boys were swoon by her meek personality, always gifting her lavish things with money they earned. (Y/n) can always tell that she adores the attention, even when she claims that none of them strike her fancy. Sometimes, (Y/n) wishes their life can be as simple and carefree as Joanne's; that they can embrace their femineity instead of their intelligence. That is not how they were designed though.

"Have you changed your mind about the dance?" Joanne softly asks, pink tinted lips rising into a smile.

"No," (Y/n) responds after a long pause, "My mind has been on other things."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" She exclaims with puffed cheeks. "Why don't you go with Donald?"

"The guy who pulls my hair in history? No thanks."

"He just does that cause he likes you," Joanne laughs, "You two were meant for each other!"

"I don't see any of your suitors pulling your hair," (Y/n) gripes, "Don't tell me such stupid nonsense, Ann."

A look of hurt flashes across Joanne's face, and (Y/n) considers apologizing before she runs to tell her mother. It wouldn't be the first time (Y/n)'s pragmatism got them into trouble. Joanne's mother was a snooty woman and always tried to whip (Y/n) into their place in society since they were young. Since both Joanne and (Y/n)'s fathers worked on the road for the majority of their childhood, both of their mothers came together to help one another before Joanne's father found his passion for business. Though Joanne's family has long since moved from the quaint Neiborhood (Y/n) and their mother still resides in, Joanne always reaches out to 'catch up' with her friend since diapers.

"I'm worried for you," Joanne remarks in a dull tone as she leans back in her seat, "Your mom and I aren't always going to be there for you. Your mother shouldn't bear the responsibility of looking after you forever, and soon enough, I'm going to get married and have a family! You always talk so pessimistically about love; you never give anyone a chance! If you keep up with that attitude, you are going to end up alone!"

A screech emits from (Y/n)'s chair as they push away from the table. Abhorrence filters through every thought they wanted to say in that moment, a scowl present on their face. "And what if love is not something I'm aiming for? Have you ever thought about that?"

"And you think some silly dream is? You are a lady, (Y/n). Start acting like one," Joanne spits.

Thrusting their hand into their bag, (Y/n) throws down a few dollars on the tawny surface. "Pay my meal for me, would you? I've lost my appetite."

Swiftly pulling their coat over their shoulders, and without so much as another glimpse towards Joanne, (Y/n) stomps their way to the front. Judgmental leering warms the back of their head from the ongoing patrons they pass, with societal conjectures whispered among them. (Y/n) wishes they could declare that they were used to being seen as a freak, but the pang in their heart was hard to deny.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━☻━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The buzzing of cicadas disturbs the thick despondency that hung over (Y/n) as they trudged their feet over the concrete pavement. Though yellow-hued streetlamps and distant sounds of laughter embraced the night with sweet carol, the weight of the day wore heavy on (Y/n)'s shoulders. The keister that they wore on their side swung limply as hot air blew past, and the sweat that collected on their forehead felt consciously sticky.

In a fit of frustration, (Y/n) didn't think to take a trolley over to Mimzy's. They were so engrossed by Joanne's behavior, needing time to collect their thoughts. Granted, (Y/n) did comprehend that their tongue could be snippy without second thought, but did that give their friend the right to dismiss all that they've worked for?

Ever since (Y/n) was young, they perceived that their way of thinking was far different from the others their age. While the adolescent girls that they grew with obsessed over dolls and new dresses, (Y/n) found the extortionary power of the mind. Every day, whether it would be tuning in on the latest news of horrific disasters on the radio or reading recent articles of crimes that happened within their very own city, they would journal each observation and theory that came about their wit.

(Y/n)'s mother was always a benign supporter, providing perception in their once childish dreams. Though their mother never castigates them now for pursuing what some may see as impossible, an underlying fraught tone catches in the optimism she provides.

"Why don't you become an author?" (Y/n)'s mother once persuaded as they sat to eat breakfast together one early morning, "Or a teacher! I'm sure you can put your journalism skills to use in those professions!"

(Y/n) knows their mom means well; She was the only person (Y/n) could openly talk to, and she would listen without conviction towards any words that spewed from their dreamy wonder. However, their mother did not understand the consistent resilience that they fought with every day, that it wasn't some phase that will burn out with age. (Y/n) knows what they want; they just wish sometimes that another being would appreciate that too.

A sigh of relief escapes (Y/n) as the establishment's spendthrift sign comes into view as they round the corner. The word Mimzy flickers with life, but there was no cars or pedestrians that showed if it was so. Though (Y/n) has never experienced what goes on within this club, their mother remembers fondly of the days she spent rendezvousing about with boys and her gal pals. Though, at that time, she wasn't married with a child and the night spot wasn't named Mimzy.

Only a few short years ago, did the name rebrand and (Y/n)'s mom rekindled a lost relationship with a lady she had a fondness for long ago. It wasn't shortly before the friendship blossomed once again did their mother get offered a job; she was ecstatic. (Y/n) couldn't be prouder of their mom, for she too in a way, fought for her right in the world. Not so long ago in the gossip vine of the town was (Y/n)'s mother ridiculed for working as a married woman. Some even went as far as to patronize the diner their mother works the early morning hours at, threatening to boycott if the enterprise supported such scandalous practices. However, nothing came from the situation besides nasty rumors and empty threats, as an anonymous word got out that (Y/n)'s father hasn't been seen for some time. Though there is no documentation that (Y/n)'s parents ever divorced, there was also no valid proof that their father supported the family, hence why the issue was dropped.

It was hard growing up without both parents being present consistently, and for their father's absence being a key factor on the shunning of both their mother and them. He came by every now and again when he was able to take a break from the road, but (Y/n) couldn't really orate that he made a big impact in the few memories they shared. It had been two years since his last visit. (Y/n) recalls him being a very traditional man, who put the Bible and social formalities before anything else. They always stuck to their mother's shadow whenever he was around, never really choosing to interact with him. Their mother, however, would grow a sense of urgency and remain steadfast on her feet to every beck and call that came from that man. (Y/n) always hated seeing the overwhelming dread that hung over their mother when he was around.

Grabbing the handle, (Y/n) was quite surprised to find the door unlocked. Jazz carries about the ostentatious display, but they saw no one hanging about the scenery. Following the orange luminescence that lean against the plush wallpaper, (Y/n) is led to a round counter with a large chalk menu hanging above it. Black cushioned stools line the exterior, contrasting from the red tables set on the other side of the establishment, and a jukebox is arranged in the corner where anyone can interact with it. As (Y/n) looks at their whereabouts in modest fascination, their heels clack against a wooden surface. They are quick to turn around, only to find they had stepped onto the dance floor centered in the room.

(Y/n) never went dancing before. Though everyone sought to learn for entertainment, even their own mother, they opted to stick to their own self. The mere thought of being surrounded by strangers under the strobe lights that circled about the deck gave (Y/n) languid anxiety. Many stories of love and bliss came from places like this; it made (Y/n) think back on Joanne's sternness of finding a social outlet and meeting a suitable man to be courted by. It's always been hard for (Y/n) to make friends, and with that, romance never crossed their mind.

"Sorry suga, but we ain't opened just yet!" A feminine voice evinces from behind. A short, plump woman in a bright pink flapper dress grins at (Y/n), her platinum bob cut bouncing as she walks. (Y/n) felt a sudden vulnerability of being under dressed, still sporting the same wear they've been in since they left the house.

"My mother told me to meet her here," (Y/n) breathes out, "Tonight's her first shift."

The woman's brows furrow as she ogles the person in front of her, before recognition washes over her face. "You must be Lorraine's girl! My, you are the spitting image of her!"

"That's me..." (Y/n) replies with a confining smile, "I apologize if I came in too early, the door was open."

"Not a problem at all, deary! I leave that door open a few minutes early anyway for... special guests." A small blush crosses the woman's face as she looks away to compose herself, "Make yourself comfortable! Your ma and the other gals are getting ready in the back! If you need anything, be sure to call for dear ol' aunty Mimzy!"

(Y/n) gives their thanks before the petite lady ushers herself away to prepare for opening. They decide to take up space in the far corner away from the dance floor, the table beginning to be covered with assignments and books. (Y/n) occupies themselves with their work, too engrossed to notice the oncoming crowd beginning to fill the place. Live performers took up the music as the night carried on, and congenial chatter joins into a pleasant hum. The atmosphere was quixotically pleasant to (Y/n)'s revelation, and they found themselves humming along with the songs they remembered as they wrote away.

"I hope this doesn't come off as pushy, but I couldn't help but to wonder why a lovely specimen such as yourself is all by her lonesome?" A voice articulates in a teasing tone, "It almost seems that you want to be hidden away!"

(Y/n)'s grip tightens on the pencil in their hand, and they look up with a glare. The man who spoke, sported in a red vest and black slacks, registers a simper as they make eye contact. The familiar brown hue twinkles with amusement as (Y/n) straightens in their seat. (Y/n) recognizes this man to be the one who held the door open for them at the diner earlier today.

"Alastor. Charmed to meet you!"

═══════════════════════════

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#alastor x reader #human alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #romantic or platonic

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poppadom0912 · 11 months

Text

Together (IX)

Warnings: Mentions of violence, blood, injuries, abuse, kidnappings, shootings, swearing and scary men.

Summary: They're finally together and nothing's getting in the way... maybe.

A/N: So this is the second final chapter before the epilogue. This has been so much fun to write you don't understand. This is like my baby that I've had since January and I'm so proud. You guys have shown so much love for it that it makes me upset it's all coming to an end. So I hope you enjoy and cherish the last two chapters of this series!!

I'm not a professional so ignore any medical inaccuracies. Also, for my sake, let's pretend that all these characters are still here because I can't be asked to remember who left and what season is which. Everyone's just going to exist happily together ;))

Previous Chapter / Series Masterlist / Next Chapter

The gunshots reverberated through the warehouse, despite being cut off from the outside world it sounded like a battlefield where thousands of bullets were being shot when in reality it was probably under thirty people shooting back and forth at each other.

You’d been awake for a while now, your body curling around Will’s as both of you shivered. He tried talking, telling you stories that you somehow never heard before but talking became too hard at one point and his pain doubled resulting in staying in silence.

The silence made it easy to get lost in thought, getting carried away in the thought that maybe this was it. It daunted on you that no matter how hard you fought, how hard your brothers fought, none of it was enough at the end of the day because look at where the three of you ended up.

Half an hour later, Will was dragging you and himself towards the door as soon as the gunshots went off. He murmured how when the door was eventually opened, you’d be hidden behind the door and it’d taken just a few seconds longer to be found, giving Will hopefully some time to come up with a very last-minute plan.

Holding in your breath, you waited anxiously on the floor with Will crouched besides you, pain evident on his face from the new uncomfortable position. Just as you were going to tell him to sit down, footsteps could be heard stomping downstairs and across the corridors.

You and Will shared a glance, worry written boldly on both your faces. This was probably it and that thought of this being the end made the pit in your stomach grow. All this pain and suffering only ending in death, it was kinda pathetic. You prayed Jay mourned healthily, prayed Kelly wouldn’t lose himself and moved on, prayed that everything stuck together, and no one let this tear them apart.

Will gripped your hand as tightly as he could, his body shielding yours as best he could because if this was it, then he was going to go down protecting you and putting up some sort of a fight. You squeezed his hand back as tight as you could, expressing words that you were too scared to say in the silence that was interrupted by stomping feet and shattering bullets.

With a watery smile, you squeezed Will’s hand one more time for good measure, maintaining eye contact for just a little longer, having a silent conversation where you both said everything necessary with simply your eyes; eyes that you shared with Jay and eyes that he shared with your dad. Merely the thought of it made a tear slip from where you were pushing it back.

Will softly smiled back at you, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles comfortingly. This minute of silence shared between you two wasn’t enough, you wanted, scratch that you needed more time.

The sound of struggle was the next thing you heard; someone was trying to get into the locked room. The sudden banging overtook your thundering heart that was already having a tough time.

The door burst open; it happened so fast that it hit Will’s back whose face scrunched up in pain. You squeezed his hand tighter to hopefully offer him some comfort, but he only adjusted his position so that his crouched body was fully covering yours from outside eyes.

“Please, please don’t touch her.” Will begged, urgency dripping as it heavily coated his words. He would rather they did all the damage on him than you, you’d been hurt enough, and he could handle a little more violence. You argued he couldn’t since he was barely stable while on the ground. If he wasn’t being so hypervigilant and took the time, he’d realise he was worse off than he thought.

“Thank fuck.”

That didn’t sound like Jackson or Ezra, neither did it sound like any of their bulky lackeys.

You slowly peeled your eyes open, watching as Will froze from shock. All the oxygen left his body as he lay eyes, finally, on Jay.

“Shit, what the hell did they do?!” The fear and anger mixed as Jay took in the sight of his siblings. To see them again took off all the weight on his shoulders, relief replacing it but soon it was gone because you and Will looked worse than he could’ve ever anticipated.

“Help me up Jay.” Will ignored Jay’s question and instead held out his hand. Jay complied easily, pulling Will up onto his feet but as soon as he stood, he crumbled back onto the floor.

“Shit okay, never mind.” Will groaned, eyes screwed shut as he caught his breath, arm protecting his abdomen. “Leave me for now, you gotta carry Y/N, there’s no way she can walk.”

“Dude, neither can you or are you also blind now?” Jay scoffed; his eyes wide in bewilderment at his older brother's insistence. “Kevin’s down the hall, he can help.”

You and Will hummed in reply, neither of you having the energy to properly reply. You felt bad because you barely did anything while Will did all he could and more despite being incapacitated.

“Seeing your ugly mugs makes me want to cry.” Jay said, a smile appearing on his scabbed lips as he looked down at the two of you. There were no lies in his words, relief flooded his body at the simply seeing his siblings even if they were injured beyond human capabilities but being separated for so long, it did things to men.

“Come on Halstead’s, let’s get you outta here.” Kevin said, suddenly appearing from out of nowhere, making you and Will jump in fright. It would’ve been funny had your responses not been a result of the trauma you just experienced.

Jay scooped you into his arms, expletives spilling from your lips from your body being jostled around. His whispered apologies and tried comforting you, trying his best to quell your pain with just his words but it could only do so much. Behind you was Kevin holding Will around his waist, the pair being much slower as Will struggled mightily on his feet, but Kevin was a godsend, being the most patient and kind person as he supported Will.

The bright afternoon sun blinded you as your finally entered the outside world, being met with fresh air, natural lighting and the company of people who had pure intentions of helping. You briefly saw members of intelligence surrounding you, acting as a shield as they guided Jay towards the ambulance waiting.

The familiar faces of your favourite paramedics soon came into view causing a smile to break out on yours. As soon as you approached the ambo, Jay gently lay you on the awaiting stretcher and stood back, letting the professionals do their job while keeping watch.

“Oh Y/N.” Sylvie said sombrely, gingerly pushing your hair back before connecting to a bunch of wires that you couldn’t remember what their purposes were. “We’ve got you, you’re going to be just fine, okay?”

The question was rhetorical, but you still nodded drowsily in reply. You were aware of the two pairs of hands working on you, Violet and Sylvie were very likely panicking on the inside from the state you were in, but their concern took over. They could panic later once you were properly treated.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see a new group gathering around the ambo and you could hear voices rising, getting louder the closer they got to 61. If you had it in you, you would’ve looked for the source, but Sylvie reassured you that everything was being handled.

Violets hands suddenly disappeared as she suddenly exited the ambo, rushing with things in her hands. It took a while for you to understand why, your brain all muddled up, but it only now registered that Will was behind you with Kevin.

“Will.” You mumbled, your voice scratching as your panic increased. “Will-”

“Violet's with him.” Sylvie said, her undertone giving it away that she wasn’t confident deep down. “Another ambos on the way for him, don’t worry.” Yet, despite her own words, Sylvie didn’t believe in them. She saw Will for a brief millisecond when he appeared, the ruckus catching her attention, but he somehow looked worse than you under the blaring sun.

Before you could insist on being told what was happening to him, the ambulance doors were suddenly being slammed shut as Violet drove with all lights and sirens.

*****

Maggie couldn’t believe her eyes.

It had been two days since the Halstead’s disappeared. Everyone was informed on day one about their disappearance and it was news that everyone found difficulty in swallowing.

Everyone had been on edge for the 48 hours. While on shift, multiple people from intelligence and 51 made an appearance into the ED and their solemn faces were all identical. The tension was high, and it only got worse when Jay was randomly dumped outside of Med.

Around an hour ago, Kim called in saying that Will and Y/N had finally been found and that they should be prepared for the worst. And so, Maggie did what she does best.

61 Was the first to arrive with police escort, Hailey and Adam drove in front with Kim behind with Jay. They almost formed a protective circle as Sylvie exited along with Violet who helped pulling out the stretcher.

Laying eyes on you for the first time made the charge nurse sick. No matter how long she’d been working in the emergency department, nothing could ever make her get used to this.

Sylvie relayed shakily what she knew about your condition, Crocket and Natalie listening intently with April’s assistance as they got to work as soon as they entered a trauma bay. Maggie stood with Ethan and Connor by her side, watching as chaos descended in the bay. The three of them were waiting for Will.

“Jay, how about we finally get a good look at you, huh?” Ethan said, remembering what happened yesterday as he caught sight of the green-eyed detective at the back of the group who refused to look away from his baby sister.

But the man in question looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Will’s not going to make it.” Jay stated, his voice strong and firm as he spoke. He looked away from where you were being treated and looked at everyone almost robotically. “Will’s not making it.”

Before anyone could say anything, the bay doors were opened and everyone flooded out, pushing the gurney towards the elevator. Crocket stayed back from the rest, slowly walking backwards as he explained, “We’re taking her into surgery, but all things considered, she’s looking okay.”

And with that, the surgeon was speeding off to basically save your life.

“How about we look at you Jay? You promised me, remember?” Ethan asked rhetorically, guiding the stoic man towards a different, cleaner trauma bay so that he could properly treat him, giving him everything he desperately needed yesterday.

“I don’t have Will.” Jay retorted but followed the doctor anyways.

Maggie and Connor watched the two men enter another bay before all they could hear was the sounds of the bustling yet peaceful ED. They didn’t know what to make of Jay’s words, but the man seemed hopeless and on the verge of breaking down. He looked awfully similar to the time when his dad died.

They turned to the paramedics and the three members of intelligence but the look on their faces told them everything they needed to know.

*****

Jay finally broke down when he was left alone, your sleeping body being the only thing present in the room with him.

Crocket fully led Jay through every procedure that they did, explaining what they did during the surgery and what exactly your injuries were. Usually, that was Will’s job, but Jay tried not to think about that when the surgeon gently spoke to him.

You had several broken ribs, some even fractured, and it’d been very very close to puncturing your lungs - it was apparently surprising you didn’t have a pneumothorax. You had quite the concussion, multiple lacerations that were both superficial and that needed surgical fixing. There also had been some damage to your spleen that was repaired, a fractured left hand and an out of place bone in your foot.

Overall, everyone had been expecting much worse, but they did explain to Jay that recovering would be the worst part of all of this. They weren’t sure about neurological damage nor how bad your vocal damage was. Once you woke up, there was plenty of testing to be done.

Seeing you alive and breathing, even while connected to a bunch of tubes and wires, Jay felt relief but oh so overwhelmed at the same time. So much happened in the last two days and now that he finally was left alone with his thoughts and feelings, the sounds of beeping machines and you sleeping painlessly, everything came crashing down on him.

It properly dawned on him that the three of you had been kidnapped, you’d been hurt and hurt time after time. He was left to fight and get you back home and he’d been so close. For a while, Jay thought everything was done and he did it but then, but then Will happened.

Jay harshly wiped away the tears on his cheek, his eyes catching sight of his bandaged knuckles and the IV in his left hand that he was itching to remove but then a voice sounding like Will warned him against doing so.

Ethan did an x-ray on him, stitching his bullet wound and thoroughly wrapping it. He plucked several butterfly stripes and many cotton swabs to get rid of any and all blood stains. All in all, Jay would be off work for a few weeks, maybe some physio depending on how his leg felt but he was in pretty decent shape given the circumstances.

Jay bitterly laughed, shaking his head at the thought that he was expecting to have a full recovering with barely any long-lasting damage. He hated to admit it aloud, but this was going to stay with him forever, there was no way he was ever going to get rid of your gut-wrenching screams, they were forever engraved into his mind.

And well, if Jay didn’t see Will at least arrive at Med, then nothing was ever going to be the same again.

And so, what if Jay cried himself to sleep in the chair at his sister's bedside, at perhaps his only sibling's side.

Jay drowned out his thoughts as he sobbed, hand curling around his mouth to muffle his cries as not to alert anyone of his emotional state. But, when Maggie walks in later to find the two younger Halstead’s gone to the world, she pretends not to see the tear tracks staining Jay’s cheeks.

Series Masterlist:

@mads-weasley @sowrongitslottie @elite4cekalyma @senjoritanana @hufflepuff-blackwidow @mrspeacem1nusone @kmc1989 @goth-cowgirl-03 @daggersquadphantom @photographerkaiya0306 @jamie0515 @samanthavitale @iamasimpingh0e @lanea-1 @swidkid

#one chicago x reader #one chicago imagine #jay halstead x reader #onechicago #chicago fire #chicago med #chicago pd #will halstead x reader #halstead sister #halstead brothers #kelly severide x reader #jay halstead x sister!reader #will halstead x sister!reader

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cherrycola27 · 1 year

Text

All Too Well

Series Warnings: Language, drinking, military inaccuracies. Allusions to smut, eventual smut. Unrequited love, enemies to lovers. Adult themes and situations. 18+ Minors DNI

Masterlist

Next Part

...........................................

Prologue: I Remember It

The sun was just setting as a red and black Kawasaki GPZ900R motorcycle pulled into the Hard Deck. The driver quickly dismounted and took off her helmet, shaking out her dark brown hair. She slipped a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators over her sage green eyes to block out the fading rays of light.

She draped her red leather jacket and helmet over the seat of her bike. No one around here would be stupid enough to mess with her things. After adjusting her clothes, she made her way across the sandy parking lot into the establishment.

Phoenix, Bob, Payback, Fanboy, and Coyote were gathered in a corner booth as they watched Hangman and Rooster duke it out in a game of pool.

It was a relatively quiet night at the Hard Deck.

Phoenix was busy telling the squad about her recent trip back home to see her new niece. She was just about to show the group some photos when the bell above the door chimed. Her eyes moved to see who the new patron was, and when she saw them, her jaw dropped.

"No way." She breathed out. "No fucking way." The group of men she was sitting with looked at her confused. Her eyes darted over to Rooster to see if he'd noticed who'd walked in. He was too focused on the game to pay attention.

Phoenix watched the woman head over to the bar and greet Penny and Maverick before getting a beer and turning to scan the crowd.

"Phoenix, do you know her?" Bob asks. "You guys don't?" She asks the group. "Should we?" Payback questions her. "Who is that?" Fanboy asks.

"Fellas, that right there is Y/N Benjamin-Mitchell, better known by her callsign, Hustler." Phoenix tells them.

"Benjamin- Mitchell? Like—" Coyote asks as he gestures to Maverick and Penny at the bar. "Yep." Phoenix replies, popping the "P."

"She's their oldest daughter. And she can fly circles around any pilot in the Navy, including Maverick." She tells them.

A voice yells out, "Bradshaw!" Everyone's head snaps up to see its the mysterious woman. She runs over to greet Rooster with a hug who looks dumbfounded to see her.

"She also the only woman Rooster has ever loved." Phoenix tells them. As all eyes turn to watch the seen before them

...........

"Hus? What are you doing here?" Rooster asks you as he pulls back from your hug.

"Dad pulled a few strings and got me a permanent duty station here. He wants the family to be close again." You tell him. "Plus, I couldn't pass up on the chance to be close to my favorite guy again, now could I?" You bat your eyes and give him a big smile.

"Don't give me that look Y/N." Rooster warns you. "What look?" You ask coyly. Rooster knows exactly what you're doing. It's a routine he's fallen for many times, but he's determined not to let it happen again.

He grabs his beer and takes a long sip before speaking.

"It always ends the same with us, Y/N. Let's not start this time." Rooster tells you before returning to his game.

Dumbfounded, you turn on your heels and head back to the bar. You can already tell you're going to need your mom to make you something strong.

You sigh as you sit down next to your father before a tequila-soda is placed in front of you. "Maybe it was a mistake coming here." You tell your father. "Y/N, give it time, Bradley wasn't exactly jumping for joy when he saw me either." Maverick tells you.

"I just can't believe after all these years, he's still holding a grudge over something I didn't do." You say. "And the fact that you've breezed in and out of his life so many times doesn't make the situation any better." Your mother tells you. You look up and meet her knowing eyes. "Believe me. As someone who's been in his shoes, getting their heart broken by a Mitchell, it's not something that you just get over. Especially when you have a knack for re-opening the wound right after they thought it had healed." She tells you as she wipes the counter.

You sink down in your chair. You know what she's saying is true. Your parents had been on and off for the first few years of your life before your mom eventually gave Maverick an ultimatum, stay, or leave for good. He chose to stay, and it worked out for them.

But they were different than you and Rooster. You didn't choose to leave him the first time. No, the first time he pushed you away, calling you a liar and a manipulator. Saying that you were no better than your father. He called you a hustler, screaming that you used him to further your career.

You tried to make him understand that it wasn't true. You can still feel the got tears that streamed down your cheeks when you begged him to believe you, but it was too late.

So, you decided to lean into his words. If he was going to call you a hustler, then that's who you'd become. And for the past eight years, that's who you've been. Hustling your way to the top, becoming the best of the best, breaking records, and breaking hearts along the way.

It was thrilling at first, but then you were stationed with Bradley for a few months in Virginia. The two of you found yourself enthralled with each other once again, ending up in a tangle of sheets and mixed emotions before you were reassigned. You'd left without telling him. A year or so later, the two of you spent a few weeks in Lemoore, only for it to end with you leaving him again.

Then last year, you were in South Korea. You spent six months with him, and then one night, as the two of you laid together, he confessed that he loved you. That you were the only woman he'd ever truly loved. Instead of saying it back, you quietly slipped out of his room that night as he slept and avoided him on base. Two days later, he was called back to Top Gun for that faithful uranium plant mission.

You never got the chance to tell him that you felt the same. You were too scared to admit.

And now, you were back, and he was here, and you wanted to make everything right. You just didn't know how.

......................

Over at the pool tables, Phoenix and the rest of the Daggers had joined Rooster and Hangman. Jake and Javy were currently playing a doubles game against Mickey and Reuben. She, Bob, and Rooster were standing against the wall.

"So—Hustler is back." Nat spoke. "She is." Bradley breathed out. "How's that make you feel?" She asked him.

"Angry—frustrated —nervous—like—" Rooster trailed off.

"Like you never stopped loving her?" Phoenix finished for him. Bradley shook his head before downing the rest of his beer. He throws the bottle away and excuses himself to the bathroom. Phoenix doesn't miss Rooster's lingering gaze towards the bar as he walks away

"Bob," Phoenix begins as she turns to her back seater. "I think I've seen this film before, and I didn't like the ending."

Okay, I was kicking this around in my brain. I'd appreciate some feedback on this prologue to know if this is a project worth pursuing!

Tagging some who might be interested: @thedroneranger @roosterscock @gretagerwigsmuse @desert-fern @teacupsandtopgun @mayhemmanaged @lovinglyeternal @lovingbradshawafterdark @wkndwlff @shanimallina87 @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @hecate-steps-on-me @bradshawsbaby @cassiemitchell

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ythankucaptainmccoy · 5 days

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The Cowgirl and The Aviator Ch14

Here it is guys the trial chapter. WARNINGS: Fluff, Mentions of Sex, Trial Inaccuracies, Mentions of Child Loss and Angst. (The picture of naked Glen was the inspiration for a scene in this so you're welcome)

The next morning you woke to Jake leaving kisses on your shoulder. “Morning babe”, you said. “Mornin’ Darlin’ how did you sleep?”, he asked. “It was great”, you smiled. You turned to face him and snuggled into his chest. “You have training today?”, you ask. “Yeah but Maverick said something about a later training schedule for this week”, he responded. You kissed over his heart and started to move lower, but Jake grabbed your arm to stop you. “Not until the doctor says you can remember”, he scolds.

You huff as he pulls you back up and kisses you on the lips. “What do you want to do today?”, he asks. “Maybe we can ask the others if they want to go out for lunch”, you suggest. “Well I guess you can send the word out and see what they say”, Jake says getting up. You watch as he walks to the bathroom and you have to bite your lip as you watch his naked ass disappear into the bathroom and groan. “Damn this injury”, you curse as you get up to get dressed. Jake walks back in and starts to get dressed.

The text you send just asks if anyone in the dagger squad wants to meet up for lunch and that they can bring a plus one if they so choose. The texts roll in so fast that you can’t keep up with them. Everyone has agreed and Bradley tells you he is bringing his girlfriend. You tell Jake as you then send out another text asking where everyone wants to eat and what time. Within thirty minutes everyone agrees on a taco bar and a time to meet.

“We have a couple hours to kill before we have to be there. Do you want to get the grocery shopping out of the way?”, you ask. “Yeah let’s go”, he responds. When you get in the truck Jake turns on an old country station then holds out his hand. Once you're buckled in you take his hand and he pulls out of the parking lot. The store was pretty laid back this morning, mostly elderly people after church had let out. You grab a cart while Jake walks beside you.

“What do we need?”, Jake asks. “Well we need a little bit of everything due to the fact we haven’t shopped since coming back from Texas”, you reply. You weave in between carts as you pick items that you need to stock the fridge and cabinets. Jake gets the heavier things for you and every once in a while asking him to get things on the top shelf. You can’t help but watch his shirt ride up when he reaches up. He smirks knowing that you’re doing it on purpose.

“Oh can you go get the bread we passed it already”, you tell him. He goes in search of the bread as you bend slightly to grab some cans of corn. When he comes back around into the aisle he can’t help himself as he lightly swats your ass. You squeak and jump a little as you turn towards him. “Jake, don't start a war here”, you hum. “Wouldn’t dream of it darlin’ “, he drawls. When he reaches for another item you swat him just like he did with you. He turns to give you that ‘your in trouble’ smile.

You laugh any time he pinches your ass or swats you, and he does the same when you do it to him. A little old lady watches until you send him on a search for another item. “Oh honey you both have it bad for each other”, she speaks. “It’s that obvious”, you say. “Me and my late husband God rest his soul were like that when we first started out. You hang on to that one and tie the knot if ya’ haven’t already. Love like that is hard to find”, she says. “I’ll keep that in mind”, you tell her.

“He is handsome and by the looks of him he is probably great in bed too”, she chirps. You go red with embarrassment as the little old lady laughs. “Oh honey it’s alright don’t think for one minute that our generation wasn’t jumping each other's bones no matter what they tell you life was like back in my day”, she says. You laugh with her at that comment and when Jake comes back he has this confused look on his face.

“What did I miss?”, he asks. “Oh I was just telling your woman here that she better hang on tight to you”, she laughs again at her little joke. You can’t help but laugh harder at her little joke. Poor Jake stands there still looking confused as the lady tells you both to have a blessed day. “So you going to tell me what that was all about?”, he questions. “She just told me we were a cute couple and that I should hang onto you because you’re a good one”, you say.

“Well was she wrong?”, he asked. “No she isn’t wrong I intend to hold on tight”, you reply. Jake pulls you in for a kiss and takes your ass in his hands and groping you. You swat at him as he laughs in the middle of the aisle. Eventually you both had everything that was needed as you both made it to the cash register. You separated the items to pay for your things so Jake could pay for his. “Now what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t pay for groceries”, he tells you.

“Jake I couldn’t ask you to do… wait are we a couple again?”, you asked. “Well I thought I made that clear back in Texas, but I would like to be able to call you my girlfriend again”, he said. “I’d like that a lot actually”, you say. You had yet to forgive him for dumping you in the first place, but he was making it hard for you to continue being upset about it. While leaving the grocery store Jake places his hand into your jeans back pocket.

“You are making it really hard not to jump you before my recheck appointment”, you gripe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about darlin’ “, he replied. He helps you load the groceries and when you got back to the apartment you grab a couple of bags as Jake grabs several. “What are you doing?”, you ask. “I’m not making another trip back down here”, he huffs. “I swear men are all the same in certain aspects”, you say. He makes it into the apartment when several bags fall or split open.

You can’t help but double over in laughter and pain at Jake’s annoyed face. “I would have made it to the kitchen if it weren’t for these shitty bags”, Jake grumbled. “Oh I’m sure casanova”, you smiled. That nickname was new and he liked it as you continued to giggle to yourself. “Darlin’ I got this if you want to go get ready for lunch”, he offers. “I’m already ready to go and you seem like you could use the help”, you reply.

After putting the groceries away the both of you didn’t have to leave for another hour. Jake sat down on the couch turning on a rerun. You walked over and straddled his lap as he raised a brow at you. You go in for a kiss as his hands go straight for your hips. You continued to kiss him and grind down a little to tease him. He moans as you swallow it with another kiss and then another. “What if I control the pace?”, you hum, as you grind down again. “Darlin’ as much as I want to, I'm not going to. Not until you're cleared by the doctor”, he groans.

“Just you wait. When I’m healed I’m tying you down and using you as many times as I want. Call it a start at redemption for leaving me in the first place”, you say getting up and walking away. “You can’t say things like that”, he grouches. “Well in your words the doctor has to clear me first”, you recall. Jake feels like he is going crazy because all he wants is to give you what you want. He also doesn’t want to hurt you because he would never forgive himself if he did. An alarm from your phone jolts him out of his thoughts as you announce it’s time to go to lunch.

When you get to the taco joint Nat and Bob are already there. Next to stroll in is Bradley and his new girlfriend, then Coyote and a woman with a toddler, then Payback and Fanboy. You soon learn that the woman with Coyote is his wife and the toddler is their daughter. You adore her immediately as she makes grabby hands at Jake. “I’m her favorite uncle”, Jake boasts. “You keep telling yourself that”, Coyote replies.

Everyone goes quiet when Nat asks how you have been holding up. “I’m doing alright. Still have some pain when I laugh or lift something I shouldn’t”, you explain. “Jake told us that you have to testify in court. Are you going to be okay without Jake being there?”, Bradley asked. “I.. wait what do you mean without Jake being there?”, you ask. Jake seems very upset with Bradley, but he turns back to you.

“I’ll be going on a mission with the rest of the squad, but I already talked with Colton, Evelynn and Bull. Bull is going to be there for the entire trial so you won’t be alone. I hate that I won’t be there darlin”, he says. You know that there is nothing Jake can do and you can’t be angry with him, but you were slightly panicking at the thought of Jake not being there. When lunch was over Jake took you straight home and went to his room telling you to stay in the living room.

You sat on the couch waiting for him and when he came back he had something in his hands. “I want you to have these and remember I’m with you when you have to testify”, he tells you. He kneels down and has you hold out your hand to drop something cool into your palm. When you looked down it was a pair of dog tags. “These were my old set and I swore to myself I would never give these to someone I didn’t trust”, he tells you.

You tear up knowing what this means to him and pull him in for a passionate kiss. “I want to tell you something I rarely tell anyone”, you say. You pull Jake’s hand to make him sit beside you. “I told you about my dad, but I never told you about my mom”, you say. “Bradley told me you rarely talk about her”, Jake said. “She was the greatest mom anyone could have had. She was the one that got me into riding horses. She was so strong and I wanted to be like her so bad when I was little”, you stated.

“I went to college and I was half way through my studies when I went home for break. I was dating my ex before I left for college and I went to stay with him. Well the night that I told him I was leaving him and he tried to suffocate me I called my mom. She was worried as hell and told me she was coming… to…to get me….and take… me home”, you stutter. The tears come fast as you try to get through telling Jake what happened. He doesn’t move not knowing where this is going.

“She picked me up and I told her I would drive. I must have hit a patch of ice and slid into a creek. I remember the freezing water came pouring in and the panic in my moms voice”, you sob. “I hadn’t put my seatbelt on, but my mom had hers on and it locked. I tried so hard to get that damn…belt off, but no matter…how hard I tried it wouldn’t let…go”, you continue.

“I remember her…telling me… ‘just go baby I’ll be alright. Your father has waited long enough’. I almost drowned trying to save her. Another driver saw what happened and called for rescue, but by the time they got there she had drowned. My brother blamed me for what happened and cut me out of his life. I went back to college to get away. I went to a party the baseball team was holding and that’s how I met Bradley. He shared what happened to his parents and I guess we trauma bonded”, you laugh through tears.

Jake doesn’t waste another second before pulling you into him to hug you. He is fighting tears of his own as he realizes how traumatic that must have been. “I’m so sorry that happened to you and I am so sorry I made you go to the creek when we were down in Texas. Had I known I never would have taken you there”, he says into your hair. “It’s alright my parents loved the water and we spent weekends on lakes when dad was home. I actually like the water. I feel connected to my mom when I’m in water”, you state.

You both sit in silence for a while until you realize you hadn’t forgiven Jake and he would be leaving soon for a mission with the Dagger Squad. “I forgive you”, you whisper. “What?”, he questions as he pushes you back a little to look into your eyes. “I said I forgive you. You leave for a mission soon and I don’t want anything left unsaid between us. I forgive you for the breakup”, you tell him.

His smile is genuine as he pulls you in for a gentle kiss. “I just wish I could be here for you when you have to go to the trial”, he says. “I’ll have these and they will be close to my heart the entire time”, you reply. You pull back a little to put the dog tags on then decide to make dinner. Jake helps you as you get into that familiar rhythm of dancing around each other to make said dinner. You steal kisses every once in a while and once the dinner is cooked Jake pours two glasses of bourbon.

“That dinner was amazing”, Jake says. The two glasses of bourbon making him sleepy as he yawns. “Maybe we should head to bed”, you tell him. You both brush your teeth and you tell Jake you will be in the bedroom in a minute. He strips to nothing and gets into bed to wait for you. You look in the bathroom mirror as you tease your hair to make it look tousled. Jake was plugging his phone in when you walked in wearing only his dog tags.

“Darlin’ you’re killin’ me here”, he groans. “Well you’re the one that said no sex until the doctor says I’m cleared for physical activity”, you taunt. “I did and I’m going to stand by that”, he replies. You snuggle into his side as he wraps his arm around you. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me about your mom”, he whispers. “Thank you for trusting me enough to give me these”, you reply, grabbing his tags. “I love you darlin’ and I know that we are going to have our ups and downs, but every couple does. I promise to try and work through our problems together”, he admits. “Same here babe”, you yawn.

Jake watches as you sleep until he falls asleep as well. The next morning he wakes to a glass breaking in the kitchen he slips on a pair of boxers and slips into a pair of slip on shoes. “(Y/N) are you alright?”, he asks as he rounds the corner. You hold a piece of paper and he can tell by your face that it’s the court summons. “(Y/N)”, he calls again. This time you look up as you realize what you had dropped. “Shit I’m sorry I got distracted”, you reply.

You start to clean up the glass as Jake grabs the broom and dustpan to help you. “Are you alright?”, he questions. “I have to testify and for once I feel like I’m in control”, you reply. “That’s my girl”, he says as he wraps you into a hug and kisses the crown of your head. “I wish I could be there for you”, he sighs. “You will be right here”, you tell him, tapping his dog tags. He smiles happy that you find comfort in them.

When Jake has to leave you drive him to the same drop off point. He watches the tear fall down your cheek as he steps forward cupping your face in his hand and wiping the tear away with his thumb. “Wait for me?”, he asks. “Always”, you reply. You both share a kiss that lasts longer than you expected until Coyote yells for him to hurry up or they’ll be late. You watch him walk away as he will be gone for four months this time.

You go back to the doctor a couple days later where he clears you for work and physical activity. Penny is glad to have you back and you had to admit you missed the Hard Deck. It was like another home to you as the date for court kept getting closer. Penny had agreed to take you to the airport and it wasn’t until you were on the plane when you started to panic. You wanted Jake here with you when you remembered the dog tags around your neck. You held onto them until the plane was in the air imaging flying with Jake.

It had only been a month but his absence was felt every time you saw a jet fly over. You had sent a letter to him telling him that the doctor had cleared you and that you were nervous, but ready for the trial. This time Bull was there to pick you up from the airport as you ran to hug him. “How’s the toughest gal I know?”, he questioned. “I’m still kickin’ like a mule”, you respond. “Well the guys are excited to see ya”, he tells you. “I think the only thing they miss is my cookin’ “, you laugh.

Bull laughs as you both make your way back to the ranch. You decided to get there a week before you had to testify so you could prepare. The ranch hands let you ride out with them for a couple days and beg you to cook for them a couple of times. You thanked the youngest one for riding back to the house to get help when you were shot with a small cake, and the rest cookies for being there for you. “Yer spoilin’ em”, Bull told you. “Well they deserve it don’t you think”, you reply.

Bull is worried about you the closer the date gets for you to testify, but you seem to be doing alright. The day you have to testify you wake up before the sun and Bull drives you to the court house. Bull can’t help but notice how you fidget with dog tags. “Those your dads?”, he questioned. “No their Jake’s old set”, you reply. “He must truly love you hun. A man that gives something that personal has to be in it for the long haul”, he says. “Did you give your wife anything when you were dating that was similar?”, you asked.

“I did. I gave her my fathers old war medal”, he replies. The rest of the ride he talks about his wife and you listen intently. “I think I would have liked her”, you say. “She would have loved ya hun”, he replies. “Why do you say that?”, you ask. “We had a daughter that was still born and after that she was always trying to fill that void ya’ know. I just wish she were around to meet ya”, he tells you. “I would have loved to call her my second mom”, you say.

The courthouse came into view as you made your way inside. When they called you to the stand the defense lawyer grilled you hard, but you stuck with your story never wavering. The whole time your ex sat glaring at you, but you stayed strong and held onto the dog tags. When they were done with questions you were able to take a seat. From what they had told you before you testified it was an open and shut case. The trial only took a couple of days and when the jury went to deliberate you sat with Bull.

When they came back with all they had charged him with he got thirty-five to life in prison with no possibility of parole. You blew out a breath you had been holding as Jackson went ballistic. Bull pulled you behind him as he tried to reach you calling you a lying bitch before two police officers took him away. Bull took you back to the ranch right away and took you out to camp for a couple days. You spent some time with Evelynn and the kids for a day before you had to head back to San Diego.

You were feeding little Jake while Georgia and Annabelle asked you questions. Evelynn and Colton stepped out onto the back porch. “Did you see what (Y/N) has been wearin’ around her neck?”, Evelynn asked. “A pair of dog tags?”, Colton questioned. “Not just any pair of dog tags. They are Jakes old set”, Evelynn says. Colton seems lost as he waits for Evelynn to elaborate. “He swore he would never give anyone those tags if he didn’t plan on bein’ in it for the long haul”, Evelynn smiled.

“We’ll see some guys say that and it don’t really mean anythin”, Colton responded. “I know my brother and I guarantee she is the one”, she hums. “I’ll believe it when I see it”, Colton responds. When you have to leave Bull takes you to the airport. “I told Evelynn I was going to be sending letters to keep you informed about what’s happening in San Diego”, you tell him. “I’d like that. Stay safe hun”, he tells you. You both hug before you have to go through security and wait to board your plane.

When you got back to San Diego there was a letter waiting for you from Jake. You tore it open and started to read it. ‘Dear (Y/N), I love and miss you so much. I’m sorry I’m not there to celebrate your medical release, but when I get home be ready for the uniform ;) Maverick appointed me as team leader this time and I’m not sure I’m up to the task. I hope the trial goes well and they put that fucker away for a long time. I hope to see you in a couple more months. Love, Jake'.

You smile as you write a letter back and include a photo of you holding baby Jake with Georgia and Annabelle sitting on either side of you smiling. You had no idea the stress that Jake was feeling this time around. Rooster was his wingman and he was worried of a repeat of losing someone. He was sure you would never forgive him if anything happened to your best friend. The only thing helping him was the picture he would take with him and put in his cockpit.

#top gun maverick #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #dagger squad #pete maverick mitchell

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mgc02 · 2 months

Note

Yandere Blitzø X Trans Masc reader who works as a nurse

My apologies I know little to nothing about the medical field but I tried my best so just try to brush off any inaccuracies

Need Medical Attention After Falling For You

Yandere Blitzø x Trans Masc Nurse Reader

TW: sexual harassment, stalking, kidnapping, nonconsensual touching, toxic behavior, being drugged/chloroform

You were so exhausted already...

The day had barely begun and for some reason the entire sloth ring all collectively decided to get sick it seemed. But you tried to remind yourself why you loved this job. You loved helping people. Sure there were days like this where you wanted to tear your hair out but other days you felt such a warm feeling from the smile of a child you gave a sticker for doing a good job or the deep appreciation an elderly person gave you for being so patient with them. Not to mention the paycheck was nice and so were the benefits. The insurance basically completely covered your gender affirming care

After a quick break and thinking about these things you were in better spirits. So you went back to work to see your newest patient. And you stopped in your tracks at the sight of him

He was bleeding. Profusely. From a bullet wound in his abdomen. He was tall for an imp and in dark clothes with white scars covering half his face and up his arms and probably most of his body

You immediately panicked trying to call for backup. Why hadn't he been rushed into emergency care? He could bleed out

"Geez! Relax! It's like you never seen a bullet wound before" he said so casually. You tried to calm yourself

"Why, don't we get you to emergency care so they can remove that bullet" you tried to reason with him

"Nah, you can just take it out and patch me up I'll be fine" he replied. Was he serious? He at least had to wait for the doctor

"The doctor will be in shortly if you do not want to go to emergency care. Just hang in there" you almost wanted to go fetch the doctor yourself but you were scared to leave him alone for long with an injury like that

"I can't wait that long. You can take care of me, can't you? Or did they only teach you to look pretty and take orders at nursing school? " he said in a bit of an inappropriate tone. Was he flirting with you or insulting you? You realized that you didn't have much of a choice. So you promptly went and grabbed medical supplies before returning and seeing that he had removed some of his clothes so they wouldn't get in the way. He was wearing nothing but pants

"You shouldn't move around too much I could've removed the clothes for you" you said professionally however he did not fail to notice an opportunity in your statement. "You upset you didn't get to take my clothes off?" He suggested

Why was he flirting with you so much? This was very inappropriate. You calmed yourself and tried to focus as you offered him some pain medication but he turned it down. "I like the pain a little" God damn it he needed to stop that!

You disinfected the wound watching him wince. Then you promptly grabbed the appropriate tools and dug out the bullet. Applying pressure quickly to keep down any bleeding. You stitched him up quickly and applied bandages.

Even though you weren't exactly dying to see him again you knew it would be risky for him to try and replace the bandages himself

"You'll need to come back regularly to have the bandages replaced" you told him begging in your mind for him to not make another flirty comment or sexual innuendo

"Lucky me I get to see your handsome face again. It was real fun to come by and... play nurse with you" he got awfully close but you back away

"Make your next appointment at the desk, have a nice day" you tried very hard to give off the impression that you've been trying to give him the entire time, that you had no interest in him that way. This was a professional setting and that was the nature of you're relationship nothing more

He left not before grabbing a handful of too many lollipops out of the bowl on the counter and giving you a wink on his way out

Ever since that encounter you would see him all the time. Usually at work. He often came by because his stitches had opened back up. You told him to take it easy he clearly wasn't doing that. But sometimes you even ran into him outside of work. You must be so unlucky

You brushed it off whenever he knew a piece of information about you that you didn't remember giving him. You must've told him at some point.... Though you tried not to discuss your personal life with him. It was hard since he always chit chatted with you. And of course he flirted. Every time. Having no sense of personal boundaries

But everything changed when you were attacked on your way to work. You usually took the bus but it hadn't shown up in a while causing you a significant amount of stress. You decided to start walking. You hadn't noticed the three men stalking you before it was too late. You were knocked to the ground in an instant. They clearly wanted to mug you. You tried to stay down as they searched you but then you heard a blast of gunshots and saw them all fall

You were weak but tried to stand up before a cloth came over your mouth. You blacked out

You woke up in an abandoned warehouse tied up. You tried to struggle free but whoever tied you up knew what they were doing

"Don't panic that's just for your protection" the familiar voice said. You filled with dread before you even saw him. "Blitzø?" You asked hazily still struggling from the affects of whatever was on that cloth

"You really had me worried. But now it's all finally over." He said as he approached you. He caressed your face. "Sooner than you think, you'll come around and we can be together. But for now I'll take care of you. Like you took care of me so often" he sounded so soft which was different from what you were used to with him. He was usually obnoxiously flirting or invading your personally space while making the occasional filthy joke

You wondered how long he'd been obsessed with you. Had he been stalking you? Was that how he knew-oh god... you're thoughts became a blur upon your realization "it's ok, its ok" he interrupted your thoughts and pulled you into him

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you" he whispered to you as he held you. "I should probably mention I have a daughter. You'll love her. But first let's spend some quality time together. Just the two of us" he nuzzled you affectionately

"You healed me in more ways than one"

#vivziepop #helluva boss #helluva boss blitzo #helluva blitz #helluva boss blitz #helluva blitzo #blitzø #blitz x reader #blitzo x reader #blitzø x reader #yandere blitzø

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missmaywemeetagain · 2 years

Text

Pink Scarf - PART 17 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: SEXXX. Verbal Abuse. Assault, both sexual and physical. Blood. Violence. ANGST. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 10k

A/N: PREPARE YOURSELVES, cuz this is an INTENSE roller coaster ride, y'all. Also, PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. I'm not gonna say much else, other than this is a beast and I cannot wait to hear the unhinged responses after. And thank you for your patience!

As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there!)

“You need me?” you question him, honestly taken aback by the sentiment, even though he has said it before. It’s just still so hard for you to believe that a man like this needs a woman like you. Running your fingers through the soft, damp hair at the nape of his neck, you look at him with wide eyes.

“Yeah, baby, I do. I really do,” Elvis says, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling you close. His head buries in your neck, in your hair, breathing you in.

“Show me,” you whisper in his ear, surprised by your own boldness. But his declarations have you some kind of way and that coil is still like hot coals smoldering in your belly. You feel his body stiffen against you, knowing that he is even more stubborn than you and doesn’t want to give in to you just yet.

You run your hands over his exposed chest and under the deep V of the fabric, grazing over his nipple with your fingernails. He twitches and jumps under your touch, despite his efforts to stay neutral.

“I need you,” you breathe, pitching your voice up the slightest bit as you look into his eyes. And you do. You desperately need him, in every way. If you could crawl inside of him, you would. You need to believe his promises are true, that he will take care of you and be everything you need. You need him to show you.

This must read on your face, because he cannot seem to mask his response this time, his azure eyes widening and pupils dilating.

“Take care of me,” you say, your voice nearly a whine.

That’s the ticket. “Fuck, okay…yeah, let me take care of ya,” Elvis breathes in your mouth as his lips find yours, your sins forgotten for the moment, if not forgiven completely. His lips devour yours and your hands can’t get enough of him, starved from before when he had you tied up. They roam over his chest, wind around his neck and into his hair before scraping down his back and clawing at his waist.

Elvis pulls back for a moment and surveys the space in the room. You can see his wheels turning, then how his lips curve up in a smile as he figures out how he wants you. He leaves you hanging for a moment as he pulls a chair right in front of a huge, floor length mirror. Sitting in the chair, his legs spread wide, he beckons you to him.

“Come sit on my lap, baby,” he purrs at you, and you immediately obey, settling on one of his strong thighs and burying your head into that deliciously long neck of his. The salt of his sweat stains your lips. His strong scent surrounds you, magnifying your need for him. You suddenly feel very small in his arms in addition to that need. He seems to sense this, letting you first cuddle into him a bit before winding his large hand below your jaw and peppering kisses down your neck.

“Gonna be a good girl and do as I tell ya?” Elvis asks, his voice low and gravely as he grabs your chin.

You nod. He truly fucked the fight right out of you before, over there against the wall.

“That’s my girl. Now turn and face the mirror for me,” he says, guiding your hips to swivel in his lap. He pulls your dress up and over your waist, leaving you in your lacy panties. You feel a little self-conscious looking at yourself perched on his lap like this, your cheeks a flaming shade of red. You are very close to the mirror, too close. But you watch as your eyes go wide when he grabs your inner thighs, spreading them open with his large hands while sliding his strong thighs in between to keep yours apart.

The lacy fabric of your already-soaked underwear strains as he massages your legs from your knees to your hips. The groping shoots fire through you and you press back into his lap, encouraging him to continue. When he ghosts over your core, it steals your breath away, and you are so incredibly ready for whatever he has to give you.

“Let get these off,” he says, tapping your clit over your panties and causing you to jump with the sensation. Nearly frantic, you shuck them down and off with lightning speed, along with your heels. Elvis chuckles, spreading you open even further when you sit back in his lap. Your muscles strain with the stretch, but you don’t care.

“Be a good girl and put your feet up on the mirror for me,” he instructs, and albeit confused, you do as you’re told. “Nice and wide for me, honey. Yeah, just like that.” He scoots your hips down a bit as you adjust and cradles your upper body with his, his head resting over your shoulder, looking at you both in the mirror. You are completely exposed and utterly vulnerable before him once again.

“Now look at that,” he breathes almost reverently, “You’re stunning, in every way.” You both watch in the mirror as he runs his fingers down your face, your jaw, then over your body. You shiver in his lap, earning his famous lopsided smile in return.

Elvis gets more serious as his fingers reach your core. “But ain’t this the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in your ear, running his pointer finger ever-so-lightly over your folds as you watch. The combination of sensation and the visual you are not used to seeing has you squirming in his lap, aching. He locks his other arm around your pelvis, pressing you against him and immobilizing you.

“Be good, baby. You promised,” he says in your ear, and you watch yourself nod furiously, stilling. He commences his lecture. “I wantcha to see what I see, baby. Look at how pretty and red you are for me like this, all slick and swollen and needy,” he says, watching intently, hungrily, as his finger grazes your lower lips, up one side and down the other. You whine and grip his arm for purchase, feeling like he is calling all the blood in your body to gather in your cunt. It feels heavy and pulsing, burning with need for him.

Elvis brushes up to your clit. “Hmm, one of my favorite little spots,” he hums, circling it softly, making you keen as you lean back into him. Then, obscenely, he uses his first two fingers to spread your lips apart. “Christ, baby, look at that,” he says, voice filled with lust and awe, “You’re fuckin’ weeping for me.”

Your eyes travel down to your exposed hole, and sure enough, you are literally dripping with arousal, both yours and his. It glistens as it gathers, a slow, eager little drop sliding out. You cannot stifle the low moan that escapes your lips at the erotic nature of this little show, your pussy buzzing with heat and want, on display for all to see.

Elvis senses you need more, and he lets your folds wrap around his long middle finger, dragging it up and down through your slick as you watch.

“Oh, god,” you sigh, thankful for the friction, your hips automatically rolling for him.

“Touch yourself, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” he says, moving your hand over your mound and guiding your fingers in slow circles over your clit before he returns to rubbing in between your slick lower lips. The wonderful combination makes your eyes flutter closed and your head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Nuh uh! Eyes open!” Elvis nudges you, and your eyes pop open. “I want you to watch yourself come, baby. I need you to see what I see.” He smiles, and it’s almost boyish in its mischievousness.

It’s not going to take much, considering how primed that coil was before you even sat down, and how strangely erotic this whole scene is. How it’s making you feel lightheaded and buzzy and hot all over. You begin to work your clit furiously, watching as Elvis runs his fingers over then through your sopping, swollen folds. When he dips one long finger, then another into your weeping hole while you watch, the string of curses that leaves your lips is utterly filthy.

Your senses are overloading, which you imagine was his intention. The sight of you swallowing his fingers so needily, so readily, your arousal shining, the wet suckling sound coming from your cunt as he expertly works his fingers in and out of you pushes you headlong to the edge. Coupled with this and your barrage on your clit, you hit your climax hard with a loud cry, pressing your heels into the mirror with such force, you’re afraid you might crack it.

“Look, look, look, baby,” he pants, forcing your focus back to him, back to what he’s doing to you. “Look at how you flutter around me!” He’s right; you watch, mesmerized as your hole clenches at his fingers through your orgasm, and fuck if that isn’t amazingly hot.

You whimper at the sight, shuddering and panting at the exertion. He chooses that moment to curl his fingers, pressing that special spot inside you that is only his, and another wave of pleasure shoots through you so strongly that you lose your breath. You crest the hill again, stars shooting through you, forgetting that you ever came here to break this off, to run away from him.

There is a wild, desperate look in your eyes that you’ve never seen before as you writhe against him in your ecstasy, keeping you fucking down onto his fingers even though you are sore from before. You can’t stop the waves that keep crashing over you, engulfing every inch of you as you watch it happen before your eyes.

And Elvis looks gorgeous, those blue eyes flashing with his magnetic sexual energy, his pouty lips open and pink and panting right along with you. He is hard again, his length pressing into your spine through his suit as you furiously roll on his fingers, and you can feel him begin to shudder underneath you. You know he gets off on watching and this is quite the show. You rock your hips more deliberately now, feeling the length of him slide between your ass cheeks, and he groans.

“Am I gonna make you come in your pants, E? Gonna make a mess for me?” you mewl seductively, wanting to push him over the edge, too. “You like watching me get off on your fingers, don’t you?”

“Jesus, baby, yes,” he moans, “but I need to watch you come again. Come with me, honey.”

You’re not sure you can. You are overstimulated and over stretched and near hysterical with pleasure. Your heart is thrumming so fast you can barely breathe.

“You can do it. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you, baby. Watch me take care of you,” he pants heavy in your ear, his eyes glassy, unable to take his eyes off your pussy. He moves his hips in tandem with yours now, then without warning, slides a third finger inside you.

Your eyes are glued to the mirror, seeing just how well you take him. You automatically adjust to him, and he works you as only he knows how. You work your clit and grit your teeth as you feel that coil poised to spring again.

“E-El-El-vis…F-f-fuckkk!” you cry breathlessly, coming completely undone around him again.

“Oh, fuck, honey…GodDAMN!” he groans into you simultaneously as he slams his hips up with a violent shudder that matches your own. You can feel the heat pulse under you, dampening the fabric of his suit.

But you continue to shake and shiver on top of him, your orgasm ripping through you, stealing everything you have left, draining every ounce of energy from your reserves, which isn’t much considering the insanity of the last 24 hours. You sense much too late that your body cannot keep up. Your heart is too fast, your breathing too labored, and your muscles too weak.

You shouldn’t be surprised, then, when your body goes limp, the blood drains from your head with a cold rush, and the world goes dim and then black.

“Y/n! Y/n! Jesus, Satnin, c-come on baby, w-w-wake up!” you hear Elvis’ panicked voice from far away, but you are so very tired and just want to sleep, thinking maybe it’s a dream.

…no, no! Oh, God, don’t—please don’t go. I-I lo…The faraway echo of long-ago words in this too familiar panicked voice fades away like a dream. You slip back into darkness.

It’s the piercing fear in his voice when he calls your name again that has you finally coming back into yourself. You blink a few times, willing the world to come back into focus, confused.

“O-oh, shit. Oh, t-thank God,” Elvis breathes. He is right above you, his eyes bright and flooded with fear, near tears.

“Wh—what happened?” you murmur, feeling buzzy and strange, and like things aren’t moving fast enough.

“You scared the shit outta me is w-what happened!” he looks down at you, now placed on the couch, his eyes quickly shifting from fear to anger. “You—you just fuckin’ collapsed!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember what happened. You’d come here to break up with him, to tell him you were leaving…then you argued. Then you fucked. The mirror.

Oh, god, had you passed out from coming too hard?

You start to giggle at that, uncontrollably.

“Baby, what the fuck? It’s not fuckin’ funny!” Elvis fumes, leaning over you.

That just makes you laugh more. “I came…s-so h-hard I p-passed out!” you hiccup out.

“That’s not normal!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air.

Another peal of laughter at the absurdity of it rolls through you. He’s not wrong, but whatever is happening to you seems to be overpowering your sense of self-control.

“Are you on something?” he asks suddenly, grabbing your jaw to get you to focus. He looks over you carefully and then a flash of horror comes over him at what you assume is the thought that he’s somehow taken advantage of you.

“N-no, of course not,” you finally manage to get out. You are shivering now though, and suddenly freezing. “S-something’s not r-right,” you finally chatter out.

“No shit,” Elvis mumbles, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. “Baby, when was the last time you ate?” he asks.

You blink at that, trying to run through the last day in your mind, but all the days have been running together. You honestly don’t know.

“I-It’s been at least a day, I think,” you finally eek out. “Maybe l-longer?”

“’Maybe longer?’ Goddammit, y/n, you can’t just go without fuckin’ eating!” he yells, getting up from the couch and storming over to the phone at the other end of the room. You hear him ordering someone to bring food immediately as you attempt to sit up, but your dizziness has you lying back down quickly.

Yeah, well, maybe if I wasn’t in a constant swarm of emotional and physical upheaval for the last week, I would remember to eat, but who’s fault is that?

Elvis slams down the phone and paces back over to you. “When was the last time you slept, y/n?” he angrily asks now, his eyes a churning gray-blue, as he pulls your dress down modestly and throws one of his plush robes over you.

“Um, on the r-roof,” you get out.

“Christ, that was barely sleep,” he mumbles, obviously frustrated as he continues to pace the room. “You have to take better care of yourself, y/n!” he erupts.

You recoil a bit but are touched by his anger, knowing it is fueled by concern. But you are also annoyed because it isn’t all your fault.

“Well, I’ve been a b-bit busy,” you manage.

“Not that fuckin’ busy!”

He’s not getting it. You shake your head, tears coming to your eyes.

“Th-this is part of the problem, E. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, I’ve been so s-stressed, I don’t know which way is up…” you shiver out.

He halts. Your words must be sinking in because the blood drains from his face and you’re suddenly afraid he might pass out.

“This is because of me,” he finally says. The way he phrases it, you’re not sure if it’s a question or statement.

“It’s not—” you start, not wanting him to spiral more than he already is.

“Goddammit, you’ve been tellin’ me you’re strugglin’, and I been yammerin’ at you to trust me to take care of you and then I did the opposite. Shit,” he curses. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Elvis deflates onto the couch next to you and pulls you into his arms, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids.

You are too tired to respond other than to brush the errant tear that runs down his cheek with your thumb. You wish you could see this sensitive side of him more often.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m gonna get some food in ya, then I’m sending Jerry with you upstairs so you can rest—”

You open your mouth to argue.

“There’ll be none of that,” he hushes you. “There’s no way you’re doin’ the show tonight. And Jerry’ll get you woken up before we come up after the show, and everybody’ll be none the wiser.” He gives you a stern look.

There’s no point in fighting him or telling him how his plan could go wrong. You’re still confused exactly how things with Jack are going to be handled or if anything Elvis said while fucking your brains out earlier was going to come to fruition, but you’re not in the frame of mind to try and solve that this minute. So instead you just nod.

The food comes, somehow all of your favorites. He knows my favorite foods? runs through your mind, but you are too hungry to dwell on it. Then, as he instructed, you head upstairs with Jerry, who without judgement, sends you into Elvis’ suite to rest. You think your mind won’t possibly let you sleep, but between the food and your exhaustion, you drift off before your head hits the pillow.

Circle G Ranch, February 1967

You wake up early, your eyes blinking out the dull winter morning light streaming through the window. Well, it’s not early for normal standards, but in Elvis’ world, most haven’t even gone to bed yet, you think, looking at the clock. You being awake now is likely due to the fact you couldn’t keep up with the partying last night and had excused yourself much sooner than usual to go to bed.

It takes you a moment to realize where you are. Being at Elvis’ newly acquired ranch in Mississippi has been a welcome change of scenery yet is still a little disorienting. You are used to Memphis, and even occasionally California, but this place is new for you all.

Completely dissatisfied and not having any semblance of control with his career, Elvis recently decided that he wanted a place in the country, a place where they could all come to relax and ride the horses he’d bought for all the men and their wives. A place where they could work the land and have a little fun. And you wonder if he just wanted to feel a little normal for once, thinking that a ranch would do that for him, that it could give him the control he so desperately craved. That maybe it might bring him some of that happiness and zest for life that had been bled out of him for all these years, turning him into someone you barely recognized.

So, Circle G Ranch was purchased, and you’d all arrived to take in its splendor and fresh air. And it was working. Elvis seemed happier here than he’d been in a very long time, the sparkle beginning to return in those expressive eyes of his. And when Elvis was happy, everyone else was allowed to be happy too, theoretically.

You think maybe all that horseback riding and fresh air is part of the reason you were so tired last night. Turning over, you notice that Jack hasn’t come to bed. Your heart sinks, though out here in the middle of the country, it’s not like he can get in too much trouble. It’s just likely the guys are still awake.

Either way, there is an emptiness in your chest that misses your husband. Each time he leaves with Elvis, less of the man you knew returns. You are hoping that some leisure time on the ranch will help him, too. There is less temptation out here, and more opportunities for you two to spend time together.

Unfortunately, he has not been very receptive to that so far, opting to hang with the guys more than you. But considering that he has been drinking more, part of you is glad for it. If the last couple of years have shown you anything, it’s that Jack is a mean drunk, just like his father.

With that thought, you decide to get up instead of dwelling on things you cannot change. As you get dressed, you hear the door of the trailer slam.

“Jack? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” he replies belligerently. The tone of his voice tells you immediately all you need to know. Your heart speeds up as a warning discomfort blooms in your chest. You steel yourself before walking out into the living area.

“Morning, sweetie. Want me to make you some breakfast?” you ask in a light and easy voice. If nothing else, food might help sober him some.

Jack’s response is a grunt in the affirmative, and then he shoots you a glare, his brown eyes dull but cutting all the same. You have no idea what you may have done to upset him, but he is obviously not happy with you. The tightness in your chest increases and you force a smile, not wanting to set him off. If you act like everything is fine, he might forget what is bothering him. It happens that way sometimes and is generally the best-case scenario when he’s like this.

“Okay, I’ll get that started,” you smile, and he settles with a huff on the couch. Scurrying off to the kitchen, your smile falls and you get to cooking as quickly as possible. Steak and eggs, you think. That’s his favorite and will help clear his head.

Your mind races as you cook, trying to find a reason for his ire. You dissect every moment from the day and night before but cannot pinpoint anything in particular that you might have done to make him upset. This has you feeling uneasy, on eggshells. If you knew what you’d done, you could apologize and make up for it before things get out of hand, but it occurs to you that he might be too far gone for that anyway.

Lost in your thoughts, it takes until you smell the meat smoking to realize you may have cooked it too long. You are hoping he is too drunk to notice. With renewed focus, you plate your breakfasts and walk to the tiny table.

“Soup’s on, babe!” you say in a cheerful sing-song voice. Part of you cringes inside to hear yourself like this.

He grunts off the sofa and stumbles to the table, plopping down with a screech of the chair. You keep yourself from wincing at the sound, wanting to stay as sunny as possible as you begin to cut into the meat. You’re unable to keep from looking up at him to check his body language, his affect, as he begins shoveling eggs and toast into his mouth without so much as a word to you.

You pick at your own breakfast, your appetite low because you feel so on edge. You can sense the tension in the room and know better than to speak at this point.

“What the fuck is this?” Jack grumbles, throwing his knife and fork clattering onto the plate.

You look up quickly, your heartbeat skipping. He’s fuming now, his eyes bloodshot and narrowed at you, his scar an angry red with the flush on his cheeks. You don’t have time to piece together whatever has happened before he continues, his voice shaking low with anger.

“First, you embarrass me by taking off in the middle of everyone having a good time last night. Everybody asking, ‘What’s wrong with her, is she okay?’ blah, blah, blah,” he says with a mocking venom that sends a chill right down your spine. “And now you can’t even make me a decent breakfast. Can’t even get that right,” he growls, pounding on the table.

The table rattles and you start to shake a little, frozen to the spot. You realize that maybe Jack is more than just drunk, that maybe he took something on top of it that has him worse than usual.

“I…I’m sorry, I was just tired from all the activity yesterday, and I can make you a new—” you sputter out quickly, but still unable to move, trapped in his furious gaze.

“I don’t wanna hear your fuckin’ excuses, you stupid bitch!” he screams, exploding out of his seat, the chair toppling over behind him with a clatter. “What I want is a fuckin’ steak that’s not cooked to death!” he roars, then picks up his plate and hurls it over the table near your head. You barely have time to register what’s happening, leaning out of the way at the last second on pure instinct, and the plate careens into the wall behind you with a crash, sending food and ceramic flying everywhere.

Your brain misfires and your heart leaps to your throat, the terror in your veins pulsing through you so intensely that all you can do is turn and run. You have to escape because you don’t know what he’s gonna do, he’s never thrown anything at you before, and he’s yelled, yes, but not done anything to hurt you, and oh, god, you have to get out, get out, GET OUT.

You fly past Jack, his rage too consuming and his senses too dull to catch you as you go, and you are out the door of the trailer in a flash, not stopping to see if he’s following you. No, all you can think is you have to get away, you have to escape, and you fly through the rows of trailers housing the other men and their wives. Your heart slams against your ribcage, fueling your body forward as you sprint down the dirt road towards the barn in the distance. Your socks stick to the cold ground as you run but you don’t care—all you need is to get to the horses. You’re not sure why, but you just know that if you can get to the horses, you’ll be safe.

You run and run, only hearing the crash of the plate in your ear, feeling the splatter as it shatters behind you. Only hearing Jack’s screams, “You stupid bitch! You stupid bitch!” You don’t even register the tears burning down your cheeks as you finally reach the barn, flinging open the door with what little strength you have left and frantically looking in the stalls for the horse that Elvis gave you.

Moonbeam. You finally see her near the other end of the barn, her gray and white coloring standing out in the sea of darker equines. You skid to a stop in front of her. Knowingly, as if she can sense your distress and your need for her large, calming presence, she turns and pokes her head out of the stall, nuzzling your tear-stained face.

“Oh. Oh,” you gasp, completely out of breath from the exertion. You cling onto Moonbeam’s strong neck, her coat soft and warm under your shaking arms. Your chest heaves, desperately trying to take in air. If you could, you would jump right on Moonbeam’s back and ride as fast and as far as you can, but she is not saddled, and you have no idea how to get her ready.

The light tap on your shoulder sends you flailing into the stall door with a shriek.

He’s found me he’s found me he’s found me, is all that runs through your head, though if you were anywhere near logical, you’d know that Jack was in no state to chase you all the way to the barn.

“Hey! Hey, y/n, it’s okay! Honey, it’s just me!” You turn toward the warm, familiar voice and are met with concerned deep blue eyes, a far cry from Jack’s bloodshot and brown glaring ones.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to huff out as you look at Elvis, your muscles starting to burn and shake. Your heart is still beating too fast.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?” Elvis says worriedly but gently, looking over you, seeming to sense how on edge you are. He goes to touch your shoulder, but you reflexively shirk backwards, knocking your elbow into the door with a thud. He quickly backs away a step, putting his hands up in a non-threatening way.

You suddenly slam into the present moment, realizing that you must look insane. Your hair is windblown, you are makeup-less with tears streaking down your face. It’s the dead of winter and you are without a coat or shoes, your socks dirty and torn and bloody from your sprint. You have food splattered down your left side, and you are gasping for air like you’re drowning.

“Y/n, I need you to tell me if you’re okay,” Elvis says, quiet and calm, as if talking to a spooked horse.

You glance over his shoulder, suddenly afraid that Jack could stumble through the barn door at any moment. Wide-eyed and frantic, you look back at Elvis. You realize he’s between you and the door and that gives you some comfort. Jack would have to get through Elvis to get to you, and while you know you’re not in your right mind, you are completely certain that Elvis wouldn’t let Jack hurt you.

With this relieving thought and your adrenaline beginning to wane, you suddenly feel extraordinarily tired as well as embarrassed that Elvis is seeing you like this. You realize he’s waiting for an answer, but you cannot speak. You don’t want to bother Elvis with any of this, so you nod your head, bobbing it up and down quickly.

Elvis tilts his head and looks at you perceptively. Of course you’re not okay, and Elvis reads it all over your face and appearance. You finally give up under his watchful gaze, shaking your head. It falls back against the door behind you, and you choke back a sob. Your exhausted body shakes with cold and the remnants of your fear, and you slide down the door, unable to support yourself any longer.

“Oh, shit, okay. Honey, it’s okay,” Elvis coos at you, stepping quickly to your side but not wanting to touch you and invade your space, lest you freak out again. Instead, he slides down the door with you, letting you lean into him for support. And you do. As you reach the cold, straw-covered ground, you lean your head onto his shoulder, his warmth radiating comfortingly into your side. You begin to shiver.

“Here, baby,” he says, taking off his thick coat and wrapping it around your shoulders. Immediately, you feel calmer, as the heat and his distinctly Elvis scent of musk and Old Spice, coupled with the woodsmoke from last night’s campfire surrounds you like a blanket.

You both sit in silence for a while as your body comes back down from the fear of Jack’s outburst. He’s yelled at you before, even called you names, but he’d never gotten so close to actually physically hurting you.

He must’ve been on something, you think. Jack would never hurt me.

I should’ve been more careful with the breakfast. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve stayed up last night with him. The thoughts run through your head, as though if you examine them enough, you can possibly avoid setting him off in the future.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elvis asks quietly, sensing the wheels turning in your head as only he can.

Humiliated, you shake your head vehemently. Elvis does not need to know the specifics of your marriage. He does not need to know of your failures.

But part of you wants to tell him he’s created a monster.

Without Elvis, Jack might never have gone into the bottle. Without Elvis, he wouldn’t be taking other shit that makes him fly off the handle at any moment. Without Elvis, without Elvis, without Elvis…

You are too exhausted for blame and anger right now, though, so you bury it instead. It is what it is.

Elvis doesn’t push you, though you can tell he wants to know everything. You can practically feel that he’s quelling some deep instinct to protect you, his muscles tensing and releasing, his jaw working. But maybe he begins to piece it all together himself because he remains quiet. You are safe now, and that’s what matters, right?

And perhaps it is your heightened emotions, but you suddenly crave the nearness of the man who used to be your best friend. The man that, for reasons you don’t entirely understand, time and circumstance somehow stole from you when you weren’t looking.

So you lean into him, into his strength and sensitivity and his unique power to draw you to him, even when part of you wants to blame him for everything. Even after all these years of confusing behavior and emotional distance, you can’t begin to imagine your world without Elvis Presley in it.

And now you sit here on the cold floor of a horse barn in the middle of the Mississippi countryside in the dead of winter, wondering how in the hell your life became this.

Jerry wakes you gently with a whisper and a poke on your shoulder but you startle anyway, pulled out of the dream violently with a gasp.

“Sorry, y/n, but everyone is on their way up soon. EP told me to wake you,” he says apologetically.

The room is dark, and you are still exhausted, but you are somewhat grateful to be pulled out of that dream-memory. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth and a sick feeling in your stomach. You can’t help but chastise yourself for letting Jack grovel the way he did after he’d sobered up that day, for how you forgave him so easily because it certainly was not the last time he went crazy like that on you.

“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll be right out,” you say blearily. You blink the sleep from your eyes and stagger into the bathroom to make yourself presentable.

Anger at Jack festers like an open wound, but the dream has also reminded you of your anger towards Elvis about all of it. That makes you feel uneasy, especially coupled with that nagging feeling that he is hiding something from you. You don’t want to feel angry at Elvis, but some of his actions over the years have contributed to your overall dissatisfaction with your life.

You didn’t fully realize until now how upset it had made you that he just stopped being your best friend one day. You still don’t understand all of it, though you feel like these unearthed memories are trying to get you there. But it doesn’t change the fact that both he and Jack abandoned you in different ways. And this pisses you off.

Fucking men, you think, touching up your makeup and straightening your dress. Your unease deepens when you realize you are going to face the group very soon and you have absolutely no idea what Elvis is going to do or even if he will do anything. Is he just going to pull you to his side and tell Jack to go fuck himself? Is he going to act like it never happened at all? You’re not sure which is worse.

Your stomach churns and you desperately need to talk to Elvis before he does something stupid. Panic rises, but you slam it back down, willing yourself to just be normal for the time being.

Be normal. What a laugh. As if any of this is remotely normal.

Steeling yourself, you head out to the living room just as people start walking through the door. Sandy finds you immediately, giving you a concerned and questioning look. You can’t tell if she’s surprised to see you or not, but you turn from her, still annoyed that she ratted you out (even if it was in an attempt to help you).

As the room fills and bustles, something is itching at you, poking at the corners of your mind. You think maybe it is paranoia. It feels as though Red keeps shooting knowing, snide looks your way. You can’t help but examine everyone around you, searching for signs that they know. You squirm in your skin, unable to get comfortable.

It doesn’t help that Jack slides in behind you when you aren’t looking, wrapping his arms around you a little too tight. He reeks of whiskey and cigar smoke so badly you choke. “Where you been, treasure?” Jack asks a little too pointedly, suspiciously, as if he knows something is up. Your heart plummets and you resist the urge to push him away but can’t help but try to worm your way out of his clutches as Elvis strolls in the room.

Elvis’ intense eyes find you immediately, and you watch his jaw clench as he keeps himself in check. You manage to slip out of Jack’s grasp and Elvis relaxes a bit, distracted by one of the guys. It seems like he doesn’t want to make a scene over the two of you in front of the group, which has you breathing a sigh of relief.

What doesn’t have you relieved is that Jack is once again all over you as everyone finds a seat. You feel trapped as the conversation begins to flow, wanting nothing more than to go hide in Elvis’ room, far away from the fumbling hands of your husband. His hands are heavy on you, creeping up your thigh, drawing circles on your shoulder with his fingertips. It used to be a comforting gesture, but now it feels possessive.

He knows. Maybe Red already told him, you panic. Your heart gallops in your chest and you try not to lose it.

No, don’t be an idiot. He wouldn’t be this quiet if he knew, right? Jack is a few drinks in at this point, and the more he drinks, the louder he generally gets. Though based on his hands, you think that he is feeling something else altogether.

You can feel Elvis’ jealous eyes bore on you as Jack touches you, but you are caught between a rock and a hard place. If you shirk your husband’s advances to obviously, it will seem strange and garner attention, but if you don’t, you fear Elvis will give you both away. And you aren’t ready for that, not before the two of you come up with a cohesive plan.

If you are going to leave Jack (no, when you leave Jack, you remind yourself), you certainly don’t want to do it in the middle of an afterparty with the whole gang listening in.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” you finally whisper, excusing yourself with a forced smile, needing to escape Jack’s clutches. “You need anything?” you ask.

“Oh, I need something alright,” Jack breathes sloppily in your ear, attempting to be seductive and failing. But it has an edge to it that worries you.

“You’re hilarious, babe,” you say as sweet as you can while standing to make your escape. Jack takes the moment to grope your ass and you can almost feel the wave of irritation coming off Elvis from across the room. “I’ll get you a drink,” you sputter out, sliding out of Jack’s grasp, shooting Elvis a quick, warning glance to not do anything stupid. Then you scurry away as fast as you can without seeming strange.

Instead of heading to the kitchen, you make a beeline for the bathroom, desperately needing a moment away from all the eyes you feel are on you tonight, wanting things from you that you cannot give.

Fucking men, you think again, closing the door behind you.

To your shock, it doesn’t close. Jack pushes in and your heart drops into your stomach. The look in his dark and muddled eyes bodes nothing good.

“Hey, treasure,” he slurs with that disturbing edge to his voice, grabbing your waist and pulling you in for a sloppy, whisky-tinged kiss. You try rather unsuccessfully to not cringe at the feel of his lips on yours.

Maybe he’s too drunk to notice, you hope.

“I thought you were going to get drinks,” Jack says suspiciously. He locks the door behind you, warning bells exploding in your brain for a multitude of reasons, one being Elvis breaking the door down, another being whatever Jack expects of you.

“I had to pee first, babe,” you say as evenly as possible, “Now get so I can!” You playfully swat him on the shoulder, as you’ve done a million times before in your life together, but this time is different. This time, Jack’s chocolate eyes blacken as he grabs your wrist.

Your breath catches, and your heart starts to speed up as Jack’s hand tightens. “Honey, you’re hurting me. Let go,” you whisper.

His dark eyes rake over your body with what you think is lust, but it is tainted with something frightening. “Oh, I think you came in here because you wanted something else,” he says, backing you into the vanity. “You know, some of the guys are saying that you’re stepping out on me. Can you believe that?” His head buries in your neck, his lips dragging roughly against your skin.

Fucking Red.

“W-What? That’s ridiculous,” you manage to eek out, trying to lean away from his touch, but there is nowhere for you to go. Your heart is in your throat, but before you can say anything else in your defense, he’s changing the subject.

“You’re wearing this scarf again?” Jack questions because it impedes his barrage of his mouth on your neck. He unties it and you watch the pink and black silk flutter to the floor.

“It goes with my outfit,” you reply. You attempt to push him away but get nowhere, his broad chest stubbornly immobile. “Seriously, Jack, I need to pee,” you whine now, hoping that will do the trick. Every nerve in your body is on alert as he kisses your skin, as he presses into you. You can feel the bulge in his pants growing, poking into your pelvis.

Every fiber of your being wants out of this enclosed space, a space that only a moment ago felt like a refuge but now feels like a prison. You don’t want this, and if Elvis finds out, there will be hell to pay. But Jack is too far gone to listen and too strong for you to move.

Jack picks you up easily and places you on the counter, his hands pushing the unyielding fabric of your dress up your thighs so he can spread them open and step between them. It feels cold—nothing like the warmth and passion you felt when Elvis did the same thing earlier.

“I told ‘em, ‘Not my treasure. She knows her place. Besides, who else would want her anyway?’” he laughs cruelly, grinding into you. The words cut, as he intended, and you become fully aware that you are in trouble. Your stomach rolls, nausea consuming you.

“Jack, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to do this right now. You’re too drunk,” you protest, pushing your palms into his chest to try and put space between you.

But he seems to take your protests as being coy, or perhaps he just doesn’t care, and chuckles darkly into your neck. “Didn’t stop you from sucking my dick the other night.” He lathes his tongue against your collarbone, causing an icy shiver down your spine that he interprets as positive, smiling on your skin. His hands roam to your back and unzip your dress.

You squirm, but it only serves to assist in his attempt to undress you, his hands roughly pulling down your sleeves and bra straps.

He stops abruptly, to your relief. “What are those?” Jack asks, suddenly on edge, his tone changing completely. He pulls back from you and for that you are grateful but confused.

“What’s what?” you reply as he stares at your chest, his eyes narrowing, the lust being replaced fully by anger.

Jack is on you in a flash, too fast for you to register what’s happening and then he’s yanking down the front of your dress, your bra, exposing your breast.

“Jesus Jack! What are you doing?!” you shriek, trying to pull away as he manhandles you, but you have nowhere to go.

“What the fuck are those?” He pulls you roughly off the counter and spins you around to the mirror, pointing to the series of purple welts on your breasts.

Oh, fuck.

“I…uh…I…,” you sputter incoherently. Your brain misfires, too panicked to think of anything clever or even anything at all. There’s no logical explanation for the dark bruises other than them being what they are. Your mind flashes back to the other night, how Elvis had claimed you, his pouty mouth suckling your skin roughly as he’d fucked you into oblivion on the couch.

You hadn’t even thought to cover them with makeup, since Jack hadn’t seen you naked in eons.

“You stupid fucking slut! Who are you screwing?!” Jack screams, ballistic, swinging you back around to face him.

You’ve never seen him this angry, his face and scar turning beet red, his eyes like daggers. But this reaction is rich coming from him, which triggers your own anger as much as your fear.

“Really, Jack? You barely come home and when you do you smell of cheap perfume, but me, I’m the slut?!” you yell back at him, your body shaking all over, as you pull up your bra and dress. You certainly hadn’t planned to do this here, now, but you’d known in your heart for days that this was coming.

The vein in his forehead pulses dangerously, and he looks like he truly wants to hurt you. He grabs your wrists painfully as you try and zip up your dress. You’ve never seen him look at you this way, even in his worst moments, and it send a shudder of fear through you. “You’re my goddamn wife! Nobody touches my wife!” he yells, his spit flying in your face, ignoring your reasoning completely, too far gone.

Then, he unlocks the door and yanks it open so hard it slams into the wall with a crash, and then pulls you into the hallway, dragging you behind him.

“Jack, stop. You’re hurting me!” you say, trying to wrench out of his iron grasp. “What’re you doing? This isn’t the place for this,” you hiss frantically, scared of what he might do or say next.

Jack manhandles you into the living area where people are conversing and laughing at someone’s jokes, and roughly pushes you into the middle of the room.

The laughter dies out quickly as all eyes turn towards you.

Your heart pounds in your chest and heat burns your cheeks. You are furious and scared and now embarrassed, the back of your dress undone in front of everyone. You watch as Sandy’s eyes widen, immediately gleaning what’s happening, and she starts to stand, but Jerry grabs her arm to stop her.

You rub at your raw wrists, but you don’t turn to look at Elvis, who is behind you. That would give it all away, and for now you at least have control over that.

“Who is it, huh? Who are you fucking? All of them?” Jack shouts at you in front of the group, pointing aimlessly at the men. There are confused and alarmed glances on most faces, though Sandy, Jerry, and Red all attempt to cover their knowledge with surprise. Some are better than others at concealing it, but Jack is too busy looking at you to see them.

“Hey, man, cool it,” Elvis says from behind you, trying to be nonchalant and deescalate the situation, but you can hear in his voice the effort it’s taking him to be calm.

Jack whirls you around roughly by the arm to face Elvis, as though he’s trying to shame you at court in front of the king. Elvis looks at you, unable to hide his concern and budding fury completely, and you shake your head the smallest amount, for only him to see, telling him to lay low and not give himself away. You may be fucked, but this can still be contained, at least until Jack has calmed down and not everyone is watching.

“This ain’t your problem, EP!” Jack yells. It’s as though the most obvious has escaped Jack’s rage-addled mind, since he’s not even considering Elvis when he’s the biggest threat of all.

But one doesn’t yell at Elvis. Not without repercussions.

“The hell it isn’t, not when you come in here drunk and hot like this, fixin’ to ruin everyone’s mood,” Elvis warns, standing slowly. He’s not yelling yet, but his eyes are starting to turn hard and dark. Elvis can be incredibly patient, but if his temper turns, it won’t be pretty. And he was already done with Jack before this wretched display. The tension in the room thickens to a heightened degree, leaving everyone on edge.

So hot with fear and embarrassment and anger, you think you might burst into flames right here. Your heart is thundering against your ribcage and you can barely breathe. Your legs itch to run, but you are surrounded by prying eyes, trapped between the two most important men in your life.

Jack is incensed, fuming, and not backing down. He’s gearing up for a fight, which is bad. His grip on your arm tightens and you can’t help but wince. You watch as Elvis takes a step towards you both and you shoot him a look to stay put.

“Jack, stop this,” you say as calmly as you can. “Let’s just take a breath and talk somewhere else and let the party go on.”

Jack’s chest heaves and he turns on you. “Shut the fuck up, you whore!” he snarls.

Then his fist brutally collides with your face.

Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion after that. The pain is instant, radiating through your cheek and your jaw, up into your eye socket. The metal of his rings snag at the corner of your mouth and scrape your face. Shock and disbelief course through you as the air rushes out of your lungs and hot tears spring to your eyes. The momentum of his strike sends you careening to the floor, and you manage to throw your hands out to catch yourself just before you hit the carpet.

A stunned silence falls over the group.

He hit me. He fucking hit me, you think in disbelief, through the pain, through the ringing in your ears.Jack had never, ever laid a hand on you before. You reach your hand up to your face, and it comes away bright red, bloody, your lip split. You can’t hold back the choked, shaking sob that escapes your lips.

Everything explodes at once.

The roar that comes from Elvis is like nothing you’ve heard before. The anger he’d shown you is but a fraction of what you see now as he crosses the room, a menacing bull after a matador. He strides so quickly and fiercely with those long legs of his that Jack barely has time to register what is happening before Elvis punches him square in the jaw, then rapidly again right in the nose. You can hear the sickening break of it which turns your stomach. Or maybe it’s your own pain doing that, you’re not sure at this point.

Elvis doesn’t even say anything, so blacked out with rage that he can’t even speak. You watch from the floor as Jack stumbles back and his eyes widen in shock, then confusion.

“EP? What the—?” Jack starts to say, holding his nose as it starts to bleed down his face, but before he can get it out, Elvis has him by the throat. Those long fingers wrap around and begin to squeeze as Elvis walks Jack back into the wall. Shocked, you watch from the floor as Jack’s face begins to turn red and he begins to sputter, clawing at Elvis’ hand and arm. True fear begins to play over Jack’s features.

Suddenly, the guys are all yelling and rushing around you. Sandy’s hands yank you up and back out of the fray, and you feel dizzy, swaying on your feet. You’re not sure how, but she manages to get you on the couch, zipping up your dress in a flash, and then examines your injuries.

“Are you okay? Y/n, are you okay?” she asks frantically, but with the commotion in the room and the fuzzy white noise in your head, she feels a million miles away. Your eyes are locked on the insane sight in front of you, freezing you with shock.

The guys are desperately trying to pull Elvis off Jack, but his hand is like a vise around Jack’s throat. He’s strangling him, truly choking him because you can see Jack’s face start to go purple and his eyes begin to roll back.

Three of the guys are on Elvis’ back now while Red chops at his arms, trying to break his hold on Jack’s throat unsuccessfully.

Oh my god, if Elvis kills him, I’ll lose them both and it’ll be all my fault, you realize.

You rise to your feet, ignoring Sandy’s protests, ignoring the dizziness and throbbing in your head, and you somehow, through pure will, push yourself through the throng of men to Elvis’ side.

“Elvis! Elvis, you have to stop this,” you say firmly, staring into his beautiful, terrifying face. His eyes are black and unyielding, almost unrecognizable. His jaw is so clenched in his murderous fury that you think he’ll crack his teeth. You’re not even sure if he can hear you because he doesn’t give any indication that he can, but you have to get him to stop.

“Baby, you can’t do this. You’re killing him. You can’t kill him. Satnin, I can’t lose you and if you do this, we’ll both be lost,” you murmur, pleading in his ear for only him to hear, hoping against hope it gets through to him.

You watch Elvis blink a few times, as if waking briefly from his trance, his shoulders relaxing just enough that when Red slams down on his arms again, they give way. Jerry pulls you backwards with a yelp, as Jack coughs, sucking in deep, rattling breaths as he slumps down the wall.

You do not go to him.

Elvis’ lapse in rage is short lived, for he sees Red and turns on him quickly with another roar, throwing brutal punches. You see on Red’s face that he knows exactly why Elvis is coming for him. A few punches land hard, and you hear more of the crack of flesh on flesh. You can’t help but smile a little inside at Red getting what’s coming to him, but horrified at yourself, you push that thought right out of your brain.

But there is a reason Red is Elvis’ bodyguard. He’s tough and scrappy and much more prepared for a fight than Jack was. You can see he doesn’t want to hurt Elvis but blocks and dodges some of his punches more readily. Four of the Mafia surround Elvis now, grabbing his arms, his waist, holding him back from Red, holding him down.

Elvis struggles against them and lets out one last terrifying primal cry before they get him subdued, pushing him to his knees. His chest heaves as they continue to hold his arms, his chin lowered, those lethal blue eyes peering out from under the black hair falling in his face. They still home in on Jack and Red, who are licking their wounds at the other end of the living room.

Adrenaline courses through you, your heart threatening to pound through your ribs, the blood rushing in your ears, as you watch four men have to hold down the man you love to keep him from killing the men that hurt you. And you aren’t entirely sure how to feel about that. A small part of you is frightened by this side of Elvis, how he is gone so deep into his rage that the man you know is barely there at all. And you can’t help but feel responsible for this turn in him.

But another part of you feels vindicated and relieved and almost proud of his defense of you. Part of you swells with so much love for him that you want to fall to your knees and kiss him as if your life depended on it.

“You sonofabitch. You fucking wife-stealing asshole,” Jack rasps out bitterly at Elvis, cowering on the floor with Red and a couple of the other men surrounding him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” some of the guys cry, having to hold Elvis back from going ballistic again. His glare at Jack is so fierce, you think the look alone might kill him from across the room.

But you don’t stop to find out because you wrench out of Jerry’s grasp and somehow make it over to Jack before your brain catches up with your body. You don’t even have time to think twice before your hand pulls back and slaps open-handed across Jack’s cheek, the smack reverberating in your ears and stinging through your hand and up your arm.

But you don’t care.

Silence falls over the room once more. Jack stares up at you wide-eyed, with shocked indignation.

“Shut the fuck up, Jack,” you seethe, now fully infuriated that the man you once loved had hurt you so badly, in so many ways. “You lost me a long time ago, and Elvis had nothing to do with it, you cheating, lying, drunken bastard!” You lean over into his face, your voice low and biting, “And don’t you ever, ever, lay your hands on me again, or next time I won’t stop him from tearing you apart.”

You watch the mixture of surprise and contempt and fear play over Jack’s features for a moment before stepping back. You look back at Elvis and see his lip curl into a sly grin.

And then it all hits you at once. All your mistakes. Everyone staring at you in shock. Your dirty laundry aired out for all to see. The blood and pain bruising on your face, your head pounding, your vision hazy. The mortifying violence that has occurred in your name. Your lover almost murdering your husband.

Oh, god.

Suddenly, vertigo hits you hard and you are so dizzy that the room swims and sways in front of you. The bile rises so quickly that you don’t even have time to process what is happening before you are hurling your dinner onto the shag carpet.

Something is quite wrong, you realize. All your anger and doubts and regrets and love drain from you with a tingling coolness, and everything and everyone feels very far away, their cries muffled by the pain in your head. Then you fall into a dark oblivion, leaving the pain and consequences of your actions far, far behind, and you wonder fleetingly if it was all worth it.

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whumper-whimsy · 26 days

Text

@augusnippets day 24

Animal attack / Bear trap / Land mine

War, military, death, gore, grief, suicidal themes near the end, very sad stuff </3

i don't know much about the military, sorry for any inaccuracies!

Caretaker and his boyfriend had met in the millitary.

Him and Whumpee slept in the same building, sat together during mealtimes, and snuck away to steal moments together when they were supposed to be training— their lives were idyllic. They were both 20, eager to serve their country, and fight if need be.

And that need would come.

Both of them, along with their whole squadron, were sent off into battle in enemy territory. Whumpee seemed eager, excited to fight and protect. He walked beside Caretaker into the foreign territory, making quiet jokes and comments.

Caretaker was more anxious, his face set grimly as he scanned the area for danger. He hushed Whumpee when he got too loud, keeping his eyes out for an enemy.

"What? Is someone gonna come out and shoot me?" Whumpee laughed, rolling his eyes.

"Whumpee," Caretaker whispered harshly, eyes wide. "Shh, you're being so loud– our commander is gonna have your ass."

Whumpee bounced ahead of Caretaker, walking backward and swinging his arms out dramatically. He grinned, his voice carrying through the woods. "Well, if anybody's hiding in the woods, waiting to—"

Click.

Caretaker's heart nearly stopped. He looked down at Whumpee's feet, seeing the disc-shsped explosive under his boot. "Whumpee! Don't move, there's a—"

Whumpee frowned, lifting his foot to see what he had stepped on. "Wha‐?"

"NO!"

A blast shook the ground, launching Whumpee's body into the air violently. The other soldiers got down, ducking for cover as the earth sprayed over the area. Caretaker felt his eyes water as he raced towards where Whumpee had landed.

The other soldier's lower half was completely gone, and his torso was terribly mangled. Blood gushed from the wounds, staining their uniforms a sick crimson.

"Whumpee!" Caretaker cried, tears running down his face. He patted Whumpee's cheek, trying to get his attention. "Please, baby, look at me! It's gonna be okay, you're– you're gonna make it, alright?"

Whumpee's eyes were glazed. "C– caretak'r-" Whumpee spluttered, his voice weak.

"Shh, shhh... it'll be okay, let me just..." Caretaker looked down, seeing the charred and torn flesh of his lover. Whumpee's internal organs hung out, dripping with blood and viscera. He pressed his hand to where the blood was pouring, breathing hard. "It's okay... you'll be okay..."

Whumpee fell slack in Caretaker's arms, coughing and whining arily.

"Fuck, please don't let this be goodbye! W- we're supposed to get married, remember? Remember our house we were gonna buy? And our cats! Oh, come on, don't do this!" He said passionately, clinging to Whumpee in a tight hug.

Whumpee sucked in a soft gasp, breathing back out a gentle, "love you," before going limp. Caretaker howled in anguish, clinging to the corpse.

Even when bullets began to zip overhead as the battle started, Caretaker stayed in his spot with Whumpee. He didn't move, unbothered by the idea of a bullet hitting him between the eyes and taking him to Whumpee.

#augusnippets day 25 #i hope I'm not too late :(#worked very late #i hope i don't lose my completionist badge over it LMAO #whump #whump blog #whump community #whump scenario #whumpblr #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpee #emotional whump #whumper

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meloncholy-words · 4 months

Text

Robin: A Word That Means Run (Chapter 2: Red Hood)

Red Hood died as a Robin, and came back as something else. The name still means something to him.

A/N: Forgot to post this on Friday. Most of this chapter was pulled out of my ass because I don't know how drug dealers or city work works so. Enjoy <3 Again, actual canon does what it wants so I do too. If it's bad I apologize, I rewrote this like 7 times because I kept accidentally writing myself into corners

~~~

Chapter Warnings: Explosions, gun violence, canon typical violence, swearing, drugs and drug dealers, drug dealing to kids(it's only mentioned), past character death(it's Jason), brief descriptions of that night but nothing graphic, weapon inaccuracies probably, descriptions of blood and injury. No death occurs! Let me know if I should add more warnings please.

AO3 | Chapter List

The new bunch of dealers Red Hood was tracking were starting to become an issue. He would have been happy to turn a blind eye for a bit, get a feel for their operation before approaching them with either the offer to be under his control or the threat of being run out. But the kids in the alley talked. Not usually, but to Hood? Always. The kids told Hood that these guys were trying to sell to them, which was a pretty big no-no.

So Hood couldn't let them think they were getting away with this anymore.

Taking down their initial startup was pretty easy. All he needed to do was break a few bones and shoot a few limbs before they were scattering like flies. And that would've been the end of it, if they didn't seem so determined to set up shop.

This time around, the didn't stick to one place. Every time he got a tip as to where they might be, the place always turned up empty. They were in those places, if the scraps left behind were anything to go off of, but they'd gotten annoyingly good at scattering before Hood could appear.

The only good thing that seemed to be coming out of this dance was that not having a consistent place of operation meant selling the drugs was actually pretty hard to do efficiently. These dealers were pissing Hood off by still being around, but at least he could piss them off right back by tanking their sales.

One more bust in trying to track them down, and he was thoroughly frustrated.

There wasn't a lot to find as he stalked through the abandoned warehouse, mostly just scattered trash and a few old chairs likely picked up off the street. No forgotten drugs, no loose files, no dropped receipts, nothing that could be used to hunt them down any further.

A grumble rumbled deep within the mans chest. It had been a few weeks since he'd been trying to get a hold of these guys. He'd been itching to get his hands around their throats, slowly ingrained no-kill rule be damned. But he had other things to worry about, other scumbags, and he didn't want to dwell on these ones any longer than he had to. Which meant that he'd need help, which meant that he couldn't kill them.

Whatever. Dealing with this issue was more important than the disdain he had for dealing with his family, and they'd known he'd been on this for weeks now. They'd be willing to help.

Tapping into the Bat comm line, he was met with a conversation he didn't care for.

"Listen- listen! The cookie part of the Oreo is objectively the best!" Nightwing yelled into his mic.

"How does it feel to be fucking wrong?" Red Robin shot back.

"Well I wouldn't know, because I'm not."

Gods he hates this family.

"Exhilarating debate going on! I'll stop you right there," Hood cut in, ignoring the whisper of Thank fuck from Oracle. "O, can I get some help here? I need you to try getting camera footage from around me. Every time I try I'm too late and footage is missing, but you might be fast enough."

"Yep, on it. Give me a second." If Jason strained, he might be able to hear the clacking of a keyboard and mouse over his dumb siblings arguing over a cookie. Then there was silence; O had switched their channels. Jason would be sure to visit her with pastries more often. "It looks like we're a little late. There's a path of cameras with recently cut footage. So we can't get them on camera, but we might be able to track them down. That good enough for ya?"

"Yes, thank you, Oracle, my beloved eye in the sky."

"Haha, don't flatter me." She sounded like she enjoyed it anyway. "You've been on this for a while, should I send someone over to help you? You might be able to tie this up faster, but I get it if you wanna do this alone."

"Actually, that would be great. Who've you got for me?"

There was more silence. "Ok, Red's the closest to you, but he's only passing by on his way to a potential armed break in. That would take him ten to get over there, and fifteen if it turns out to be a real threat, not including the additional travel time to circle back around to you. Bats is only about seven out though, and he's unoccupied. Everyone else is more than ten. Thoughts?"

Hood audibly groaned at that. Ten minutes wasn't a long time to have to wait, but it may end up being just long enough to be a problem. Red wouldn't ditch his mission, which Hood didn't blame him for, but that would be a twenty minutes wait. Batman was the only logical person to send over. But that meant he'd have to be around Batman, which he wasn't sure was worth it.

Possibly let these guys escape, again, or have to deal with Batman? Escape or Batman, escape or Batman, escape or...

"Fuck it, send the old man over." He hoped he wouldn't regret this.

"Got it. Sending you both directions to that last camera. He should get there a little bit after you."

"Thanks O, you're the best and I love you~!"

The trail led him to a few blocks of old, abandoned buildings. This place had been sectioned off by the city years ago, deemed too unsafe due to the amount of chemicals and pollution that seemed to unnaturally gather around this singular point. Bruce had been trying to put in money for years to get this place cleaned up, but the city didn't seem to notice. Or care.

It was the perfect place to lay low until Hood was off of their trail, and then they could go somewhere actually habitable, because no one would even think about being here for more than ten minutes. Except that Hood already here, and this was ending tonight.

The soft flutter of a cape let him know that the old man was here without him having to turn around. Sure enough, there was a living shadow beside him in seconds.

"So, we split up and try locating them faster?" It was the fastest option, and they could cover double the distance in about the same time.

Batman only grunted in acknowledgment, the bastard, before he faded into the darkness on one side. Hood scoffed, muttering something under his breath as he took to the other side.

The place was a mess. There was glass and graffiti everywhere, bits of door and wall scattered along the roads. An average Crime Alley look, to be sure. Hood scanned the windows and doorways carefully, looking for any sign of life, or even where their potential vehicle might be. Anything to give away the location of these bastards.

His comm crackled in his ear, a deep voice coming out of it.

"Found them." A simple two words, and Hood's grapple was clinging onto a building, pulling him to the direction of the Bat.

By the time he made it over to the building of their choosing, the sounds of an altercation could be heard from above. Jason couldn't help but be a little jealous that they hadn't waited for him. The sounds of metal batarangs clanging against wall and floor was soon overcome by the loud ring of gunfire and Hood tucked and rolled into a window that wasn't broken just yet.

There was blood. Blood and broken bones and grunts of pain and exhaustion in the air. Jason was careful to deal harmful, maybe permanent but not fatal damage. The joints were hard to aim for, but putting a bullet into their limbs was good enough. They had been trying to convince Jason to switch to rubber bullets recently, and as the drug dealers who thought selling drugs to kids was a good idea yelped and screamed and writhed in pain on the floor, he was glad he hadn't been convinced just yet.

Movement caught his eye. Movement that fled out of the door, that thought they could get away. Hood wasn't going to let them. Everything was almost wrapped up here, Bruce would be find on his own while he went to deal with this straggler.

The form weaved between buildings with the grace of a Gothamite who knew when to run and a rabbit who knew it had been caught. It was clunky and frantic, but it knew how to run like hell from danger. Unfortunately for them, Jason could run like a predator.

The person dipped into a building, one at the end of a block. There was nowhere to go after this - not unless they were willing to be out in the open with a marksman chasing after them. And who would want that?

Jason slowed to a walk. More of a stalk, actually. His steps were firm and calculated as he entered the space. There were stairs to one side that led to nothing(the second floor was missing), and a door to the other that likely led into a dining area. Door number one it is.

Slowly, carefully, cautiously, Hood grabbed the doorknob, pushing it open.

On the far wall there was an open window, pushed and left open. Silent in comparison to it breaking instead. And in the middle of that room, a few feet away from the window, was an old, worn out dining table. On the dining table?

Bombs.

Old bombs that had likely been sitting here collecting dust. Likely to be used in the destruction of this place before the city decided it wasn't really worth it and left all their equipment just lying around in one of the most unsafe places in the city. In the center was a timer that was ticked down to 0:02.

Jason had been here before. In front of a timer that ticked down the seconds until he died, in an old abandoned place that no one would ever find him in and no one was coming for him. He hadn't made it out on that day, dying until the smothering, fiery rubble of another building in another country.

But things were different now. He was older, smarter, not tied up and left to rot and die in the cold. He could get out. He could close the door and run, maybe try to use all the weight he'd gained to break down the wall. He could do that. He should do that. He should-

"Robin!"

He knows that name. It used to be his. He used to wear it proudly, happily. He wore it to everything, even his death day. He'd died with that name, taken it to the grave and when he crawled his way back out it wasn't his anymore. He'd grown to resent the person it belonged to, then learned to get over it. There was another Robin now, one that was neither of them. Robin was not longer him - hadn't been his in a long time.

He moved anyways.

There was warmth and tightness around him, pulling him close and away from that bomb that reminded him of his biggest failure. Pulling him into his fathers arms, and suddenly it didn't matter that he was a lot bigger and heavier than that man now. Because it wasn't true.

Here in his arms, shielded from an explosion, he was 12 again, smiling and laughing and bright and happy, because he had never died before, and the name Robin was magic to him.

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, for his ears to stop ringing. When it did stop, he was still there in those arms. He wasn't 12, though. He was 22, and his dad still held him close.

Stray pieces of wall continued to rain down, lighting pittering and pattering against the bomb-proof material guarding him. There was dust in the air, thick and heavy and gross, but it didn't touch him when he was buried so deep into the darkness. A few seconds passed, and when Jason felt that they were properly in the clear, he shoved Batman away, picking himself up and dusting himself off.

"Do you think that's funny?" he yelled, spinning around. There was a light anger in his voice - not as bad as it was when his eyes glowed a vibrant green, but not as soft as when he mocked his brothers in the kitchen. "Where do you get off, old man, calling me that name again? What's wrong with you?"

Batman stared at him for a moment from where he lay on the floor, then another.

"Well?

A small smirk picked at his lips. "You responded to it."

Jason sputtered for a second, thankful that his helmet covered his face because he may have gone a little red. "Yeah- well- you try betraying three years of instinct next time!"

"Instincts you haven't used in seven years?"

"That- I- I've only been conscious for like three of those years!"

"Of course, Jaylad." The old man was standing now, upright and facing him with a soft smile on his face.

"Pssh, whatever. There's- we still need to get that other guy, we don't have time to sit around and handle sentimental shit."

"Of course."

"Don't say shit to anyone,"Jason called as was already turned around, walking fast in the direction he decided to go. He didn't bother listening for a response, huffing to himself and mumbling something under his breath, too quiet for his helmet's modulator to pick up.

Yeah, he regretted bringing Bruce along. A lot.

Well... maybe only a little bit.

#jason todd #red hood #bruce wayne #batman #tw explosion #cw explosion #tw gun violence #cw gun violence #tw gun #cw gun #tw flashbacks #cw flashbacks #tw past death #cw past death

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saltsicklover · 10 months

Text

Title: Vienna ☁︎

Master List HERE

Listen to Vienna HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt

Romantic Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x AFAB Reader

Small use of "Y/N"

Word Count: 3300+

Rating: T

Warnings: Medical Inaccuracy, Medical Terminology, Hospital, Passing out, light descriptions of pain, throwing up, heavy Billy Joel references, talks of children and having kids.

If it weren't for the lack of breathe crystalizing in the air, it could have been the dead of winter in those four walls, the world around them frozen.

"You don't get to make that choice for me," Bradley speaks firm, tone boarding on pitiless. The way he rings his hands does nothing to quell the way Red shakes. "We are a couple, we work through shit together, and now you just want to walk away without any sort of reason as to why?"

Tears swim behind Red's eyelids; her breathing slowing in an fruitless attempt to calm down.

"You want a reason?" The heels of her hands are pushed into her eyes, Bradley's eyes locked on her chipped nail polish, nails chewed down. Something is wrong. Red always has her nails done. Always shinning with a thick coat of colored lacquer; this is wrong. There are chips in the paint, her skin bitten, torn and red.

The twisting in Red's stomach does nothing but make her sick, as if she hadn't been nauseous to begin with. It's unclear as to if it's the pain is from the cyst on her ovary that threatens to rupture at any moment, or if the the breaking of Bradley's heart is enough to take out her whole body. A gentle hand comes up to cradle her stomach though it's tender to the touch, protruding in a way that's only comfortable in familiarity. Bradley watches her hand cradling her stomach, letting his gaze follow the line of her arm up to her shoulder.

"Vienna," Its the only word Red can stutter out, her eyes pressed together so tight it looks painful.

"Vienna?" Bradley questions, the answer he begged for leading him no closer to understanding why he walked into their shared apartment to find Red packing her bags.

She would have been gone already if she hadn't spent close to an hour on the cold bathroom floor, the rug scrunched up under her knees. Emptying her stomach in that very bathroom has become too familiar, yet never easier.

"Yes Bradley, it's because you are the one Billy Joel sings about," Red laments like it's the most obvious thing in the world and that Bradley is just missing it.

"You have all these goals, these aspirations, these dreams and you are working so fucking hard to get to them. And God damnit Bradley, you're so ahead of yourself that you're forgetting what you need, and I just know that I'm not it, okay? You'd be a fool if you're satisfied with me,"

A few salty tears escape between Red's tightly scrunched eyes, flowing down the wrinkled skin surrounding them. Bradley is exasperated at her reply, his words stuck on his tongue as he flounders. Maybe in some other universe this analogy would make sense, maybe he would be that lost kid Billy Joel is just trying to get to take a goddamn break, but here and now it's leaving Bradley with more questions than straight answers.

The air around them stands still, neither brave enough to take a breath let alone make the next move. They stand four feet apart, Red scooching back every time Bradley takes a step forward. She is consistently just out of reach, his fingertips just a bit too far away to brush against her burning skin.

Bradley tries to piece together the broken girl in front of him, wracking his mind for the pieces of her that have been slowly slipping away over the last six months. Red hadn't always been this way, tattered edges and fraying composure. When the pair met, Bradley swore she could stop traffic with her smile alone, from the way her lips curled up at the corners to the bright shade of red lipstick that he quickly understood to be her signature color.

The first time Bradley sees her, she is sat atop her classic Cadillac with the hood popped, her legs crossed at the knee as she bobs nearly her whole body along to the radio that sits next to her. Bradley pulls his Bronco off to the shoulder, kicking up dirt as he throws his own vintage vehicle into park. The Cadillac is a red beacon just guiding him in, like a lighthouse in a storm.

"Hey there, Sailor," She flirts from over the top of her sunglasses, the frames pointing out and bedazzled, as Bradley slides out of his vehicle, "Do you save all the pretty girls?"

Then he's laughing before he's even made it all the way to her, a raspberry hue of a blush creeping up over the collar of his uniform. That's Not Her Style by Billy Joel kicks through her little radio, the connection coming in with a handful of static.

"Aviator, actually," Bradley finally matters as he closes the rest of the space between them, allowing himself to stand right between her newly uncrossed legs. "And of course I do, I am a gentleman after all,"

The comment is half assed flirting on Bradley's part, which is new for him. With a smirk playing on her pretty red lips, she twists the nob on the radio so the music sings just a little bit louder. There's something powerful in the way she looks down at Bradley, but it's him who feels like he is ruling the world with all her attention focused squarely on him. Her eyes drift across his nametag, before making their way back up to his pretty, flushed expression.

"Okay, Aviator Bradshaw," Bradley fights back a laugh at the name, willing her to keep talking with a nod of his head. She leans forward, just over him and smiles, "Do you think all your airplane knowledge could help me figure out what's goin' on with my Daisy here?"

"Daisy?" He cocks an eyebrow at her, completely smiting already. Any woman who names her car in a man after his own heart!

The mystery woman pats the top of her car with a little smile, "Yes, sir,"

That makes Bradley flush deeper, a blackberry tint. He tries not to let his mind wander too far, but in front of this woman who seems to have an affinity for the color, he doesn't mind the intense blush that's rising up under his skin.

"This is my Daisy, a 1956 Cadillac Eldorado, she's a beauty, isn't she?" The woman looks down at her vehicle but Bradley's eyes are firmly stuck on her.

"Yes she is," He replies, eyes tracing over the bright red lipstick she has expertly painted onto her lips. "What's your name, sugar?"

"My name is Y/N, but my friends call me Red,"

"I can see why," Bradley sends a wink up to her, causing her to giggle. "Let me take a look, you just sit up there and keep looking pretty, alright?"

Red brings two fingers up to her forehead, flicking her wrist in a mock salute, "Yes, sir, Aviator Bradshaw,"

All Bradley can do is laugh; he knows he should correct her and tell her that it's actually Lieutenant Bradshaw, but he doesn't dare embarrass her out of fear that she might not meet his eyes again and Bradley can't have that. So, he doesn't say anything, opting to round to the front of the car. As he peers into the engine, Red resumes her cross-legged position, listening to a new song thrum through the cheap radio.

After a few minutes of staring at nothing in particular, Bradley catches her eye as he rounds back around the vehicle, a sheepish look on his face. "Looks like you need a new valve for your carburetor, nothing I can fix for you right now,"

"Can you drive me into town?" Red asks sweetly.

"Absolutely," Bradley is almost too quick to answer. He runs his sweaty hands off on his tan trousers, leaving behind dirt and oil, his once pristine uniform slacks now unwearable. Then, he reaches up to Red, taking her carefully by the waist, lifting her off the top of the classic car.

"Thank you, sir," Red peers up from under her lashes, letting her hands slowly slide from around Bradley's neck and down his chest before pulling her hands away all together. It takes Bradley just as long to let go, enjoying the way her body squishes under his powerful hands.

The ride into town is short, really, but the pair sit inside the Bronco in the parking lot of the auto mechanic's. The radio is playing that damn Billy Joel song again, and Red is humming along, the sound making Bradley's heart swell. Then, Red is sliding over on the bench seat, right into Bradley's space.

She leans in, taking his chin gently in between her thumb and fingers, before planting a kiss right to his cheekbone. "Thank you," She whispers into his ear, then she's back on her side of the cab, throwing open her door.

"What was that for?" He asks her, a cheesy grin adorning his face.

"Just givin' the pilot something extra for a perfect ride," She throws one last wink his way before slamming the door behind her. Bradley watches her hips sway all the way across the parking lot and doesn't take his eyes off her until she is disappearing into the mechanic shop.

Then, as he's throwing the Bronco into reverse with a glance in the rearview mirror, he catches the kiss print she left behind. It takes him six blocks before he realizes she quoted that damn song to him.

But now, Bradley barely recognizes the woman in front of him. There is no longer that stunning read lipstick adorning her lips, instead her face is flushed with it's own rosy hue that looks more sickly and burning than it does anything else. Red cradles her stomach, her fingertips pushing into her lower abdomen. Bradley grimaces at the way she digs into the soft flesh of her stomach.

There's a clear look of discomfort on her features from the way her face is pinched, expression sour. Bradley wants nothing more than to fold her into his arms yet he doesn't make a move. He watches her eyes dart between himself and her suitcase, then to the pile of clothes next to the bed. Red is calculating her next move and all Bradley can do is watch her.

"Red..." It's a start, her name trailing off his tongue in a tone he has never heard himself use.

"It's done, Bradley," Her vision is swimming, Bradley's body going fuzzy just beyond her eyelashes.

"Can I help you pack?" It's a shallow attempt to keep her close just a little while longer, like he's pushing his cupped hands together to the last little bits of their relationship from slipping through his fingers.

Red can't say a word, everything stuck in her throat all jagged and laced with pain. A couple tears slip from her lash line, streaking down her face as she nods to him. And so, gently Bradley sits down on the floor and begins folding her clothes. Each article is soft against the rough, seasoned skin of his fingers.

Carefully, Bradley pulls all of her undergarments from the pile, straightening them out and laying them flat so they can be easily packed. Each pair stained with angry looking patches from blood long washed away. Each and every pair, Bradley notices, stained to some degree. Some are worse than others, sure, but not a single pair are left unmarked.

The sight of it make's Bradley's stomach churn. So does the way Red is kneeling just a few feet away, her head to her knees with pain written into her features. Bradley's hands slow, the tee-shirt in his hands becoming nothing more than a crumbled garment as his attention is fixed slowly on his girl. He does his best to ignore his own tears that are threatening to take over. Red whimpers like she is holding back a scream.

"Red?" There is too much panic in Bradley's voice. Then, she is slumping forward, her body going limp. Bradley's world moves in slow motion as he watches Red pass out, his mind replaying the way the tension leaves her body just as gravity takes her. It's a good thing she was already on the floor, her head not smacking against the floor or any furniture on the way down.

There is a sort of humanity in the way Bradley cradles Red in his arms, bringing her head up to rest against his shoulder, her back laying against his chest. He positions her right between his legs, wrapping a strong arm around her frame. It's the way so many have cradled their loved ones before.

With a quick phone call an ambulance is headed their way.

As the paramedics haul Red down the hallway on the stretcher, Bradley can't seem to move from his spot on the floor. Here he is surrounded by her half packed suitcase and her collection of stained underwear. He knows there is still a half full glass of water with just a squeeze too much lemon sitting on her bedside table. Red's robe still hangs on the hook in the bathroom, just waiting for her next post bath routine.

Here is littered with her, and Bradley knows he has to fight for her harder, because Red is his endgame and Vienna is only worth it if she is by his side.

The drive to the hospital seems like a cloudy memory to Bradley, though he is sure he ran a red light. It's hours before a nurse guides Bradley back to Red's room and all Bradley can think about is the look of sympathy on that nurses face and the way Red looks so fucking small in the hospital bed.

The nurse disappears not a moment later, leaving Bradley to stand and stare at Red's features from across the room. Slowly, he creeps up to her bedside, taking a seat in the uncomfortable chair positioned next to her.

Bradley takes in the slope of her nose as he pushes hair back from her forehead. He brushes his knuckles over her cheek and in that moment he realizes this is the first time he hasn't seen her in pain for months. The realization hits him square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He doesn't know why it took him so long to notice, why he never realized that his girl was struggling, Bradley has no idea what's wrong with her.

He knows he shouldn't do it, but Bradley takes the chart off the end of the bed. He flips through the thick pages of the chart, scanning for anything he can make sense of.

PROCEDURE: TOTAL HYSTERECTOMY

CAUSE: FIBROIDS

PRIOR DIAGNOSISES: ENDOMETRIOSIS, OVARIAN CYCSTS

They are terms Bradley doesn't recognize, yet they make his stomach churn with anxiety. He spends the night at Red's bedside, one hand laced with hers while he scrolls through the internet with the other. He bounces from medical websites to reddit forums, they Mayo Clinic to a medical textbook he found the PDF for somewhere in the recesses of the internet.

The information he learns is vast, too much for him to digest in such little time. The sickness Bradley feels is a mix of guilt and exhaustion, the feeling that he has failed as a partner hanging over him.

Red finally wakes the next morning, groggy and confused as a doctor and nurse stand over her, checking her progress. A nurse carefully works at changing the bandages on her abdomen, an ache panging through Red as she comes to.

"Wha-?" She tries, but the nurse is quick to sooth her.

"It's alright, doll, Dr. Greene and I are taking good care of you," She coos as she works, her eyes fluttering between her work and Red's face.

"You're in the hospital," The doctor begins, his bedside manner leaves something to be desired, "You were brought in after you lost consciousness. You had an ovarian cyst burst, and we had to operate. However, when we got inside, we discovered that your endometriosis had progressed rapidly and you had large fibroids. We had to take everything, so we preformed a full hysterectomy. I'm sorry I don't have better news,"

Bradley listens to the doctor from the other side of the room, his head swimming with information. He knew this explanation was coming, but nothing could have prepared him for Red's reaction to the heartbreaking news.

"It's alright," Red manages, "I had an appointment to for my pre-op pap, anyway,"

The nurse looks so sympathetic, almost like there are tears in her eyes but Bradley can't quite make it out.

"So you know that you will no longer be able to carry children, nor will you be able to have a biological child," The question is met with a tired nod, sadness written deep into the lines of her face.

In that moment it all falls into place for Bradley.

All he has ever wanted is a family of his own, and Red knew she wouldn't be able to give that to him. She wouldn't be able to carry his child, or any child. So, she hid it, the ability to face the man she loves and absolutely break his heart's just too much. That's why she was leaving.

Not because she didn't love him, no.

But because she loves him enough to make sure he had every chance to live out that dream. So he could get everything he wants, even if it's not with her.

"Oh, Red," Bradley sighs, tears slipping from his eyes. The doctor and the nurse slip out the door quietly, leaving the pair alone.

"Bradley?" Red asks like she can't believe he is standing in front of her. "Why are you here?"

He tries to keep that question from breaking his heart, but he feels a bit more fragile as he takes his seat next to her once more.

"I couldn't leave you," It's the truth, but there's more he has to say sitting heavily on his tongue. "I know why you tried to walk away,"

The way she sighs makes them both ache. She doesn't say a word, so Bradley continues, slipping his hand into hers.

"Do you really think that I would throw away everything we have, the life we have built together just because of this?"

"But, Bradley," Red whimpers, trying to pull her hand back. He squeezes it harder, not letting it slip from his grasp.

"Red, I need you to hear this. I have wanted kids my whole life, you know that. I wanted them with you, because you are my everything, but kids have never been the end game. It's you and I, that's the endgame. A ring on your finger and a little house somewhere off the beach, maybe a little prop plane and a dog. God, Red, you are my endgame, and no ability to have children, or not have them is going to change that. I can't lose you, Red, you're it for me,"

They are both crying, ugly tears and snot slick across their faces. The way they clutch each others hands like they might drift apart if they let go.

"I love you, Red, and Vienna waits for us both, together,"

"Together," Red manages through the pain, through the tears. Bradley stands, brushing her hair back once more before pressing an overly wet kiss to the center of her forehead. When he sits back down, he pulls his phone from his pocket. With quick fingers music slowly begins to pour through the speakers, filling the quiet of the hospital room.

"Slow down you crazy child

You're so ambitious for a juvenile

But then if you're so smart tell me

Why are you still so afraid?"

Bradley sings the words to her, his voice low and full of love. Red listens to him as her eyes begin to droop, sleep threatening to take over. She fades in and out for a few minutes with the verses. Somewhere between wake and sleep, Red pictures Vienna in the way Bradley described, the vision taking over her dreams.

#Bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #rooster x you #rooster x reader #Bradley Bradshaw comfort #Bradley Bradshaw angst #top gun maverick fanfiction #saltsickrequests

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ishouldgetatumbler · 3 months

Text

Chrollo was reading a palm sized red book with two trims of filigreed gold on each cover, one larger and ornate, the other a rectangle of straight shimmering gold.

It was a first edition of what was considered one of the worst period romance dramas every written, but Chrollo found himself enraptured by its every poorly concieved plot twist, period inaccuracy and confusing, poorly thought character. It all worked in some sort of a horrible dance, like groundbeef set to swirl in a typhoon of dish water.

It began with a stupid romance: characters who were wildly incompatable and lacked interaction and chemestry, so the story conspired to make them a better match. Some cataclsym must strike, reshaping them into characters more fit for each other. A revolution. Given the authors loose grasp on time and history, the specific revolution was left, generously, to the reader's imagination.

The male lover was shipped off to war, weither for duty or draft is left unclear. The next section of the book is epistolary as the author devotes 17 letters, unabridged, to the hard work character assassination. Chollo watched with, manic, memserized fascination as the female lover, originally spiteful and sassy, was carved into a simpering and wistful creature who longed only for her lover in clumsy, uneven chops.

That was as far as he got, snapping the book shut and tucking it in his breast pocket. Outwardly, even to his extremely honed senses, nothing was odd. He stood alone in a warehouse, isolated from the world. A steady drip came from the failing gutters as the water built up over clogged pipe, then spilled. Nothing was astray. And yet Chollo could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Hiyo!" Illumi said cheerfully, appearing from a clump of shadows.

"Hello." Chollo said, smiling slightly to calm himself.

They approached each other, coming to stand near the center of the warehouse with a puddle of water, oily and prismatic, between them.

"So?" Illumi prompted

"Right to the point then. I want you to kill the 10 dons."

Illumi put hand to his chin, appearing to calcuate something.

"Murders like that aren't cheap. The Dons will have men close to them, aware of nen and experienced too," he said, seemingly coming to a conclusion, "it will be expensive."

Chrollo chuckled to himself, then said "money shouldn't be a problem," but Illuni held up his hand.

"let me explain why it might be, but first I trust you are aware that the 10 dons have hired dad and grandpa to hunt you down?"

Chrollo lapsed for a single moment.

"Yes." he said finally.

Illumi nodded. "Good. Normally, a job like this would cost double, but that's because you would be hiring two zoldycks. Because dad and grandad are busy, I'll have to get two zoldycks to fill in."

"So I'm paying triple. That's fine."

"Not exactly." Illumi said, "unless specific members of the family are contacted, contracts are assigned through a kind of internal review."

"Review?"

"Each Zoldyck has two hidden maximums and minimums," Illumi held up a finger on each hand. "When a contract is submitted, its assigned a price based on difficulty. Then, the contract is 'offered' to each family member in ascending order of age. This is compared with the first minimum and maximum, called your Personal Minimum and maximum. If it's above or below that amount, the contract is rejected and then 'offered' to the next eldest."

"What happens if a contract is below the families' minimum? or above it?" Chrollo asked, curiousity getting the better of him.

"We don't do charity work unless it's training, and even then those are mostly privately arranged. Once a zoldyck becomes of age, they may set their maximum at any value. I have yet to meet an offer that exceeds my maximums."

"but don't you have seperate finances?" Chrollo's curiousity kept winning, "wouldn't a system that favors the younger push out the older?"

"Only if you wasted your youth." Illumi said, "Besides, the older zoldycks largely rely on private contracts anyway."

"Like this one."

"Which brings us to the second minimum and maximum, Assistive. When a job, usually private, requires more than one of us, the 'risk price' is divided evenly amoung the number of zolycks needed, then this is compared with the assistive max and min. The Assistive maximum is always infinite, and the Assistive minimum is compared with the contract price: the further the minimum is from the price the larger the bonus that zoldyck recieves."

"Bonus?"

Illumi nods, "sort of a fee for working a job you didn't choose, based on the difficulty of it. It scales exponentially."

"But wait, doesn't that mean you could set the assistive minimum at zero? in order for a contract to be checked at all, a different zoldyck must have already accepted it, meaning it's a great deal of money. There would be essentially no need for a minimum."

"Bing-o! For a long time, Killua's Assistive minimum was the price of a chocorobo. It's best way to make a tidy sum off of a contract you didn't choose is to pick a very low assistive minimum."

Chrollo furrowed his brow, "then why have them at all?"

"Setting your assistive minimum above another zoldyck's personal maximum means you can avoid sharing contracts as one example." Illumi said.

Chrollo nodded then said, "You can take everything I have." his heart twinged for the book so close to it.

Illumi shook his head, "That's most but not all. You're going to have to owe me a favor."

"The idea of owing a zoldyck anything makes my teeth stand on edge." Chrollo mumbled to himself. "What kind of favor?"

Illumi put a finger back to his chin, pretending to think.

"Let me join the spiders." he said, after a moment.

Chrollo snorted, "we're not exactly recruiting. You could join the traditional way if you want but..."

"but zoldycks don't do charity work." Illumi finished, "who knows, there might be an opening soon. Keep me in mind."

Chrollo nodded silently.

"You'll still have to pay most of it for the other Zoldycks. Half up front, half after like usual. You know what account I use." With that, Illumi melted back into the darkness and after a moment or two, Chrollo felt he was alone again. Sitting back down, he pulled from his breast pocket the red book and began to read again.

#hxh #fanfic #mystuff #illumi zoldyck #chrollo lucilfer

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hand-picked-star · 28 days

Text

The 13th Anniversary Arshi Fiesta

Moodboard : Historical AU

Whispers of the heart | Chapter 22

DISCLAIMER: The story is set in the early 20th century. While I have made efforts to capture the essence of the era, there may be inaccuracies as this is a work of fantasy. I do not own the characters Arnav and Khushi, and this story is purely fictional with no relation to any real individuals, living or dead. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

WARNING: 18+, MATURE CONTENT (Trigger warning-mention of r*pe and murder)

Chapter 22

"You know who I am, right?" Arnav asked softly to the little girl hunched down in her bed, clutching her knees to her chest. Her mother had died in the early morning, leaving 11-year-old Amelia in the hands of a complete stranger. Arnav saw the little girl bobbing her head slowly.

"This is my wife, Khushi," he said, drawing Khushi close and clutching her hand tightly. "We are going to take care of you, okay?" Arnav said, trying to sound reassuring. The girl raised her head to look at her brother."I know it's going to be very hard for you. but we are here for you, Amelia"

"Amy," she said softly. When Arnav looked at her questioningly, almost missing her remark, she added in her sweet trembling voice, "Only people call me Amelia when they're angry."

"Okay."

On the last Monday before they were scheduled to leave for India, Natalia passed away as her condition deteriorated considerably. Although Arnav had made arrangements for Amelia to be escorted safely to India by a friend in the event of her mother's death, but it was better that they were bringing her to India with them.

After Arnav decided to adopt Amelia and take care of her himself, he and Khushi discussed the details of bringing Amelia into their home. They decided to keep Amelia's parentage a secret from society, as growing up in a foreign society would be challenging enough for her. They didn't want to burden little Amelia even more. They would only reveal her parentage to close family members, such as the Rajputs and Anjali. Arnav did not want to lie to Anjali.

Her heart broke for the little girl as Khushi watched Arnav gently guide Amelia into their home in Delhi. Amelia's eyes were wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. The sight of Amelia's small, trembling hands clutching her frock stirred something deep within Khushi. The shadows of loss and uncertainty in Amelia's gaze mirrored the ones Khushi herself had once known all too well.

Amelia clung to Arnav's hand, her steps hesitant. Arnav's calm and reassuring voice broke through her reverie. "Khushi, why don't you show Amy her room?"

Khushi nodded, extending her hand to Amelia with a warm smile. "Come with me, Amy. Let's get you settled."

They reached the small, sunlit room Khushi had asked Gauri Ji to prepare for Amelia. "This is your room, Amy," Khushi said gently, leading the girl to the bed. "You can decorate it as you like. We'll go to the market tomorrow to buy some things, okay?"

She watched as the little girl looked around with a lost expression and nodded slowly. After a few moments, Khushi introduced Gauri Ji to Amelia. "This is Gauri Ji. She'll be with you all the time."

"Hello, Amy ji," Gauri Ji greeted Amelia awkwardly and in return, she received a forced smile from Amelia.

Together, they unpacked Amelia's few belongings. That evening, they were invited by the Rajputs for dinner. Arnav and Khushi decided to reveal the truth about Amelia that night. Khushi prayed for everything to go smoothly, but things did not turn out as hoped. As soon as Anjali learned about Amelia, she got up and locked herself in her room.

Arnav tried for several minutes to get her to open the door, but she did not respond. After much persuasion, she finally opened the door and went straight to her bed, sitting down with her back to Arnav. With a deep sigh, Arnav sat beside her.

After a long silence between the siblings, she said in a soft voice, tears evident in her tone, "How could you do that, Bhai? How could you betray Mamma like that?"

"It's not about betraying Mamma, Anjali. The girl had nothing to do with whatever happened between our parents."

"But why do you have to bring her here to remind us of that horrible incident for the rest of our lives?"

"She had no living relative except us. Imagine if Mamaji and Mahindar Chachu didn't help us when Mamma died. " Arnav said, looking down at his folded hands. "Hume sab kuch bhulake aage badhna chahiye."

"You can take care of her all you want, but please don't expect me to accept her anytime soon."

"You don't have to."

The siblings sat there silently, thinking and reflecting on their lives. "You know, I am so jealous of her right now," Anjali finally said.

"Why?"

"When I was young, I missed you so much. I always wished you didn't have to go to boarding school so I could have more time with you," Anjali said, lost in memory. "Now, she will have you with her all the time, time that I didn't have." She ended with a melancholy tone.

Arnav turned her around and hugged her shoulder sideways, and she rested her head on his shoulder. "You will always be my little sister, Anjali, even if I got a hundred others. I'm sorry I wasn't always there for you."

Meanwhile, Khushi took Amelia to her childhood room. Little Amelia was on the verge of crying.

"What happened, Amy?" Khushi asked, kneeling in front of Amelia as she sat on the bed. "Why are you crying?"

"I am causing problems, ain't I? Are you going to send me back?"

"Oh, sweetheart, no," Khushi tried to reassure the little girl. "We are a family now. We will take care of you always."

Khushi took a deep breath and started again. "Anjali Bhabhi didn't know about you earlier. That's why she's sad. Arnav is talking to her. Everything will be alright," she reassured Amelia, squeezing her small hand.

Then to cheer Amelia up, Khushi conjured up all of her excitement and said, "I have something for you." She opened her almirah and retrieved an old rag doll, a cherished toy her mother had made for her before she died. She lovingly caressed her childhood favourite toy. She gently handed it to Amelia, hoping the cherished toy would bring some comfort and joy to the little girl.

"This was mine when I was little," Khushi said, pointing to the rag doll. "My mother made it for me. She died when I was eight." Amelia looked at Khushi with surprise. Khushi offered her a small smile and continued, "When I got scared or felt alone, I would hug this doll, and everything felt better. I want you to have it." Little Amelia clutched the doll with her tiny fingers, hugging it tightly to her chest. She began to cry softly.

"Come with me," Khushi said softly, leading Amelia to the window. "My aunt used to say that when someone dies, they become a star....See that big, twinkling star? That's my mother, and the next one beside her is my father.... They always watch over us from above." Amelia's little face searched the sky, trying to find her own mother among the stars.

"Arnav lost his parents when he was about your age as well," Khushi added, still looking up at the sky. "I know you miss your mother very much. But, Amy, I want you to know that you're not alone. We're here for you, and we understand what you're going through." Khushi whispered, clutching Amelia's hand tightly.

Feeling a presence behind her, Khushi turned to find Arnav standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed with a soft expression on his face. Khushi extended her hand, inviting him to join them. He walked over and wrapped his arms around both of them from behind and the three of them watched the stars together.

As the days went on, Amelia slowly adapted to her new life. Each night, they enjoyed quiet dinners together. Khushi watched Arnav interact with Amelia, his patience and kindness evident in every gesture. In these moments of quiet connection, she realized how much they had grown and how far they had come from their painful pasts. It reminded her of her own childhood, when Arnav was her saviour, her only confidant. She came to understand that she didn't mind sharing him with Amelia at all. But seeing Arnav with Amelia ignited a new yearning in her-to see him with little versions of themselves.

Arnav's work schedule after returning home was intense. Being new to the field, he had to invest a significant amount of time and attention into his job. His expertise and reputation grew gradually with each successful case, but he was propelled into popularity as Delhi's best emerging criminal lawyer when he bagged the Singhania double murder case and won it.

Meanwhile, Khushi focused on establishing her charitable foundation, "Little Happiness," for orphaned children. She envisioned expanding it into an orphanage and school for underprivileged children, but securing resources proved challenging. Though NK and La joined as benefactors, Khushi struggled with the foundation. In addition, Khushi and Arnav began working on their new haveli. Khushi was jotting down ideas and designs, outlining everything she wanted in their home. They were actively searching for suitable land, and once they found it, they planned to start building their new home.

One day while Arnav was at the office, a lawyer named Mr. Arjun Mittal arrived with some property papers. He informed Arnav that his only uncle and his two sons had died of tuberculosis, and according to the law, the haveli had been transferred to him. Arnav was taken aback by this unexpected turn of events.

"What do you want to do now?" Khushi asked Arnav as she lay in his arms with her head resting on his chest.

"I don't know. The haveli doesn't hold much importance to me," Arnav said, lost in thought. After a moment, he added, "Khushi, how about you use the haveli for the foundation? It has seen many horrible things, and maybe these children could bring some good fortune to it." With this idea, Khushi found a new direction for expanding the foundation, allowing her to achieve her vision.

Everything was going smoothly, with each piece falling into place, until Arnav was appointed as the public prosecutor for "The Crown vs. Mohan Rajjani and 8 Others: The Tiwari Family Attack" case. Arnav initially thought little of it, viewing it merely as a high-profile case. However, as he began investigating and studying the case, all the past dirt started coming to light.

Mohan Rajjani was the accountant-slash-manager of Delhi's renowned businessman, Shyam Manohar Lala. His association with Mr. Lala complicated the case even more. The Police had been aggressively pursuing the notorious Delhi Thuggee group, which was responsible for a series of dacoity attacks in the area. As a result, Mohan Rajjani and 8 others were caught red-handed during an attack on the Tiwari household. The attack led to the deaths of 25 people, including the household staff and also included the brutal r*pe and murder of a ten-year-old girl.

By far, their modus operandi involved killing their victims through suffocation, typically using long fabric, most likely the 'gamchas' that were confiscated from each member of the group. This group remained pretty tight-lipped despite multiple tortures and interrogations by the police, very unusual for a regular dacoit gang.

It's a pretty much open-and-shut case, but the problem was with Mr. Rajjani. According to Mr. Rajjani and Mr. Lala, Mr. Pankaj Tiwari, the head of the Tiwari family, had sold Mr. Lala some of his lands and asked Mr. Rajjani to come to his house to retrieve the property papers on Mr. Lala's behalf. The same property papers that had been confiscated from the crime scene. According to Mr. Rajjani, that's why he was there and just happened to be present when the attack occurred.

"Sir, do you think Mr. Rajjani is innocent?" Rakhesh Roy, Arnav's assistant, asked him curiously.

"Umm, 98% no," Arnav replied. Then, after a pause, he added, "Why is he still alive when 25 others are dead? The remaining 2% scenario is that he's either extremely lucky or extremely persuasive." Arnav shut the file. He needed to interrogate the accused as early as possible, but before that, he needed to gather more information.

"Mr. Roy, please fetch all the files of dacoit attack cases from the last 10-12 years in Delhi," Arnav said, addressing his assistant.

"Sir, I have made notes. There are more than 15 cases. Should I fetch all of them?"

"Hmm, no, narrow it down to the cases where r*pe was involved."

When Mr. Roy returned with the files, there were only five cases he had come up with. He, alongside his assistant, began to study the cases. All of these cases involved the r*ping of a girl child ranging from 8-10 years old and then killing by suffocation. Among all the dacoity events that occurred in that area, these were also the only cases where the entire family was completely wiped out. There was a distinct pattern in the way this group operated.

"Why did they only r*pe the child instead of any adult female in the household?" Mr.Roy couldn't help but ask aloud.

"We are dealing with a very mentally sick individual with an equally sick preference," Arnav remarked in response to Mr. Roy.

Arnav wasn't quite satisfied with the development they made so far. They didn't have any solid proof, only speculations and theories. He reached for the last file, but the name on it made him stop in his tracks.

The Gupta Family Dacoity and Murder Investigation

Arnav never knew the intricate details of Khushi's parents' murder, as he was not in Delhi at that time. He only knew that the dacoit had killed her parents. As he opened the file, his hand trembled slightly, as he had a suspicion of what he might see written inside.

His whole body went numb as he saw the bloody details of the murder while reading Madumati ji's statement from 12 years ago. He snapped the file closed, his entire body trembling with rage. Hastily, he left his office, instructing his assistant to keep making notes.

Arnav only intended to take a short stroll. An incident from that morning kept replaying in his mind like a tape recorder. At the breakfast table, after the meal, Gauri had served him tea but instead of leaving, she lagged behind, clutching the tray tightly in her hands as if to say something.

"Yes, Gauri?"

"Kya aap Rajjani ji ke khilaf lad rahe hain, bhaiya?" Arnav was taken aback by her question and only nodded.

"Bohot bure admi hain, bhaiya. Aap unko zaroor saza dilwayiega," Gauri said before leaving without saying anything else.

His short stroll became long enough to lead him to the gate of the former Raizada Haveli, now marked by a signboard that read "Little Happiness Foundation."

He watched her from the corridor of her office, sitting at her desk, talking animatedly on the telephone with one of her associates. She always radiated light. It was hard to imagine the darkness of horror she had endured.

And just as she always seemed to know when he was near, her eyes met his instantly, and her whole face lit up. She stood up, coming around her desk. "What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Raizada! How can I help you?" she said smiling widely.

Arnav's hand immediately went around her waist as he pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck. His height made Khushi stand on her toes as she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. Khushi's two assistants, who were working on some accounts, left the room, red-faced, watching Mr. Raizada's actions.

"Arnav?"

"Hmm."

"Is everything alright?"

"Can't I hug my wife without any reason?"

"Yes, but here? In front of everyone? What will people say?"

"People will say that Mr. Raizada loves Mrs. Raizada very much." Khushi's face softened at his words as she entangled her fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp lightly. He hugged her untill he smelt like her and then taking a deep inhale of her scent, he set her gently on her feet.

"What happened?" Khushi asked, cupping his face.

"Nothing," he said, kissing her palm. "Just a case... I have to go back to the office." He nudged her nose with his. "Thanks for the hospitality, Mrs. Raizada." He kissed her forehead before leaving her office.

Then Arnav went straight to their house. He had some business he needed to take care of.

"HARIPRAKASH!"

"Yes, bhaiya?"

"I need two men who can guard Raizada Haveli as long as Khushi stays there, and then escort her back and forth. Can you arrange that?"

"Yes, bhaiya."

"How long will it take?"

"Umm..."

"Arrange them as soon as possible. It would be better if you could have them ready by tomorrow."

"Thik hai, bhaiya."

"I'm going to my study. Ask Gauri to fetch me a cup of tea."

Hariprakash hurried inside to convey Arnav's message to his wife.

A timid knock on the door alerted Arnav to Gauri's arrival. He wanted to talk to her, actually interrogate her; the tea was just an excuse.

"Your tea, bhaiya."

"Take a seat, Gauri. I need to talk to you."

"Yeess, bhaiya," she stammered, uncertain of what her employer wanted.

"What did you mean this morning when you said Mr. Rajjani was a bad person? Did he ever do something bad... to you?"

Gauri's breathing quickened, and she started to sweat. Her hands trembled as she fidgeted in the chair.

"Gauri, trust me. Nobody will know if you don't want them to."

"Hari doesn't know... I... I didn't tell him."

"He won't know."

"My mother used to work there, and I did too when I was little."

"How old were you?"

"I was eight. We lived in the servant quarters. Rajjani ji used to come there at night. He would clamp his hand over my mouth and carry me to his study. And there he... he..." Gauri started sobbing quietly. "My mother knew. She told me not to tell anyone or no one would marry me."

Arnav's lips pressed into a hard line, suppressing his anger.

"Were there any other girls besides you?"

"Yes, bhaiya. There were two other girls working with me. Nobody said anything."

"Okay, Gauri. You can go now.....one more thing..... you should talk to Hariprakash. No relationship can stand on the basis of a lie."

Gauri nodded solemnly and left Arnav to ponder over the recent developments in the case.

@featheredclover @arshifiesta @phuljari @chutkiandchotte @msbhagirathi @jalebi-weds-bluetooth

#ipkknd #arnav singh raizada #khushi kumari gupta #arshi #ipk 13th anniversary fiesta #13 years of ipkknd #whispers of the heart

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