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imsosillygoofylol · 7 months ago

Text

TRIGGERED

pairing: matt sturniolo x poc!reader

synopsis: y/n helps a murder suspect not knowing what she got herself into.

warnings: death, mental illness, smoking, tattoos, i THINK that’s it.

envy yaps: lol i wrote something like this before a WHILE back but this one will be better trust 😋 anyways let’s pray and hope i actually finish this 🙏🏾

“and we’re done!” you say finally excited to almost be leaving. you just finished working on my last customer of the night. “you can walk up to the mirror to see for yourself.” you mumble while cleaning up.

“ ‘s beautiful thank you so much!” she smiles eagerly as she examines her freshly done butterfly tattoo on her rib.

“yeah you’re welcome, you already know the tattoo after care i don’t have to go over it do i?” you asked already knowing her answer. layla was a regular you’ve done like 4 of her tats already.

“nah i know how to take care of my shit thank you very much.” she declared while carefully rolling down her shirt.

you giggle and give her a smile while you finish cleaning up. “here ma, thank you so much again you always get me right.” she passes you a couple bills with a big smile on plastered on her face. “ahh i love them i’ve been thinking about getting butterflies for a while now you ate down” she screamed while looking at herself in the mirror again.

you take the money and put it in your backpack as you let out another giggle. “you’re welcome”. you love your job, aside from the good pay you literally just get to draw cute things on people and they’re happy.

“alright my uber outside bye y/n thanks again” she leaves, the room now silent once again.

you finished cleaning up and you get up to lock the door as you’re now closed before you continue to prep things for tomorrow.

you finally had time to check your phone and you see the time.

11:56 PM

you see all the missed texts and calls from your mom. she always wants you to call her at the end of the day knowing there’s not much to talk about anyway. your days usually blend into each other, all you do is go to school and work. not that you don’t have a life aside from those two things, it just takes up most of your time.

you break away from your phone as you hear a knock on the door. you make my way to the front. “we’re closed” you mumble. startling the boy a little. you examine the boy he was wearing a plain black shirt, white shorts, and birkenstock’s. you knew who he was.

nick sturniolo

not that you knew each other, you knew of him. you’ve seen him around campus and his family’s like stupid rich. he’s a triplet however only two of them actually attend college. you don’t know anything about the other one, you have seen him at a party once though that’s about it.

his blonde hair layes just right above his eyes. he looks like he’d been crying all night. that or he’s just really high. he looks sickly though really pale but somehow he still looked really pretty.

“can i help you?” you finally spoke out as you unlock and open the door. this is weird why is he here so late at night you think to yourself.

“are you still open?” he asks his voice so soft yet deep.

what a stupid question to ask, the door was locked and the open sign was off. we’re visibly closed!

“sorry we’re closed. you can schedule an appointment for tomorrow though.” you say trying to sound as nice as possible.

“please i’ll pay twice as much, i really need this please.” he begs.

you start to feel bad, really wanting to go home but cant bring myself to say no. he looks like he’s about to break down into tears you can’t just leave him like this.

“uh okay come in.” you say moving out the way to let him in and lead him to the room. “um what would you like to get done?” you asked dryly.

“have you seen the movie edward scissorhands before?” he asked bringing his phone up to your face to show you what he wants.

“yeah a couple times, where do you want it?” you ask while unpacking the supplies needed.

“right here on my calf.” he points to the side of his calf. he had another tattoo closer to his ankle of two pokémon characters.

you slowly start tracing the design. what’s so important about this tattoo anyway that he had to come at 12 am. you’ve watched the movie a couple times, yeah it’s good but is it worth a tattoo or coming this late for one. you mentally curse myself for not being able to say no.

“you from here?” he asked looking down at you.

“nah im from new york city, i just go to school here.” you say keeping your focus on the tattoo.

“hm how long? i’ve never seen you around here.” he stated.

“about two years now, i don’t really go out much or talk to many people from here.” you continue working. the room was silent for the rest of the night, only thing audible was the faint music playing on the tv.

“k im done!” you smile down at your work. “is it okay if i take a couple pictures?”

“yeah it’s fine looks amazing by the way. thank you so much.” he examines the scissor hands tattoo as you take a couple pictures from different angles. “how much do i owe you?”

“one fifty.” you state turning around to clean up. he turns in your direction passing four one hundred bills to you. “oh no i can’t take this, it’s only one fifty.”

“no honestly take it, i came when you were closing please ill feel even worse if you don’t!” you nod your head and put the money in your backpack. “i really can’t thank you enough it looks amazing, do you have a business card? i’d love to come back sometime i love your work.” he starts to ramble and you let out a laugh.

“yeah they’re here in the front, you can take one as you walk out. you’re welcome it’s really no biggie.” it was though you have a morning class tomorrow and it’s nearly 3 am. you try to stay positive and not let your attitude slip out.

“hey i didn’t get your name.” he mentions

“oh it’s y/n.”

“nick.”

“oh i know trust me.” you think to yourself while you smile at him.

you explain the tattoo after care even though nobody ever listens. he finally leaves which means you can finally leave. you love your work and all but it’s so draining. you close up the shop and finally get in my car, the drive to your apartment isn’t far only 8 minutes but tonight it feels like an eternity.

you like driving though it calms you down, helps you think. you make it to your parking spot and really process what the fuck just happened. not that it’s outta this world cause growing up in new york you’ve seen and experienced some crazy shit but that was weird. you had so many questions but you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable so you decided it was best to mind your business.

you finally make it to your apartment, happy to shower and get in bed but even happier to see your cat luna after a long ass day. you unlock your door set your things down on your counter.

“luna mama where are you?” you call out waiting for her to pop out from somewhere. “luna baby where are you?” she comes from underneath the couch, you bend down to pick her up and smother her with kisses. saying i miss you and i love you. you feel bad she hasn’t been getting the attention she deserves lately, you barely see her due to school and work. all of a sudden everyone wants a tattoo.

you finally shower enjoying the hot water run down your body calming you. not a single negative thought in your mind. you start to think if should you smoke after or fall asleep.

you get out the shower and check the time.

3:48 am

“fuck i gotta be up at 9.” you sigh, you need to stop taking appointments past 10 pm and leave it to the other artist. you’re always the last one to leave the shop.

❀᭢͏ུ

you groan hearing you alarm going off wising you could stay in bed forever. knowing it’s not possible and missing class is not an option especially not when your paper is due next week. you get up and get ready, putting water and food in lunas bowl before leaving and driving to campus.

you don’t live far from campus only a twelve minute drive. you hate being late though just the thought of everyone staring at you and observing your every move while trying to get situated makes you so uncomfortable. it feels like you’re interrupting an important conversation or meeting so you choose to be early or well on time.

you make it to class with five minutes to spare, sitting there just scrolling through your phone waiting for your professor to start the lesson. there was nothing special about todays lesson, taking notes and finishing up the paper.

ten minutes before class was over the professor started to talk about a situation that happened earlier this morning.

“as some of you may know there was a tragic incident that happened at around four thirty am this morning.” he paused for a second trying to gather all his thoughts, trying to use the right words before continuing. “the sturniolo family was brutally murdered, some knew nicolas sturniolo. he was a great student and a great friend to all. may he rest in peace.”

as he finished your face dropped, there was many whispers heard through out the class. this is all too confusing, you had just seen him.

your thoughts were cut off by the professor speaking again. “please appreciate all the people around you while they’re here, you never know what can happen. his brother is suffering from a great loss please respect his privacy.”

his brother? which brother?

people continued to whisper “i heard his brother went crazy and murdered them all.” said a random girl. “i heard it was nicks stalker, he was infatuated with him and when nick rejected him he couldn’t stand it.” another said. this is all so stupid. why do people jump to conclusions and spread rumors without knowing what really happened.

you started to feel overwhelmed you had to go home. before you left through the door, the professor said one last thing. “also the police will come by tomorrow and question some of you, please be sure to be early tomorrow morning. thank you all and please be safe”

with that you went home, you can’t come back to your afternoon classes it was all too much. did he know something was gonna happen? is that why he looked sad? you assumed it might of been a boy or something. not something this big.

you arrive at your house, trying to gather all your thoughts. not that you’re sad, you didn’t even know the boy but you can’t help but feel sorry for him, his family.

you tried to sleep, sleeping was like your therapy. or well not therapy just a way of not dealing with your emotions for the time being. sleeping was hard though, every time you closed your eyes you would see him.

you decide the beach was a good option. sometimes when you felt lonely or depressed you would go to the beach, smoke, and draw. it was calming, made you feel like you were the only person left in the world. usually you enjoyed your own company, you found peace in being alone. one of your traits your mom despised. she wanted you to go out more, explore, experience, have fun. not be locked away in the house when you’re not in school or at work.

you lie and tell her you do other things but she doesn’t believe you. she says she knows you more than you know yourself but she doesn’t understand you.

Y/N

hey mom i’m going to the beach i’ll call you when i get home.

sorry i haven’t called or texted much i’ve been super busy.

love you :)

you spent your afternoon at the beach, watching the sunset, hitting your blunt every now and then, sketching random flowers on your book. you could go on and on about flowers if you could, even nature.

you finally check the time when it’s fully dark deciding its a bit dangerous to be out so late considering what just happened around the area.

8:27 pm

you decide to pick up some pizza and call it a day. trying to mentally prepare yourself for tomorrow. you really want to call of work tomorrow feeling like there too much going on around you. it was overwhelming, you think you’re overreacting none of this really affects you in anyway so why do you have this suffocating feeling? you feel like you’re literally drowning.

“luna you have it so easy mama, i’d love to be a house cat not a single worry in the world.” you sigh while rubbing her tummy as she purs.

❀᭢͏ུ

envy yaps: ermmm i can’t tell if this is good or not lol. guys trust the process frrr i swear it’ll get juicyyyy in the next part😈😈😋😋. anyways comment to be on taglist or wtv 😅😋😈😍🙏🏾

🏷️ ‘s

@tastesousweet

#matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #imsosillygoofylol #im so sorry nicky pooh ilyyy #guys actually lmk if this is good!#matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x reader

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thetomorrowshow · 1 month ago

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Whumptober 6 - Not Realizing They're Injured

title: exit 73

fandom: limited life smp

cw: blood and injury

Jimmy whoops, high-pitched and birdlike, as they run, their feet pounding against the asphalt. “We killed that one! Those Clockers didn’t know what hit ‘em!”

“Stop talking and just run,” Grian hisses, his words choppy. “We’re not out yet.”

They'd parked the van another block down, cleverly disguised as a plumber’s van—and if anyone opened it up, a plumber’s van is all they’d find. They’d spent a good bit of money outfitting it with drain snakes and wrenches and other tools, just in case anyone decided to find their van suspicious.

Right now, they’ve just got to make it there without getting caught.

Are they being followed? Probably not, they wove through some confusing alleys that Grian had somehow known his way through, they should be in the clear. Joel doesn’t look behind himself. He just keeps running.

They round another bend, and another, and Joel tries to keep himself pretty fit, but the stitch in his side is already burning and shouldn’t they have found the van yet?

“Where is that plumbing van?” he mutters angrily. Grian shushes him; Joel scoffs. “We lost ‘em ages ago, calm down,” he tells Grian, slowing just a bit to try and relax the stitch’s pain. “Where’d we park it?”

“Two more streets down,” Jimmy calls back—because of course he’s taken the lead, with his stupidly long legs. “I can see it, just over the hill.”

Great. Two more streets.

It’s kind of embarrassing that he’s already so out of breath. He swears he works out—it’s just been a long hit. He’s been hiding out at the cargo bay for hours, wedged behind some boxes, waiting for the moment that the Clockers showed up to sign for their contraband. Then it had been some quick moments of adrenaline—a fight, flashes of knives and fists—before Grian had the papers and they ran, the sudden energy still pumping through Joel’s veins.

He’d managed to grab Bdubs’s (one of the top Clockers that was overseeing the operation) famed pocket watch off the man himself, and that should sell for a pretty penny. It was plated gold with crystal glass, so the rumor went, and Joel couldn’t wait to have a jeweler test it.

Oh, that tiny man has got to be so furious right now. . . .

“There it is!” Jimmy cheers, pointing ahead. Joel still doesn’t see it all that well through the dark, but he trusts that Jimmy knows what’s going on and just focuses on one foot in front of the other, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Grian grabs his hand and pulls him forward, toward the van. He sees it now, with its crooked pipe art on the side, dimly illuminated by the starlight above.

Joel’s the driver, of course. The others poke fun at him for never letting anyone else drive, but he’s not going to go into or out of a mission with intense nausea, so he’s driving. He climbs up into the driver’s seat, shoves the keys in the ignition and starts driving before he even knows that Grian and Jimmy are in.

Judging by an annoyed shout, Jimmy wasn’t all the way in, but the door shuts and Jimmy rolls into the backseat, his annoyance clear in the darkened reflection of the rearview mirror.

Grian immediately reaches for the radio. Joel smacks his hand away. Jimmy leans forward, also reaching for the radio. They both smack his hand.

“No music,” Joel grits out. He’s usually high-strung after a mission like this, no real outlet for the energy flowing through him. Yet, despite knowing that he’ll be quick to anger, the others always manage to provoke him.

The no-music rule has been in place for as long as Joel’s been driver. Can’t the others stop being idiots for two seconds and let him drive in peace?

The van trundles along at thirty-five miles per hour, and Joel turns toward the on-ramp of the freeway, grimacing as that stitch in his side pulls when he presses on the gas. He can’t wait to get home and just sleep, once the adrenaline has run its course.

Grian beside him is shuffling through the pages, making a satisfied noise with every leaf he reads. “Yep. This is exactly what we were after. Good job, team.”

“They had a ton of weapon storage,” Jimmy pipes up. “They must’ve been storing stuff at their port.”

“Maybe we should put up some people to watch, see where they move it to,” muses Grian. “Now that we know it’s there, they’ll be in a hurry to pack it all up.”

“Especially now that we have the blackmail.”

“Mhm. Joel, how’d your side go?”

“Fine,” Joel says shortly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road, even as the white lines in the darkness seem almost to float on water.

Never think that when you’re driving, his mom had told him once, when the eight-year-old Joel had pointed it out. It’ll make you sleepy.

How long was he at his post? Seven hours, maybe? That isn’t too bad. With the adrenaline still jolting through him, he shouldn’t be this tired.

“His seatbelt isn’t on,” Jimmy says, ignoring the fact that Joel is a bear that he shouldn’t be poking with a stick.

Grian clicks his tongue, leans over Joel’s entire body to grapple with his seatbelt. “Safety first,” he reprimands, dragging the belt over him. Joel cranes his neck to see around Grian.

He clicks it into place at Joel’s hip, then sits back, examining his fingers.

Which exit was it, again? 73? Well, that one’s 69. Maybe he should get off the freeway, take some backroads. He doesn’t think they’ve been followed, but there are more cameras on the freeway.

The freeway will get them back quicker, though. And it’s in the plans to go this way, he doesn’t want to change them right as the job’s wrapping up. Sudden changes in plan are the highest cause of casualties in this business.

“Joel,” Grian says slowly. “Is there blood on you?”

Joel glances over at him; Grian’s holding his hand up to the window, something dark shining on his fingers.

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “I broke Bdubs’s nose.”

“Did you get injured?”

“Here—I’ve got a flashlight—”

A light clicks on and Joel resists the urge to growl at Jimmy. No lights on in the car, first rule of driving, why is Joel the only one with a bit of sense—

Grian pulls at his shirt, lifting it (Joel tolerates it, as much as he wants to literally bite him).

A moment of tugging his shirt this way and that, of Joel’s teeth grinding as he stares at the road.

Then Grian gasps.

“Joel—shoot—someone got you—”

“Holy moly—that’s a lot of blood—”

It all catches up to Joel at once.

The anger, the exhaustion, the stitch in his side—

And Bdubs had had a knife, hadn’t he? A knife that Joel had lost track of after he’d nicked the watch.

Grian’s hand presses down right on the stitch in his side, and Joel shouts behind his teeth, hands tightening on the wheel. That—that hurts—

“Pull over,” Grian commands. “Timmy can drive. Pull over.”

“Absolutely blummin’ not,” Joel says. His stomach is already roiling, there is no way he’s going to let someone else drive. “I can make it. How bad is it?”

More painful pawing at his side. Joel bites the inside of his cheek.

“It looks deep,” Grian says. “We should call ahead, get them ready for medical attention—Joel, seriously, pull over—”

“I’ll be fine. We’re almost there, anyways.”

Subtly, he taps a bit more on the gas. Now that he knows he’s been stabbed, apparently, he can barely think through the pain. It hurts quite a bit more than it did a minute ago—and his head is starting to feel woozy—

Jimmy’s talking on the phone behind him, and Grian is digging through the glovebox—Grian withdraws a bunched-up emergency blanket (it’s not in the little package anymore, he thinks Jimmy opened it up a while back because Joel wouldn’t turn off the air conditioning) and flicks open his pocket knife, cutting a long strip off the blanket.

Grian reaches around Joel, wriggling his arm behind Joel’s back. “This would be easier if you would pull over,” Grian grunts, threading the strip of the blanket between the seat and Joel’s back.

Joel stares ahead, sweat breaking out all over his body. He might be sick, regardless of—

White hot pain bursts through Joel’s side, radiates up and pounds on the confines of his brain, stealing his vision for a brief moment. He cries out, arms jerking without his input.

“Pull over—Joel, hit the brakes and pull over!”

Joel blinks rapidly, the road fuzzing back into sight. He’s driving between two lanes, his arms luckily dragging him more toward the middle of the road rather than the median. He straightens out as best he can with his stiff, lead-like arms.

Which exit are they on? 72. Great, so the next one. The next one, the next one, the next one—

“None of this will be worth it if you crash the van,” Grian’s saying in his ear, his voice echoing around Joel’s staticky brain. “Pull over!”

Next one, next one, next one—

Exit 72 B?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Joel breathes, pressing even harder on the gas. They’re going ninety-five now, definitely too fast for this tired old van.

“They’ll be ready when we get there, I told them it was bad,” Jimmy says. Jimmy’s voice doesn’t echo quite like Grian’s, but it does sound funneled into his ear, almost like through a cardboard tube.

It isn’t bad, he wants to say. He can’t quite get his lips to move.

Exit 73.

He remembers to click on his turning signal, somehow. It seems important.

“Joel, slow down, slow down, brake brake brake—”

“Am braking, calm down,” Joel mumbles. He is, he thinks. He definitely moved his foot to the other pedal, even if he doesn’t dare look down at the odometer. He thinks if he turns his eyes down, they’ll shut.

He knows how to get back to the mansion from here, but Grian gives directions anyways. His hands are still on Joel, holding the strip of blanket tight around his gut. Joel doesn’t have the strength to argue.

Left here. Onto that country lane. Keep driving. Keep driving.

“Talk to me. Say something, Joel, stay awake.”

Joel groans. He doesn’t particularly want to talk to Grian, and right now he’s doing nothing but severely irritating him.

“’m fine,” he manages around his heavy tongue. “Stop worrying. Like my mom.”

Grian laughs, shrill and anxious. “I wouldn’t worry so much if you could put together a whole sentence! Or if you would pull over—”

“Jimmy,” breathe, “can drive—” breathe breathe breathe, “when I’m dead.”

“Might not be too far away, to be fair,” Jimmy says.

Is this what death feels like? Clammy and fuzzy and sweaty?

Joel had better not die, then, because that sounds like it would be downright hellish in more than small doses.

Geez, he’s tired. Can’t he just pass out? Wouldn’t that be nice?

Can’t close his eyes. He has to keep driving. Can’t close his eyes.

“Never been stabbed,” he says through numb lips. “Just got shot. Once.”

“Turn here,” Grian says. Joel blinks. He hadn’t realized they’d already reached another turn.

“There is so much blood we’re going to have to clean up, geez louise. . . .”

“Right, I’ll jus’ . . . stop,” snarks Joel back at Jimmy, “stop . . . bleedin’.”

“Eyes on the road,” says Grian. Joel’s eyes are on the road, though, he’s sure they are. He’s going to great lengths to keep them propped open and staring directly at the road.

“Joel, eyes open. Keep them open.”

“They are,” he insists. Grian squeezes his arm with the hand that isn’t holding the blanket, sticky and warm.

“More open than that. We’re almost there, okay?”

They are almost there. The driveway is just up ahead.

Joel squeezes the steering wheel. He’s got this. It wouldn’t be good to pass out right here, right before they make it.

He isn’t sure how he gets there, but he does. He stares straight ahead, more focusing on keeping his eyes open than he is on the road, and he pulls up in front of the doors, finally letting go of the wheel to shift into park.

It’s silent for a moment as Joel stares straight ahead, at the dark mansion ahead of them.

“Told you,” he manages, shooting what he hopes is a smirk in Grian’s direction.

Then the fuzziness coalesces into darkness entirely, and he slumps forward over the wheel and knows no more.

The mansion’s library was converted into something of a hospital, long ago. Joel had always disliked it—they hadn’t bothered to paint it white or anything, left the walls a deep red and surrounded by costly books and polished oak shelves and expensive wood flooring, so it just felt like some rich mad scientist’s pet project every time he walked in.

That was why he didn’t particularly enjoy waking up there.

He groans, blinks several times as the library’s ceiling comes into reluctant focus. His limbs ache, and there’s some kind of pain pulsing from his side, but it isn’t as sharp as he thinks it ought to be. Painkillers, probably.

Joel looks down, sees an IV in his arm. Yep. Painkillers.

“Are you actually awake, or just faking it?”

Joel glances over to his other side.

Grian’s sitting there, arms folded. His leather jacket lies discarded on the floor, the sleeves of his red shirt pushed up to his elbows. His sunglasses are stuck in his greasy hair, doing nothing to hide his disapproving raised eyebrow.

“Hey,” Joel croaks. Then, because his memory is a bit spotty, “We made it, right?”

Grian smacks his shoulder.

“Hey—ow! What—?”

“It’s for being a moron—both Jimmy and I are perfectly capable of driving—and why didn’t you say you were injured?”

Joel’s seen the two of them drive, and he would like to disagree on that point. The him being a moron, though . . . probably justified. “I didn’t know,” he says, in response to Grian’s question. “Really.”

Grian holds his gaze for a moment longer, irritation in every line of his face—and then his face softens, and he rolls his eyes.

“Just try not to die, okay?” he says, smacking his shoulder again (gentler, this time). “I don’t have time for a funeral.”

Joel scoffs. “I wasn’t going to die. I was fine!”

Grian doesn’t speak.

Was he—was he genuinely close?

“Well,” Joel says, deciding not to think about that. His hand not occupied by an IV fumbles into his jeans pocket, and just as he’d hoped, his fingers find cold metal. “I did grab . . . this.”

Grian’s jaw drops as he stares at the golden watch, glinting in the low light. “No way. No—you got a Clocker’s clock?”

“Better. Bdubs’s clock.”

“Oh, dear,” Grian chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be in for a lot more trouble than a pesky stab wound.”

Joel just smiles, drops his hand to his lap.

He could use another nap.

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