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sevendeadlywhispers · 8 months ago

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7Seals

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Chapter 18

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•Previous Chapter: Chapter Seventeen

•Next Chapter: Chapter Nineteen

•Chapter List

•New chapters every Thursday

•Content: Levi Ackerman × OC female. Slow Burn! Canon verse!

•Word Count: 3.2k

•Warning: This content may not be suitable for all readers. If you've watched all of AOT then you will understand that the show handles heavy subjects such as abuse, racism, violence, and other heavy subjects. This fanfiction will also have the same heavy themes. Chapters with heavy themes will be marked with (*) at each chapter.

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A/N: hey....

So I absolutely hate this chapter with all my soul. It took me a whole month to write. I'm so mad about how things turned out! Totally understand if y'all don't like it. I restarted and deleted this chapter so many times. Also super mad about how I wrote Levi in this chapter. I just want to hurry up and get to the 104th introductions but I have some more writing left before then. bare with me y'all. Sorry for the rant<3 (3-29-24)

I staggered into the pantry, my fingers fumbling over the shelves in search of something to drown out the chaos of my thoughts. But alas, Elenor had beaten me to it, leaving me to grumble under my breath about the injustice of it all. If only I hadn't spilled my flask earlier, I wouldn't be in this sorry state.

Elenor's grip on my ear was like a vice, yanking me away from my futile quest for solace. She muttered something about stains and salvaging, but her words were lost in the haze of my alcohol-addled mind. I stumbled along behind her, my steps unsteady and uneven.

"I can't believe you," she muttered, her disappointment evident in the furrow of her brow. "Do you have any idea how long it'll take to fix this mess?"

"Just dye it black," I suggested with a careless shrug, my focus already drifting elsewhere.

"You are not wearing black to the ball," she insisted, her tone brooking no argument.

"How about we just skip the ball altogether?" I proposed, hoping to evade the impending disaster. "I do it every year. Why change now?"

"You're going and that's an order."

Levi's voice pierced the air, sharp and commanding. Somehow he still managed to slice through the atmosphere even without the precision of a blade at hand. When he spoke, it was all eyes on him no matter where we were.

Startled, I spun around to face him, only to find his formidable figure looming behind me like the specter of authority he was. His expression was etched with a scowl, a silent warning of his displeasure. With his sleeves rolled up, his muscular forearms were on display, revealing how his time and effort had paid off. I couldn't help but notice the way his veins snaked beneath his skin. I watched his finger tap rhythmically against his bicep, a habitual gesture of restraint, he exuded an aura of controlled power that left me momentarily breathless.

I sensed the undercurrent of his pent-up frustration, knowing all too well that I was only adding fuel to the fire. Where had he disappeared to earlier that had left him in such a state of anger? Despite his efforts to conceal it, I could see right through him; after all, I knew Levi better than he knew himself.

"This early?" he remarked, striding closer to inspect the wine stain on my dress. "You're a mess."

"That's rich coming from you," I shot back, my words laced with a hint of defiance as I couldn't help but sneak a glance at the way his arms flexed with each movement. The faint traces of blood stained his sleeves, stark against the crisp white fabric, painting a picture of a man accustomed to trouble. Levi was like a magnet for chaos, and I couldn't shake the nagging thought of whose blood might be clinging to his clothes this time.

"I'm not trying to hide anything," he insisted, his tone laced with irritation. "Unlike you, I wasn't trying to flaunt it."

"Iris," Elenor chided, her voice tinged with exasperation. "Mind your manners. You drunk fool."

"I'm not even drunk!" I protested though the warmth in my cheeks betrayed me. In reality, I had indulged more than I should have, the remnants of last night's revelry still lingering in my system.

"Your cheeks say otherwise," Levi observed, his gaze piercing as he met my eyes. "Not to mention how boldly you're speaking to your captain right now."

"Cry me a river, we're off duty," I shot back, my defiance fueled by the liquid courage coursing through my veins.

"Iris!" Elenor's voice rang out, a note of panic creeping in as she attempted to salvage the situation. "I'm so sorry, Captain Levi. She's been drinking since she woke up. She's been nothing but defiant."

"Let's be honest, she probably never went to sleep after what happened last night. " Levi remarked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed me from head to toe. There was a flicker of something in his gaze, a complex blend of disdain and... another emotion that eluded my drunken mind.

Last night?

"Oh, whatever," I huffed, spinning on my heel to stride away from the brewing tension. I refused to linger and subject myself to their judgmental gazes any longer. After all, it was just a minor mishap with some wine. What's the worst that could come of it?

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The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a warm glow over our garden as I sprawled on the grass, my mother's voice fading into the background as my thoughts wandered to places they shouldn't dare tread.

"Iris," my mother's voice cut through the haze of my daydreams, pulling me back to reality with a jolt. I blinked, momentarily disoriented, before focusing on her expectant gaze.

"Yes, mother?" I replied, my tone innocent but my mind racing to come up with a suitable explanation for my absent-mindedness.

"What has captured your attention so thoroughly?" she inquired, her curiosity evident in the furrow of her brow. I hesitated, unsure how to articulate the forbidden desires that swirled in the depths of my mind.

How could I tell her that my thoughts had strayed to the forbidden realm beyond our walls? I longed to explore the unknown, to unravel the mysteries that lay hidden in the world outside. The very notion was absurd, blasphemous even. But the urge burned within me, impossible to ignore.

"Iris," my mother's voice snapped me out of my reverie once again, her tone firm but not unkind. I swallowed nervously, my mind still racing as I struggled to find the right words.

"I was just... thinking," I mumbled, my gaze fixed on the ground as I avoided her probing stare.

"About what?" she pressed, her patience wearing thin as she awaited my response. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for her reaction.

"Beyond the walls," I admitted, the words tumbling from my lips in a hushed whisper. My mother's gaze softened, her eyes following mine as we both turned to face the looming structure that cast a shadow over our lives.

The weight of my mother's disappointment hung heavy in the air, she gazed at me, as if realizing a truth she had long hoped to avoid. I could see the reluctance etched in the lines of her face, the weariness of someone who had fought against inevitability and lost.

"I didn't expect you to be interested so soon," she admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of regret as she set aside our books, her movements slow and deliberate.

"But it seems the time has come for you to learn one of life's most important lessons, Iris."

"Are those ugly things truly that important?" I frowned, gesturing towards the looming walls that loomed on the horizon, their imposing presence a constant reminder of the boundaries that confined us. My mother's gaze hardened, her eyes narrowing slightly as she fixed me with a stern look.

"You must take this seriously, Iris," she admonished, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"Yes, Mother," I replied, my voice tinged with defeat as I slumped back against the grass, the weight of her expectations pressing down on me like a heavy burden. Why couldn't this be a simple answer, a straightforward explanation that made sense to my young mind?

"Good, now listen closely," my mother began, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old wisdom. "Those walls represent safety and security to all of us. They protect us from the dangers lurking beyond. It's only natural to be curious, but it can also be deadly. We must remember the blessings we have within these walls."

"What's out there that's so dangerous?" I interjected, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. The thought of unseen dangers lurking just beyond our reach sent a shiver down my spine.

My mother took a long, deep breath, closing her eyes briefly as if gathering her thoughts. I watched as her hands tensed up before she released her breath, her gaze meeting mine with a solemn intensity I had never seen before. It was a look that spoke of fear, of caution, of a mother's desperate plea to protect her child from the harsh realities of the world.

"Iris, dear," she started, her voice a soft murmur carrying the weight of untold history, "what lies beyond these walls is a realm of nightmares. Creatures known as Titans roam freely, devouring anything in their path. They're not merely monsters; they're the harbingers of chaos, the embodiment of primal fear."

Titans. The word hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unknown. I felt a thrill of excitement course through me, mingled with a hint of fear. How had I never heard of these creatures before? What other secrets lay hidden within the confines of our walls, waiting to be discovered?

"Have you seen one?"

"Iris," my mother's voice cut through the air like a knife, sharp and cold. It was a tone she rarely used. I felt my excitement retreat, replaced by a somber silence that enveloped us like a heavy fog.

"No, I have not," my mother finally replied, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "I've only heard stories."

"Stories?" I echoed, leaning in closer, eager for any scrap of information about these elusive creatures. "What kinds of stories?"

"The gruesome kind," she answered curtly, her gaze distant as if she were reliving memories best left forgotten.

"So these Titans, they're the reason we can't go beyond the walls?" I pressed, my mind racing with questions and possibilities.

"Exactly," my mother confirmed, her voice firm. "That's why we must stay inside the walls. We are safest within the confines of Wall Sina."

"Has anyone ventured outside the walls?"

"Yes, the Scouts."

"Do you think I could ever—?" I began, only to be swiftly cut off by my mother's stern interjection.

"It is forbidden," she stated firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

"But what about Father?" I persisted, determined to uncover the truth behind my father's mysterious comings and goings. "He always talks about protecting the walls. Is this why? Does he go beyond them?"

A shadow passed over my mother's features, her expression clouded with sadness as she spoke of my father's unwavering dedication to his beliefs. "Your father serves the walls in his own way, my dear," she explained gently. "But his duty lies within these walls, among the faithful who uphold the sanctity of our home."

"Swear on your life, Iris, that you will never attempt to breach the walls."

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The wind howled mournfully, chilling me to the bone as I stumbled through the neglected garden. Dead bushes clawed at my clothes, snagging on the fabric as I pressed forward. The iron gate groaned in protest as I forced it open, the rusted hinges screeching in the darkness. The darkness swallowed the stars, leaving me to navigate by instinct alone. Despite the absence of the moon's guiding light, I pressed on, my steps unsteady and my mind clouded by one too many glasses.

I felt like a lost soul navigating the depths of hell. The darkness was all-consuming, swallowing the stars and leaving me to fend for myself in a world devoid of light.

As I collapsed onto the unforgiving marble bench, the cold seeped into my bones, a cruel reminder of my frailty. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion, my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

Why did I drink this much? What was I trying to forget?

"Get up," Levi's voice pierced through the fog of my thoughts, his tone as sharp as a blade but I refused to yield. His hand reached out to help me, but I recoiled instinctively, my body tensing at the thought of his touch.

"No," I protested, my voice a defiant whisper as I clung to the bench for dear life. "I'm fine."

But the darkness pressed in, weighing me down like an anchor, my limbs heavy with exhaustion and regret. With a frustrated grunt, Levi hoisted me to my feet, his grip around my arm as he dragged me from the bench.

"You're a mess. A sloppy fucking mess," Levi muttered under his breath, his irritation palpable as he struggled to keep me upright. I leaned into him, my head spinning with each faltering step.

"You sound just like him," I muttered, my words slurred and barely coherent as I stumbled alongside him. Levi's touch felt suffocating, his fingers digging into my sides like claws as he propelled me forward.

"Let go," I pleaded weakly, but Levi remained steadfast, his determination unyielding as he pulled me closer. "Please."

But my protests fell on deaf ears, Levi's grip unrelenting as he guided me toward the safety of the house. With each step, I felt the weight of my past bearing down on me, the memories clawing at my consciousness like a ravenous beast.

My breath was taken away as I flung myself out of his grip and on the cold cement.

When will I stop flinching at the slightest brush of a hand, my body recoiling instinctively from any hint of closeness? When will I shed this suffocating cloak of fear that wraps itself around me like a second skin, a constant reminder of the horrors I've endured? When will I find the strength to stand tall, to reclaim my body as my own, untainted by the memories of pain and betrayal? When will I stop cowering from a man's touch, and learn to trust again?

After four years, I'm still fighting for peace.

"I said let go," I whimpered, my voice trembling with fear as Levi knelt beside me, his touch gentle against my clammy skin. "Don't touch me."

But Levi ignored my pleas, his patience wearing thin as he lifted me off the ground once more. I felt his strong arms snake underneath me, effortlessly hoisting me off my feet once again. My head bounced against his chest as he carried me, his expression stoic as ever. Despite my resistance, I couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude towards him, a flicker of warmth in the cold darkness that threatened to consume me.

"God, you smell like a bar," he groaned as he carried me into the house, his voice tinged with annoyance.

Levi's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he carried me up the stairs to my room, his steps deliberate and measured. Despite my drunken haze, I couldn't help but sense the tension radiating from him, like a storm brewing on the horizon. But I was too preoccupied with the swirling chaos in my mind to dwell on his mood.

As he deposited me onto the bed with more force than necessary, I let out an indignant grunt, my limbs splayed out like a ragdoll. Levi's jaw clenched with barely contained anger, his eyes flashing with a mixture of concern and irritation. But I was too intoxicated to notice, too lost in my world of blurred lines and fragmented memories.

"You're a damn fool, Iris," he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with exasperation. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to drink yourself into oblivion like this?"

I waved his words away dismissively, my mind drifting in and out of consciousness. "Relax, Captain," I slurred, a lazy smirk playing on my lips. "It's not like I'm the first soldier to drown their sorrows in a bottle."

Levi's expression darkened at my flippant response, his frustration mounting with each passing moment.

"You think this is funny, Iris?" he snapped, his voice sharp and cutting. "You could have gotten yourself killed out there tonight."

I blinked up at him, the severity of his words finally registering through the fog of alcohol. For a brief moment, I saw the worry etched into his features, the genuine concern that lay hidden beneath his gruff exterior.

But then the moment passed, and I was back to see him as just another authority figure trying to control my every move.

I was in Wall Sina, what's the worst that could happen to me? It's not like a Titan is going to appear randomly here.

"Always the overprotective captain, aren't you?" I teased, a mischievous glint in my eye. "What are you gonna do, put me on kitchen duty for a month?"

Levi's reaction was immediate, his jaw tensing as a flicker of annoyance danced in his steel-gray eyes. He let out a heavy sigh, his frustration palpable as he reluctantly took a seat beside my bed.

"Your insolence knows no bounds," he muttered, his tone laced with a fit of simmering anger. "Perhaps scrubbing the mess hall will help rein it in. Your behavior has been unacceptable."

"Do you even realize how reckless you've been?" he chastised, his voice tinged with exasperation. "You're a walking disaster, leaving a trail of chaos everywhere you go. It's exhausting having to clean up after you time and time again."

"Then don't."

"I'm your Captain. It's my job."

I watched him with bleary eyes, the room spinning around me in dizzying circles. Despite my best efforts to focus, everything seemed to blur together in a haze of confusion and disorientation. Levi's presence beside me was both comforting and unsettling, his silent vigil a stark reminder of how much I had let him down.

"Why are you still here?" I slurred, my words barely audible above the pounding of my own heart. "Shouldn't you be off saving the Walls or something?"

Levi's gaze bore into mine, his frustration seeping as he held my drunken gaze.

"We're leaving first thing tomorrow morning," he reiterated his tone firm but tinged with a hint of concern that he couldn't quite conceal.

"I don't have time to babysit a drunken fool."

I chuckled, the alcohol dulling the sting of his words. "Well, lucky for you, I'm a pro at taking care of myself," I quipped, my words slurring slightly as I struggled to maintain my composure.

Levi's expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing in his eyes before it was replaced by a mask of stern resolve.

"This isn't a joke, Iris," he insisted, his voice cutting through the haze of my inebriation. "You need to take this seriously."

I waved him off dismissively, my hand swatting at an imaginary fly as I leaned back in my seat. "Relax, Captain," I replied, a lazy grin spreading across my lips. "I've got it all under control."

Levi's jaw clenched, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to rein in his frustration.

I shrugged nonchalantly, my gaze drifting lazily around the room.

"Hey, we're still alive, aren't we?" I countered, my tone flippant as I brushed off his concerns. "What more do you want?"

Levi opened his mouth to respond, but I was already drifting off, the weight of exhaustion pulling me into its embrace. His words faded into the background as sleep claimed me, leaving me to drift away into a sea of dreams.

When will this end?

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kylaschuyler · 1 year ago

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Silly animal pictures that reminds me of AOT

(TW‼️ ON REINER'S PHOTO)

PS: Credits to the original creator of the right photo (KENNY ACKERMAN AND HANGE ART) , I can't find the artist TT__TT

BONUS:

ZEKE ON HIS WAY TO TERR*RIZE PARADIS

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snkwritings · 1 year ago

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How Levi is ‘figuring something out’🤔:

Meanwhile, Hange in the other room🥶:

🧪My Cup of Tea🍵 || LEVIHAN AU || Ch2. - Prologue part 2

Previous | Next

Masterlist

A/N:

I know I said ‘tomorrow’ but smth came up… hope you enjoy anyway🥲🤡🤡

#mcot #aot #snk #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levihan #hange zoe #hanji zoe #levi #levi ackerman #Mikasa #mikasa ackerman #hanji #kenny ackerman #Levi x hanji #Levi x Hange #Hanji x Levi #hange x Levi

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elitehoe · 1 year ago

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So the lb is kinda dead I've not recovered from Will and Kenny trying to not just kill each other but me as well

#hanging on by thread #will ospreay #kenny omega #forbidden door #aew x njpw lb

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paisleywraith · 2 years ago

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Whatever you do, don't look.

#sp clutters #clyde x butters #clyde donovan #butters stotch #Butters getting caught in some of Clyde's bullshit #these two knuckleheads get left behind in south park once everyone graduates #Kenny moves away when Karen graduates and Butters is officially left with no friends #Clyde rather assertively decides they're going to hang out and a strange new close friendship is born #They're similar in a few ways to where they can understand each other #Eventually the two of them move out together. Onto other things

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lazyexcuse · 1 year ago

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Priest: “Ok repeat after me”

Y/n, nodding with a smile: “After me.”

Priest leaning over to Levi, whispering: “Are you sure you want this one?”

Levi frowns: “Say your damn lines.”

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virginreprise · 3 months ago

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J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" I KNOW I CAUGHT YOU AT A NOT SO HAPPY TIME OF YOUR LIFE " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: age difference (big one), pervy joel, trailer park joel, joel miller has a vintage porn collection, joel's a sad old man, video game joel was in mind when writing, joel is six foot because i say so, multi-part, smut in the next chapter because i can't write anything if it isn't slowburn

WORD COUNT: 7.7k

CHAPTER TWO

AO3LINK

CHAPTER ONE—BAD DISEASE

Static from the television set tucked in a corner, a beaten leather armchair parked in front of it and a stack of vintage, VHS porn tapes on the unit. One half of “Agent 69” stuck in the VCR, balancing on its side due to the lack of care from its owner who’d jacked off in the very chair that towered over it—cum stained fist and a name on his lips, slipped out between plush flesh. Hand frantic, jerking in tandem with the buck of his hips as he flit his eyes between the TV and the wood-panelled ceiling, profanities spilling from his filthy mouth. Muttering to himself as pornstar moans graced his ears, words whispered into the night, stolen by the archangels and flown up to God: conspiring, scheming, uttering under their breath that he should not be allowed through the holy gates on judgement day. That the defiled Bible on his bookshelf and the cross that had been left for him by the previous owners, pinned to the trailer wall, was not enough for them to ignore the strained sentences that he spewed in a desperate bid for the Trailer Park Princess on her knees—red nails and red lips wrapped around his cock. A ring of colour staining the base.

Utter filth. And Joel knew it.

The perversions he didn’t keep to himself, laughed about bending over the pretty thing next door whilst nursing a beer on Pete’s porch—puffing away on the cheap cigars he’d stolen from the liquor store. They tasted like shit, smelt like shit and Joel would’ve been better without it, but it added to the image: kept Susan from asking him stupid questions like why he didn’t have a woman. It was her way of flirting, bikini top displaying her sagging tits, bending over the kitchen counter whilst his buddies watched baseball.

“You got your eye on anyone, Joel?”

“Not really, Susan.”

Then Pete interjecting.

“Come off it, Susan. Just cause he ain’t committed don’t mean that he ain’t got women.”

That kept her quiet, made her slink away into the hallway, slipping into their bedroom and pulling a cover-up on—suddenly insecure.

Joel wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have some strange penchant for young women. They were just…nice to look at. Pretty and sun-kissed in the Texan heat, ass hanging out their shorts, bikini top doing much more to entice than Susan’s did. There was no harm in looking—they never knew. He prided himself on being discreet, nursing a beer in the late afternoon whilst Kenny Rogers lulled from the radio, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the porch floor—eyes trained on your open window, cracked just a tad to let the air through. Drapes open.

At times, he thinks you do it on purpose, a gentle taunt, a silent jeer: “You can only look, perv.”

If the invitation was there, he’d take you up on it. Because out of all the women he’d fucked, headboard bashing against the wall, a chip in the wood of the trailer evidence of his trysts, you were the only one who’d worked him up to the point of no return. The only one who’d grabbed him completely by the collar and forced him to lick your boots.

Like Joel said, he wasn’t a pervert. You were just a fucking whore who needed to be put in her place.

So he’d sit there, in the white garden chair he’d snatched up from the pile of scrap that accumulated just east of his trailer, and watch. Most days, you’d be doing nothing in particular, unfortunately already dressed, dirty clothes in hand and wet hair dripping down your back. Other days, the days where Joel thought he was really lucky, where he’d stumble inside with a hard-on, sit on his recliner and hastily shove whatever he got his hands on, into the VCR, skipping over the poorly acted introductions, and pretend that the moans reverberating the trailer, were yours. Images of you slipping your shorts over your hips, swaying slightly to whatever tune you were listening to, peeling your shirt off your body. No bra. Slyly stepping towards your window, catching his eye once, a look so slight that he wouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, and pulled your drapes shut.

He’d spilt all over his hand, white on his knuckles and a smile on his lips.

Joel would never feel guilty for wanting you, not when he had already made peace with the fact he was a deadbeat, bound to the white trash lifestyle, unemployed and living off the pills he paid for and sold for a ridiculously high price, still grieving his losses and wondering what the fuck he could’ve done differently. If he would’ve done anything differently given the chance.

No, Joel was not a bad person. He just looked for her in every person, desperately seeking a will. And so far, you had succeeded in helping him remove the gun from his mouth—evenings spent in different, dangerous ways.

Texan summers were unlike anything you’d experienced before, the heat so incredibly stifling that your love for the sun disappeared completely. Mornings spent on the porch, soaking in the last bits of breeze before cycling your ass to work, sweating and heaving by the time you got there, in the same condition when you rode back home and locked yourself away with every window flung open before nightfall fell and you felt you could breathe again.

The cicadas were loud, the snakes huddled up in the shade, waiting for you to trample on them, and the beast next door, Joel Miller: terrifying, gorgeous and a fucking pervert.

The day you’d moved into the trailer, despairing the loss of stability, ruminating upon your desperate escape from a home now dead and lost to the prairies of your mind, he’d been there. Wifebeater stretched across his wide torso, a cigarette placed on his lips, unused as it hung there, smoking away, the grey wisps begging with each dissipation into the atmosphere: breathe me in. He’d stared. Unable to be subtle no matter how slick he thinks he is, eyes flitting between your tits and your ass. Tits. Ass. Tits. Ass. A calculated dance that left a funny feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, a lurch in your bowels that made nausea claw its way up your throat.

Tits. Ass. Then, he suddenly looked at your face, standing there on his porch, the sunrise building its way up the horizon, too early for anybody to see him looking you over like you were a dead deer he’d just shot, smirking at the notion of sawing your head off and displaying it on the wall above his mantle. Heaving boxes into the empty trailer, lot number seventeen, whilst the owner of lot eighteen wouldn’t take his fucking eyes off you, was a terrible feat.

Once you’d shoved the last box into your bedroom, you’d shut the door, locked it tight and peeked through the window to see that he had gone back inside, retreating to the haven of steel and veneer.

Over time, Joel became easier to manage. After the initial, awkward introductions where he’d called you princess, babydoll, sugar (almost adding a “tits” to the end of the nickname before realising where he was) your stomach reeling at the monikers, time settled your unmistakable disgust for him, the universe replaced the sickness you felt when you spoke to him with another stomach-turning anxiety that you pushed down far into every crevasse and high onto every mountain.

You grew to enjoy the nicknames, skipping a few paces up his porch steps and ask him ever so kindly if he could come and fix the cupboard door that was swinging off its hinges, change the lightbulb because you couldn’t reach the ceiling yourself, stop the leaky tap that seemed to start drip drip dripping every month—just to bully you.

Although you knew that Joel was a dirtbag, hearing him talking about the filthiest things, laughing as Pete clapped him on the back in praise and acknowledgement, knowing that he wanted nothing more than to treat you like a whore, he gave you nothing except a sly smile, a sleazy nickname and the occasional help around the house. Fixing things.

So, naturally, you began asking around about Joel. Susan liked to gossip. So did Lillian, a woman who had spent her entire life in the park and, at sixty-two, had no interest in leaving.

“I remember when he moved here,” she’d told you one fine summer evening, when the heat wasn’t as menacing and you felt content being away from the air conditioning, sipping sweet tea in Lillian’s wooden garden chairs, feet placed on the seat—chin resting on your knees. “All stoic, wouldn’t speak ‘ta anyone. I could tell he’d gone through something bad, you know me and my sixth sense.”

She’d paused for a moment, taking a drag, a sip, a sigh before looking at you solemnly.

“He was a catch with the ladies,” she’d muttered. “They were all after him, even this one over here,” she’d pointed to Susan who’d smacked her arm, complaining about her disrespect. She was a married, loyal woman after all. “Well, it’s true. If I were twenty years younger, I would’ve gone for him too, but it wouldn’t have done much anyway cause he didn’t touch anyone. There ain’t many pretty young ladies round here, you know you’re the only one,” she’d said plainly, addressing you with a hint of affection.

Waving her cigarette around as she relayed every single detail she knew about Joel’s love life, telling you how after a few years of moping, he’d bring back girls in the middle of the night, fuck them, and then throw them out the next day.

“He’s not a romantic,” Lillian had prefaced, Susan interjecting with:

“Ya think so? I think he is…if he just found the right woman-”

“Oh don’t listen to her Darlin’, he’s a man who likes to play. He ain’t lookin’ to settle, I tell you that much.”

Listening to them both, their anecdotes, their stories, and their opinions, you concluded one thing about Joel Miller. He was an asshole. A man who had done nothing to better his life since he stepped foot in the trailer park ten years ago, a sag in his shoulders and an anger in his eyes.

You weren’t sure if he’d mellowed since then, or if he’d just managed to conceal it better. Joel hadn’t been angry around you, not when you knocked on his door at three in the morning, asking him if he could come get the spider out of your bedroom, not when you’d accidentally run into his truck with your bike or told him that he was an asshole when you’d caught him talking about you one day in springtime.

“She’s as dumb as fucking rocks,” he’d chuckled. “Bet she gets cockdrunk so easy.”

He’d grumbled out the last sentence, an afterthought that was more for him than the men he was talking to, but you, stumbling around, half-asleep after your shift, were not willing to take the degradation. You’d berated him in front of his peers, slammed the door behind you, and regretted it immediately. Because, even though it shouldn’t matter, even though you thought he was pervy and angry and wouldn’t treat you how you’d been told you deserved, the last thing you wanted was for him to hate you.

Every time he praised you, told you that you looked good as you stepped out of your home, on your way to Lillian’s for a catch-up and the cigarettes she bought you every three weeks, just for being good and keeping her company, you felt that tingle, the synaptic transmissions running down your spine every time he stepped through your door, asking what the issue with your tap was. You should’ve been disgusted when he’d left and you’d gone to the bathroom only to find the panties you’d left on the floor were gone, but you’d felt that same spark instead. A deep, sliding ache that consumed every part of you.

Luckily for you, your sink decided to start leaking again on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Perfect time to lure him into your trailer, grab him by the neck and ask him as nicely as you could if he could cease the pain.

Sip of beer, drag of cigarette, click of the remote to change the channel, repeat.

A usual Sunday afternoon pastime.

Joel would’ve rifled through his VHS’s, find something he could jack off to whilst he deliberated whether today would be the day he’d say “fuck it” and saunter on over to next door, hoping to god he’d get his dick wet by someone other than a whore, but he couldn’t be bothered to move from his seat. It was effort enough trying to change the channel, arm aching as he pressed the button, rolling his eyes as the same boring drab illuminated his TV screen.

It was another one of those days. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, the broken glass, the notion that he would never fix it no matter how easy it would’ve been to go over to Shane’s and ask him to get it working again, all for the low price of a few pills.

She’d left him with it and he would die with it.

A reminder of her every time he glanced at his watch, swallowing hard as he remembered the way he’d pressed cool metal to the side of his head, a tear slipping down his cheek before realising that he never could. Because Joel was an asshole, he knew that. He was selfish and cruel and spoke about people as if they could get any lower than he already was. But more so than anything, Joel was a sad old man.

Tommy, the damn bastard, who’d left Joel to fend for himself while he went off with his new-found “true love” to have kids and a decent life, had sent a few thousand dollars and a pitiful “I’m sorry, Joel,” over the phone after his big brother had fucked up and lost his job. When Joel had been left penniless and broken. Nothing to fight for. No one to hold him or tell him that he was loved. He’d spent all his money raiding gas stations for cases of beer, bottles of whisky, anything that could numb the pain—choosing the alcohol over food, over his mortgage. When he’d lost the house, he hadn’t taken anything of hers. Even after she’d died, he’d insisted that everything needed getting rid of. Her clothes, her posters, even her damn phone. He’d slammed Tommy against the wall after realising that he was taking everything with him, that he was not doing as he was told. After that, Joel had closed the door on her bedroom and never stepped foot in it again.

All he had of her was a damn watch, a photo that his little brother had shoved into his hands, a harsh, “Take it, you damn bastard. You’ll regret it when you stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” on his lips, and the memory of her in his arms when he’d felt that huge heart of hers stop beating.

There had been many low points in Joel’s life, wandering through his existence on a tightrope that was ready to snap with every step, but none had been lower than that.

Not even when he’d called Tommy in the middle of the night, sobbing, struggling to breathe with a clean bottle of Jim Beam in his hands, begging him to help. He’d lost his house, he’d lost his job, he’d lost his daughter. Where to next?

Tommy, all the way in Wyoming had scraped together some money, told Joel to get himself down to the mobile park and a steady job. Start from the bottom again.

Sometimes, Joel resented his brother for not giving him that money for a flight to the West, smiling down the phone as he informed that they had a spare room for him, his nephew cooing in his bassinet and waiting for his old uncle.

He understood though. When he wasn’t drunk it made more sense why he hadn’t invited him to his home.

They hadn’t spoken in sixteen years. To his nephew whom he did not know the name of, he was just the deadbeat uncle who hadn’t made it out of Texas—still alive but lost.

Tommy would’ve probably hated him more if he was sitting on Joel’s couch, staring at the porn and the beer, the cigarettes that his little brother knew he had only smoked when he was a rebellious teenager—the occasional pull never becoming a habit, especially when his daughter came along.

Almost certainly would’ve despised him if he knew how he felt about the girl next door, the perverse catharsis he experienced when he took himself in hand and imagined taking care of her, shushing her whimpers, making her whine with the way he stretched her open.

Oh, and he was a bad man. A bad fucking man and he was the last thing you needed. Some poor, young girl who was doing her best to make it. Pay the rent on time, make sure she was kept fed, all whilst juggling the inescapable feeling that once you were in the trailer park there was no getting out.

Joel didn’t see an end. He’d been here for over a decade; his drug money was not for a new house or a new life, it was for whores and booze, a carton of Marlboro reds that he got for cheap from Bill, and porn. He’d collected all the goddamn vices—became a person so unlike who he was, so far from the quietly loveable single dad he’d been hailed as years ago.

As far as Joel now was concerned, that guy was a fucking pussy.

That guy would think he needed professional help for the way he thought about you, would expel every single image of you naked and writhing, tits bouncing in time with his thrusts as you lay boneless and crying in his grasp.

You were legal. What was the big fucking deal?

Joel needed this. You were not just some throwaway material good that would leave him in debt for the next ten years—you were full and gorgeous, smart, quick-witted and made him harder than the oak tree that stood centuries-old just a little down the road from the old Palmer farmhouse.

That day you’d heard him talking about you to his friends, the way he’d lied and said that you were dumb, when you’d come storming up his porch steps—all rage and heat—and cussed him out, he’d laughed. It didn’t matter about the taunts and the sniggers he got from his buddies who he would have no issue never speaking to again. They could go fuck themselves for all he cared because you hadn’t willingly thrown yourself at his feet and licked his boots.

Whores were easy. No challenge with a whore, no longing, no desire, just a mutual understanding that this was transactional and she was going to moan as loud as you wanted her to whether it felt good or not.

But you had given Joel something worth chasing. And fuck he was going to catch you, even if it meant he’d die in the chair he sat in, with nothing to show for his life except a case of Bud, an empty fridge, and a stain on his bedsheets where you’d reached for him—begging for everything he could not give.

Something about him had you checking your appearance before you walked out the door, making your hair presentable, touching up your lipgloss, blotting the oil from your face. All for a man who saw you as nothing but jailbait

You wanted to be wanted. To be looked at with a fire, an urge to grasp you and take you fully, pull you close when you cried and kiss you when you shook with the need to run far away. You wanted to be kept, to be reminded every day that you were needed, loved and desired.

You wanted Joel.

Joel: the sad old man next door, the dangerously handsome figure in your life that stood six feet tall, jaw sharp and strong, muscles straining with his arms crossed—built big and firm. A chest you’d very much like to lay your head on. A bulge in his pants you’d very much like to see stripped bare.

So when the opportunity came, you seized it, with an iron first, intent on capturing what had been yours since the day you’d moved to the free prison—since the day he’d stared at you, an unadulterated and irremovable, perverse desire that shook the very beings of your existence. That determined exactly who you are and how you would fall for the watchful eyes and glinting gaze that befell you every time you stepped down the rotten wood steps at the foot of the trailer entrance.

You stepped onto them then, Chuck Taylors strapped to your feet, laces loose and lazily tied, skin smoothed from the razor you’d pressed against it in the shower that morning—all for him. The appearance every bit of expectation you had for his fantasies and ideals, hoping that the attire would thrust him further into abandoning a morality he did not have.

The sun set rapidly behind you, the grass long and dry around your ankles, unmowed—as you nor Joel had ever discussed who would get mowing duty—and a clear head. A set destination, unstifled by a long day at work, the sweat curling along your back too harsh to be ignored and the sometimes discourteous demeanour of Joel’s so powerful that you often wondered why you liked him. Why you gave so much attention to a man years ahead of you, unable to look at you without laughing at the prospect you thought you were more to him than a pretty thing to look at whilst he wallowed in his castle of self-pity he’d built for himself all these years spent trapped and lonely.

It all seemed insignificant that day you’d crossed the boundary between lot seventeen and lot eighteen. When you’d shakily advanced up his steps, onto the porch you grew so fond of, and knocked once, twice, thrice on the white door—stepping back to await his welcome. Hoping to god that he’d see you and take you there.

The shuffling on the other side of the door raised your heart rate, a sweat forming on the back of your neck which you brushed away with a hasty hand, intimidated by what awaited you when the white disappeared and transformed into bulking arms and a firm chest—a tall body that you gazed up at with ardour.

When the sight appeared, you gulped away the desire to run away, to pretend that you’d just come here for the leaky tap and that there was no other reason you had bothered him on his peaceful Sunday afternoon. No ulterior motive. Not that you just wanted to see him because he had hardly been around the past couple of days and in truth you were worried about him; you wanted to make him feel better.

“Hi.” He struggled to conceal the surprise in his voice, seemingly struggling further to keep the thickness in his throat at bay, the redness of his eyes that displayed days of restlessness and insomnia. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you murmured impassively, licking your lips, swallowing away the dryness in your throat at the state of him: burning cigarette in hand, flannel shirt unbuttoned and displaying the white wifebeater that lay underneath. The shape of his belly was visible underneath it, his belt purposefully unbuckled and hanging from the loops of his jeans. “I’m alright.”

There was a twitch of his lips as he stared down at you, eyes flitting from head to toe—shameless in the way he always was. In the way you liked.

“You sure?”

It seemed stupid suddenly: the entire situation. The call you felt towards him, the want you had to curl up against his chest, let him hold you and tell you he was proud of you for opening up to him—telling him how fucking much you wanted him, despite knowing exactly how it would end if you were to venture further into a relationship that surpassed just neighbours.

So instead of inviting yourself in, seducing him until he fell to his knees, tugged you by the waist and begged you for just the smallest piece of yourself, you succumbed to your insecurity, and retreated from the palace walls.

“Yeah…yeah, it’s just that my taps leaking again.” For a split second, he almost looked irritated, eyes honing in on you, narrowing with a look of aggravation—confirmed by the clench of his jaw. You appeased him, saying, “You don’t have to come over now. I just thought I’d tell you,” and the expression slowly slipped away into something much more sinister: mirth.

“Sure thing, pretty girl,” he said as he slinked away from the doorframe, inviting you into his home, coaxing you past the threshold as he fumbled about in the fridge and pulled out two beers.

Contemplating, you stared at him, the flex of his muscles as he uncapped each bottle, the stature and size of him as he hunched over the counters, turning around to hold out a drink to you. An invitation. One that you had expected you’d have to give yourself—that you’d have to kick and cry before he ever let himself find you.

“Just have a drink,” he soothed in that southern lull of his, the words rolling from his tongue with ease. As if he had practised the scenario before he knew it would befall him. “No point in worrying over your tap, I can’t do anything until I buy new washers. I’m out 'cause of you.”

The irritation he’d shown earlier seemed palpable now—as if he was inviting you into his home simply to make you as uncomfortable as possible, hold you down by the hips until you promised to leave him alone. A taunt, a ploy to make sure you would never get what you wanted.

However, you had never stepped foot in his trailer, had only ever been on his porch and ran your hand over the chair he frequented, wondering what it looked like beyond the four walls, and curiosity prevailed as it always did.

Uncertainly, you stepped onto the carpet, gently closing the door behind you, and mumbled a thank you as you took the beer from his hand.

Almost immediately, you felt like apologising for his irrational emotions.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to put you out. I’ll pay for whatever you need-”

“You pay in ways you don’t know. I don’t need your money.”

The cryptic way in which he spoke, the casualness as he gave you a look that hinted at something you couldn’t decipher and the slow saunter to his armchair left you in a state of uncertainty. Standing there, with a beer wetting your hand, a frown on your face and a furrowed brow, you had no idea where to go next. What would await you if you questioned him—the things you would discover that were best left in the hands of God and no one else.

Again, curiosity thrust its violent hand into your stomach and forced your feet to start moving towards him, hoping that he’d appreciate your bravery—your denial of your urges to run far away. It was noted, however, that Joel Miller could care less about bravery. That the quality itself was right down at the bottom of the ladder and that he could and would not give a shit if you welcomed his advances in spite of your lack of courage.

Hesitantly, you planted yourself on his couch, the furniture built into the wall, curving into an L shape where you imagined he’d kick his feet up after a long day, palm the bulge in his jeans and pick from the litany of porn that you took one glance at and thought better than to stare at it too long in case he felt offended by your interest.

The discovery admittedly took away a little of his allure.

“Make yourself at home,” he insisted, taking a sip of his beer and urging you to do the same with a single nod of his head. The slight twitch of his lips when you did so caused your body to go squirming, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as the fire raged within you—unable to be sated with the way he looked at you then.

Just a scoff, a sip, and a glance at your lips before he turned away completely and focused his attention on the blank TV screen— his reflection the only entertainment.

Silence grew uncomfortable, the bitter taste of alcohol coating the back of your throat, dripping down your oesophagus and choking any words that you wished to say. The heat emanating from him was overpowering even from the distance you sat apart, the scent of cigarettes overwhelming, so much so that you needed a distraction, anything to dull the rest of your senses from shutting down—all because of his powerful presence; the effect he had on you even when he sat still and awaited your call.

“What did you mean?” The words came tumbling from your mouth, driven by an insatiable desire and lacklustre confidence you had somewhere deep in the pits of your stomach, bubbling with the acid that nestled there until it rose to the surface—bile transforming into questions that could leave you in a shell of humiliation. At his furrowed brow, you expanded. “About me paying in ways I don’t know.”

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Sombre, all of a sudden. Staring into the barrel of his bottle, the brown glass reflecting like constellations on his face—accentuating the sharp angle of his jawline, the sunken hollows of his cheekbones.

When his eyes nestled on yours, burrowing right into your skull, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even fathom the thought of taking a lungful of air, waiting with your breath held tight inside, for his answer.

“You shouldn’t go asking questions like that.” He sipped quietly, wetting his lips by flicking his tongue in and out, averting his gaze back to the shadow of himself in the television. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

It was not the answer you wished for, eyes downcast, focused on your shaking knee as you tried to gauge some form of clarity beneath the mystery that clouded the gates to his head—what lay beneath his skull; what you wished to find.

Against your better judgment, you pressed further, keeping the beer bottle clutched between your hands and hoping it would stay cold forever.

“I can handle myself.” It came out more confident than you had expected, your bobbing knee ceasing its movement, your dry throat provided with moisture. A break from the anxious sweat you had broken out in. “If you don’t tell me I’ll just leave a hundred dollars on your doorstep and leave you alone.”

You hoped quietly, in that stifling room, that he would make sure it didn’t come to that. That he would let you pay in any way he saw fit. You hoped that the sad hulk of a man sitting in the lone chair with porn in every drawer and money set aside for whores, would let you have him—bring back a semblance of light to his eyes. Find out what kept the despondency trapped so tight around him, the crown of thorns on his head expanding until it reached his feet and kept him locked in nature's prison—skin scratched, bloody and unable to be healed unless he found someone willing to cut through the overgrowth.

He seemed to bristle at your words, shoulders tightening, jaw clenching in the manner he did when he was irritated. You’d seen it before when Dale had been drunk and had followed you home. When you’d stumbled uncomfortably to your trailer and pleaded Joel who sat on his porch, almost looking like he was waiting for you, to get him off your back. That tick, the downturn of his brow, the twitch of his lip, the look so intimidating you had rushed inside and watched through the window as Joel clapped a hand on Dale’s back and ushered him away from you.

You had no idea what he’d done after they’d left your sight but Dale barely looked at you after. The last interaction you’d had with him was the morning after when he’d knocked on your door, timid for a fifty-year-old man, and apologised. Joel had been there, like he almost always was—always dancing in your peripheral, waiting for you, taunting you—with a cup of coffee clasped between two hands and a smug look on his face when he watched the interaction.

“You ain’t as smart as you think you are,” he uttered, slipping you away from the vignette and shattering the memory with his simple words.

They stung. More than you cared to admit.

Men were never this difficult, never this hard to get through to, never this confusing. He had given you every possible sign, every protection, every knowing look that confessed: you are everything I wish to have.

It seemed every day he was further from you, every day he looked at you and thought that he was blinded by loneliness and that you were the last thing he needed to dote on.

With the rejection, came vexation, a rumbling little thing that forced its way into your mouth—lips parting to let it out.

“You’re not as discreet as you think you are.” As soon as they fell, the rest came following like a herd of bulls, a huge red flag flying through the air, right where Joel sat. They came for him, and you didn’t care enough to stop them. “I’m not stupid, no matter what you say.”

The tick, tick, tick of his jaw. That subtle way his eyes narrowed, honing in on everything but the thing causing his problems, trying desperately to stop the truths from betraying his conceptions.

“I see you, Joel. I see you through my bedroom window, using me as your personal stripper because you’re too fucking cheap to go down to the strip club and give a tip.” The push and pull was becoming apparent, the sympathy and disgust you held for him all at once growing and growing until all that prevailed was rage. That after everything, he still refused. That he was still a fucking coward no matter how many faces he pulled at anyone who looked at him wrong. You would not be deterred by the look he gave you then: one that should’ve made you shrink away in fear he would do something rash. “I see the way you looked at me from day fucking one. Just a pair of tits to stare at, a new young girl that you can prey on-”

“Stop.”

“I’m not stupid.” Your voice was rising rapidly, your lips downturned in a scowl, unable to see the danger that befell you if you continued. “I know how you talk about me to your friends, I know that you make a show of being this immovable thing that no one can ever get to because you’re so wrapped up in your own self-pity that you can’t even admit to yourself that the only thing you are is a fucking pervert. And an asshole.”

“You are crossing a line, little girl.”

His words fell on deaf ears, a scoff coming from the back of your throat—so many things that you wanted to say but couldn’t voice. You settled for a final, blow. One that might kick him off his feet.

“I know you stole my panties.” Jaw ticking, teeth grinding so hard they were liable to turn to dust in his mouth. “Took them right off my bathroom floor. Could you not help yourself? Are you that sad, Joel? Are you that much of a fucking perve-”

Silenced by the way he towered, standing upright, bottle discarded by the leg of his chair and fury dancing in his eyes—so apparent and profound you finally stopped and cowered.

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

You were stunned into submission, finally on the end of his intimidation—a feat that was sure to happen sooner rather than later. You were just another Dale, just another one of his victims that he shot down with narrowed eyes and a nasty tone of voice that forced you to swallow down the confidence—sending it right back to your stomach, and burning the false assurance away.

“I have been cordial with you for as long as possible.” There was danger in the way he spoke so calmly, a tremor in your hands as he stepped forward, facing you completely, and kneeled before you—eyes boring into yours, forcing you to look at him with the hand he placed on the couch beside you. “I’ve tried my hardest to be respectable but you make it so damn difficult.”

“I’m sorry,” you began, wishing you could take it all back, wishing that you could’ve used your boldness for better: crawled into his lap and let him hold you, sank to your knees like he and worshipped him with every bit of yourself you had.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he shook his head, the hand on the couch, moving, the weight of it resting there dissipating and falling even heavier on the side of your face. “You can’t take it back now.”

Nerves slipped like rapids through your stomach, the damn thing churning so much you began to feel sick with the anticipation and fear you felt being closer to him than you ever had been before. Your mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again when you realised that your throat had closed, the inside of your mouth dry and unable to lubricate your words with credibility as they fell from your lips.

“You think I’m a pervert?” he asked, eyes expecting an answer, eyebrows raising to help you find a response. “Hm?”

“Yes.” The monosyllable fell shakily, unable to lie when he was looking at you so harshly, all whilst stroking your cheekbone with his thumb and engulfing the right side of your face with one, big, warm hand.

He nodded with knowing, his other hand falling to your bare knee. You were crowded by him, completely consumed by his presence and with a harsh swallow, you hoped that he would slip away and allow you to breathe—if only for a moment.

“I know,” he said with finality, your cheek whacked with cold air as he removed his hand, quickly providing you with warmth again as he pressed his thumb to your chin, holding it delicately. Making sure you couldn’t look away from him. “But you like it, don’t you?” he brushed the bottom of your lip with his nail, an uncontrollable shiver running through you that he revelled in.

He’d called your bluff entirely. He’d locked you up in his cage, gave you the upper hand for just a second, made you believe that you could get away from him if you kicked and screamed enough, only to leave you hopeless as he twisted the key to the right, and threw the metal that granted you freedom, into the fire.

“If you had an issue with me looking, you’d close the drapes. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure it ain’t too hard for you.”

His patronisation, his demeanour that consisted of arousal and determination, had a small breath puffing from your lungs, a sudden and overwhelming heat crawling from each of his hands and into your head—breaking your rationale and leaving you pliable and willing in his grasp. He’d got you. Right there. And if he wanted you, you would let him have you.

“And if you didn’t want me to steal your panties, then you shouldn’t have left them there.”

It was unbelievable, the way he twisted the blame onto you, the way he made you believe in everything he was saying with a simple swipe of his thumb over your bottom lip and a look in his eyes that stopped you from questioning him.

“Yes, Joel, I’m sorry, Joel,” were the only words swimming through your head: words that you would’ve spoken aloud had he not stunned you into silence, the hand on your knee sliding along your skin, up towards the hem of your shorts where he slipped his fingers under and skimmed the skin concealed by the denim.

“You understand me, little girl?”

“I’m not a little girl,” you managed, voice shaky as the warmth of him engulfed you entirely, wrapped up in the scent of him, the feel of the callouses along your smooth skin and the eyes piercing you. If looks could kill…if those pretty eyes could rip you apart with the viciousness of their stare.

“No you ain’t,” he murmured, gripping your chin, thumb rubbing along the flesh of your bottom lip, the skin bouncing as he peeled it back and let go. “I know you ain’t.”

There seemed a flood came over his being, a white wave of purity dowsing him, ridding him of every adulteration and forcing sense back into his head as the hand fell from your face, the one on your inner thigh taking longer to slip away before the cloud of insensibility faded and he arrived to a semblance of morality.

You watched as he stumbled over to the kitchen, hand working over the scruff he called a beard and forced his eyes away from you.

“Joel,” you called softly, finally gaining back a little strength now he wasn’t crowding you; forcing you to look at him and make the first move so his conscience could be clean.

“Just go.” The words were uttered much softer than before, the delicacy of his voice surprising you but the strain that coated his throat a reminder that this was still Joel Miller. Dangerously beautiful Joel Miller with a lifetime of terror stashed somewhere in the backrooms of his mind, a darkness in the depths of his eyes you couldn’t help but be frightened by, and a story you wished he would tell. A story that stretched years back to the life before he crept past the opening gates of Shady Springs Mobile Park and left a life that you had no clue wether had been better or worse than his life now. “I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and have a look at that tap. You might have to get maintenance round soon though if it keeps up.”

“I don’t like strangers…in my house.” Your words trailed off at the end of your sentence, caught up in the possibilities of your words and how he would reply. If he would see right through you and clock how you’d only spoken because the tap was one of the biggest ties you had to Joel. If he would realise that you’d thought about getting maintenance months ago when it first started dripping but didn’t want a permanent fix, no matter how annoying. All because of Joel Miller and the way he’d perversely captured you in the plot of some barely legal porno that you would’ve turned your nose up at if it was anyone but him and you.

You and Joel.

The thought sounded nice—the reality a little less nicer.

“Yeah, well…” he leant back on the countertops, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bloodshot and bordered by black—an undeniable piece of evidence that Joel perhaps wasn’t doing as well as he made everyone believe; that there was something deeper tugging at his mind and causing such aggravation.

After a moments silence, when he looked at you and you looked right back at him, your head clear and working properly again, you diverted the conversation elsewhere—a ploy to hack deeper at his head and find what lay underneath his skull.

“Are you okay?” Simple, easy. Not difficult to ascertain the concern laced deep in your tone because you were concerned for him. The moment he’d opened the door after days of barely seeing him, time spent cursing the fact he could peer through your windows but you could not peer through his, you knew something was wrong. That there was something happening to him. Something dangerous. Your sympathy began to overtake everything else, memory shed of all the times he had wronged you and replaced with the very little he had done right. “You look…tired. Exhausted, really.”

“I’m fine,” he said with finality, the rage in his eyes returning but with less power this time. The fatigue was setting in, the constant running from himself finally catching up to him.

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” It shut you up well enough, so much so that you began to lose the commiserations. You could always say you tried. “Now get out of my house.”

It was the final thing he said to you before he slipped away, striding down the hallway, footsteps echoing until he reached the bedroom; the click of the door resounding throughout the trailer.

You stared at the spot where he’d kneeled, a finger brushing softly over your lip before shaking away the self-pity and gently placing the beer bottle on the table that sat next to his chair.

Looking one last time at the door at the end of the hallway, shadowed and guarded by snapping dogs, you opened the door, the damn thing creaking as if to shout to everyone within a mile radius that you had made no progress with the man you desperately wanted, and stepped out. Leaving your pride on the doorstep.

thanks for reading !

#virginreprise™#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us 2 #tlou #tlou2 #joel tlou #the last of us fanfiction

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justauthoring · 2 years ago

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TOKYO REVENGERS - SPENDING THE NIGHT OVER FOR THE FIRST TIME

includes: chifuyu matsuno, ken “draken” ryuguji, hakkai shiba, hanma shuji, manjiro “mikey” sano all x fem!reader

CHIFUYU wants to ask you to stay, but doesn’t know how.

The words are at the tip of his tongue, and he hesitates, eyes watching as your figure rushes to gather your things. But... he doesn’t want you to leave. That he knows, and the desperation settles in as it grows closer and closer to it being time for you to leave.

“You... You could stay.”

He’s barely registered he’s said it before he has.

And you pause at his barely uttered words, body freezing as your head turns over your shoulder so your eyes can meet his. You’ve gathered your jacket and bag, the former having only been slipped on over one shoulder.

“Sorry?”

Your voice is light, airy. A warmth to it that still, to this day makes Chifuyu’s heart flutter and his stomach to flood with butterflies because how was it possible you could sound so... inviting? So warm? He feels his insides melt when you talk to him and he just wants to fiddle away into a puddle because he loves hearing your voice so much.

“Stay,” he repeats, forcing down his own nerves and letting the word echo in the silence for a moment before adding; “I’d like you to stay.”

Your bag slips to the floor and you turn, facing Chifuyu properly. “You want me to spend the night?”

He nods, eager.

“Really?”

And there’s bright grin on your face now, slipping off your jacket as you make your way over to him. Chifuyu’s blushing while he nods, still unable to form proper words, face turned beat red at your light teasing, but doesn’t resist when you fall next to him on his bed, giggling.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you admit. “I really didn’t wanna leave.”

Setting a hand on your back, Chifuyu hums; “didn’t want you to leave.”

You giggle, “I’m that great at cuddling, huh?”

And he says so without hesitance, a trace of doubt as he nods down at you; “the best.”

DRAKEN says the words plainly;

“You should just spend the night.”

And the words are so blunt, so matter of fact, that you almost give yourself whiplash as you spin to face him. Wide eyes falling on him as your lips part to say something, but hesitate because you’re not even sure what to say.

Maybe a part of you had hoped he asked, gone super slow while gathering your things, but you hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

“You want me to?” You ask softly, struggling to find your voice.

Draken nods, “of course. It’s about time.”

You were hoping for a little more but still -- was better then nothing.

“The girls won’t mind?”

He shrugs, “they already love you. It just sucks that we’ll mostly have to hang out in here.” He gestures around himself at his bedroom, a slight pout on his lips as he does.

You grin at that, “that’s what we do most of the time when I visit, Kenny.”

“Yeah, I know. Just sucks.”

Leaning forward, you grab Draken’s hand, squeezing it tightly in your own. “You know I don’t care as long as I get to be with you, Ken,” and then, you pause. Unsure. “You’re positive you want me staying? I don’t want to intrude on your--”

“Stupid,” he huffs lightly, the insult teasing as he smirks, “you’re not intruding if it’s you. Plus, I’m the one who asked you to stay.”

“I know,” you nod, “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Come ‘ere,” he urges, ushering you towards him with a wave of his hand. You listen easily, letting yourself fall into his grip as his hand falls to your back, guiding you on top of his chest as he leans back on his bed. The two of you settle in comfortably then, with Draken’s hand resting on your back. “Been wanting to ask ya for a while.”

“Oh,” you mumble, unable to fight the smile on your lips; “yeah?”

“Yeah. Last time you came over, I wanted to. Got too scared though.”

You think back to how heavily Draken had pouted last time you’d come over and eventually, had to leave. It was unlike Draken to act like that, and you remember it both being endearing but entirely too hilarious to not tease him.

Maybe if you hadn’t teased him, he would’ve asked.

“Sorry,” you offer, letting your hand fall on his chest, next to your head.

“Not your fault,” he dismisses easily, “been wanting to ask for a while. Been to chicken-shit. Glad I got the courage this time though. I... I like having you in my arms.”

“I like being in your arms, Kenny.”

HAKKAI is positive he sounds like a bumbling fool.

“Would... Would you...--I mean, you don’t have to but I would like you--don’t feel pressure though--”

Laughing, you shake your head. Making your way over to Hakkai, you set your hands on his arms, looking up at him as he finally stops his rambling to stare down at you. “Calm down,” you soothe gently, “what is it?”

Red in face and feeling entirely like an idiot, Hakkai huffs.

“I wanted to know if you’d... like to spend the night.”

And his voice is so small, so unsure that it almost breaks your heart how nervous he is to ask you something. Let alone something like that.

Something you’d never reject.

So, smiling brightly, you grin, eyes twinkling; “I’d love to.”

He blinks at that, as if having already expected a rejection. The embarrassment wipes from his face as his lips part, staring back at you; “really?”

“Of course,” you laugh, “why wouldn’t I?”

Pausing, Hakkai hesitates at that -- because really, why wouldn’t you? It wasn’t like this was the first time you’ve come over to his house and you guys have been dating long enough for something like this to be more normal...

“I dunno,” he admits finally, “just didn’t want you to think you had to.”

“Well, I don’t,” you shrug, letting your hands fall by your side as you grin up at him. “And I’d love to spend the night. Didn’t wanna go home anyways.”

“Oh?” Hakkai frowns, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

You can’t help but feel giddy at his concern, how despite how embarrassed and nervous he was seconds ago, it all faded away the second he thought something might be wrong. It warmed your heart in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever expected before.

“Everything’s totally fine,” you assure him, “I just wanted to spend more time with you.”

And of course, Hakkai’s face goes beat red, again, at that.

HANMA finds the morphed expression of surprise and indignation on your face absolutely hilarious.

“Shu,” you say, voice firm, “let me go.”

Keeping his arms locked firmly around your waist, Hanma simply shakes his head. It didn’t help that he had such long arms, that of which could easily wrap themselves around you entirely, or the fact that he easily had the strength to keep you there as well.

Glaring up at your boyfriend, you huff; “I need to go home. it’s getting late.”

Hanma just shakes his head, a fact that causes you to growl in annoyance, before he grins wide; “just spend the night.”

Pausing, your entire body freezes in his grasp; “what?”

“I don’t want you to leave, so spend the night.”

And it sinks in then.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

The ever say shit-eating grin on his face, Hanma all but cackles, head thrown back in amusement at the fact that you know him so well. “Of course,” he concedes with ease, “never planned on letting you leave. Even if you want to.”

“That’s kidnapping.”

“You’re my girlfriend.”

“Still kidnapping.”

Quirking a brow, Hanma glances down at you; “you don’t want to spend the night?”

Cheeks warming, you huff; “n-no, I do.” Pouting, you turn your gaze away from him, “you just could’ve asked me first.”

“Y/N/N.”

Turning back to Hanma at the suddenly serious tone of his voice, you pause, concerned.

“Would you like to spend the night?”

Instantly that concern goes right out the window.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“Regrettably.”

But both of you know you don’t really mean that.

MIKEY is absolutely confused when he sees you moving to leave.

“What’re you doing?”

Baffled, you turn to Mikey, head tilted; “getting ready to leave?”

And his words make him frown, that ever familiar pout falling on his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest. He slumps back against his bed like a little kid, and huffs. “I thought you were spending the night.”

It takes you a moment to process what he’s said. And the fact that he says it as if you were the one being crazy here.

Raising a brow, you glance around yourself, trying to collect your thoughts, before turning back to the child you have for a boyfriend. “You never asked me to?”

He just shrugs; “I thought it was obvious.”

“Um, no. It wasn’t.”

He perks up then, as if all was solved now that you knew you just hadn’t (somehow) caught up with the obvious.

“Oh, well, then, perfect.” Turning, he moves to grab the manga the two of you hand been reading together, before facing you once again. “Come on, I wanna see what happens next.”

Shaking your head, you jerk back; “I still need to leave?”

“You’re spending the night,” Mikey says bluntly, “I thought we covered that already.”

“We didn’t,” you huff, letting your bag fall to the ground as you turn to face Mikey fully. “I didn’t bring anything to spend the night and I’ll need to let my mom--”

“Oh, yeah,” Mikey agrees, moving to a stand, letting the manga fall back to the bed behind him. “I’ll get you something to wear and you call your mom, okay?”

He grins at you, pecking your cheek softly before moving to his closet, all whilst you continue to stand there like an idiot.

“Y/N?” Mikey calls after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“Your mom?”

When you glance back at him, he’s staring back at you expectantly.

It still doesn’t click in what exactly happened even as you fall asleep in Mikey’s arms later that night.

#tokrev #tokrev x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers imagines #tokyo revengers x reader #mikey x reader #mikey #draken #draken x reader #manjiro sano #manjiro sano x reader #ken ryuguji #ken ryuguji x reader #chifuyu matsuno x reader #chifuyu matsuno #hanma shuji x reader #hanma shuji #hakkai shiba #hakkai shiba x reader

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