#jesus can you imagine that confrontation

[ennabear]

i beg of you to write more mean abby.. i reread all of ur mean abby works religiously i swear i just love her too much ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

ʕ≧ᴥ≦ʔ NONNIEEEEE STOP THIS JS TOO SWEET!!!! IM BLUSHING IM BLUSHING I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!! sorry this is a lil bit messy, i haven’t really had time to lock in on anything official I HOPE THATS OKAY!!!! here are some thoughts… 18+

i think mean!abby is one of those people who are discreetly rich. she’s not the type of person to go on big fancy vacations, or buy expensive sports cars, or to always have the newest technology. before she met you, she probably spent most of her money on books or expensive brands of tea imported from countries she’s never even heard of. after she met you, though? she’d swipe her card a million times a day to see you smile.

the best way i can describe her personality is like some old cranky grandpa, the scary guy on the block who never smiles but is very confrontational. if you’ve seen her around, you’d know that she’s always wearing a scowl, only leaves her penthouse apartment early to go to the gym, and has beef with most of her neighbors. but if you know know her? she’s a sweetie pie. she loves spontaneous sweet treats, slow dancing to 70’s music, old horror films (mean!abby letterboxd goes CRAZY i just know), and most shockingly, her cats.

and she LOVES those fuckers. it’s so perfect how she can have a companion who’s quiet and small and independent, and two of them? barely any responsibility. they have an automatic feeder, entertain each other, and only bug her about once a day for attention.

as for her job, i could see her having two possibilities. one being an extreme workaholic. maybe an office job or a surgeon or something?? (NOT a nurse because they’re supposed to be good at talking to people…) OR she only really works part time, some freelance job that doesn’t really have any rules. a photographer or a tattoo artist or some sort of small business that she can mostly manage on her own. money has never been an issue for her, coming from a family of doctors. her ass was spoiled rotten as a kid, and after her dad died she inherited all of that money.

she’s the biggest protector in the world. someone was talking shit about you? she’s breaking their nose right now actually. i think the biggest reason she’s “mean” is because she actually just has anxiety. the last time she felt a love this strong, it was for her dad. she can’t afford to lose you like she lost him, so she always has to make sure you’re safe and sound. it’s not like she’s trying to be controlling by texting you every half hour, she just worries that maybe she won’t be able to protect you for once, and it’ll be at the worst possible time.

ok lock in here are some nsfw thoughts :3

you know that trope that’s like “big mean stoic character is actually the subbiest bottomest little puppy in the whole world.” yeah…. if you don’t agree what are you still doing here.

it definitely took her a while to be this vulnerable, but jesus christ is it worth it!!! the way you get to watch her squirm and whimper underneath you, knowing that you’re the only one who can make her feel this way. to give your big protective guard dog girlfriend a night off, to take care of her in return for all that she does for you.

and she lovessss being tied up!!!! something about the intimacy of knowing you’re gonna give her a good time makes her submit to you almost instantly. she has to trust you on this, has sit back and relax and let her brain melt because she physically can’t do anything about it.

when she does dom i imagine she’s a pretty big brat tamer. c’mon, not everyone has the luxury of having a girlfriend like her. if you don’t act grateful she’ll whip you in to shape. literally. she’s not afraid of a good spanking.

also she’s strapped up 24/7 but this is canon in every universe… no matter what she’s doing or where she’s going or who she’s gonna meet, the strap stays ON!!! just in case she may need it….

but she’s the aftercare QUEEN. of course. apart from the basics like food, water, cuddles, etc. she has tonssss of knowledge on proper aftercare. you’d never have to worry about being hurt or getting a uti or feeling unloved because she’s read every forum to exist about aftercare!!! i just know this bitch runs a tumblr kink blog like it’s the military… 🤦

that’s all…. going to eep now……

[lookingformoondrop]

Hiiii! Thanks for writing for tcoal! If you have time can I get a yandere Andrew x reader? Thanks :)

Sure thing~ Once again, it seems highly unlikely that Ashley would let this obsession slide, so for the sake of the story, she's been bliped. Happy (late) Halloween! <3

Yandere! Andrew GravesxReader

TW: Yandere themes, possession, obsession, murder, implied kidnapping, intimidation, stalking, Andrew has a foul mouth (Y/N too), not proofread

♡1,438 WORDS♡

Andrew Graves has a mask.

It's a very well crafted mask that's used to blend in with his peers, his friends, his girlfriends, his parents, and even himself.

It covers the dark parts of Andrew that even himself is too terrified to look at.

For if you look into the abyss, it looks back at you.

But when he met you, swinging back and forth at the playground swing, he could've sworn he heard something crack.

You were beautiful.

As he watched you, with the breeze blowing at your cute overalls and baggy shirt, god, so pretty.

Your smile could open the gates of the heavens. Your laugh could make rainbows last, your tears would be prettier than diamonds, and you in his cage would bring him closer to your hell.

He couldn't help but imagine you as some sort of art. Something valuable that wasn't ever to be touched by another person. Only seen by him, just him.

His mask cracked the more he looked at you.

That day started a life-long obsession.

He would venture to that park a few more times after that, until eventually introducing himself to you. Naive you, who believed him to be a kind and stoic person.

You weren't wrong, but it was your fault for thinking that's all it was.

Even if Andrew never admitted it to himself, the thought of you being his and ONLY his made his heart flutter.

How when you breathed, when you walked, when you spoke, when you laughed, it would all belong to him.

Those thoughts kept him awake at night, even if a light blush would always dust his cheeks.

As time went on, he learned that his dakmfk thoughts that he pushed to the back of his mind would only resurface when a man talked to you. Even a father-figure was enough to put him in a foul mood.

Andrew didn't say anything, but hearing his name come out of your mouth made his blood boil.

"Andy? Are you okay? You've been glaring at the ground even since we walked past Mr. Mancho."

"Why do you even like him? He's so...weird," Mr. Mancho was an innocent looking math teacher, one that always smiled at the students. And yet, Andrew hated the fact he smiled at Y/N...he didn't like that very much.

"Weird? He's been pretty nice to me...," You scratched your chin in deep thought, "do you not like Mr. Mancho?"

Andrew looked up at your doe eyes and heard something crack again,

"...he keeps looking at my things."

Andrew justified his growing hatred.

Even as you shrugged away his weird moods whenever you talked to cousins, friends, and teachers, Andrew never lacked as your friend.

Through every obstacle, he'd be there to help you jump over them. Although he'd complain about jumping in the first place, he'd never leave you.

He'd care about your issues, he'd care for your wounds, and he'd listen to your problems.

Especially when you were bullied.

The keyword here is 'were'.

While in school, a boy had groped you. When confronting him about what happened, his friend group laughed at you, claiming that you were just making shit up for attention.

This had made you cry when you got home.

Something that Andrew instantly knew about...somehow.

"Jesus Y/N, what happened?"

"S- Some boy touched me, and- h-he then said I was just making it up for attention! My friends all believed him a-and I," you broke down in sobs as your day was retold to your best friend.

As you continued to share your day with Andrew, he remained completely silent.

Several times throughout the call, you'd check if he was even still on. Still, when you called out for him, he'd answer with praise for trying to stand up for yourself, no matter what they had said to you.

You didn't know it then, but Andrew was squeezing his pack of cigarettes so hard that by the time he had gotten off the phone with you, they were all broken.

The next week, when you came to school, authorities were there questioning all the students. When they came to you, it was explained that the boy who groped you was killed and stuffed into his parent's basement freezer. Along with his friends, who all mysterious died in the forest, with some sort of satanic pentagon painted beneath their bodies.

You told the police you knew nothing, and all your friends who had doubted you came to you in an instant with apologies.

When you had told Andrew everything that happened he had only said,

"How strange."

As the years went on and you grew older, your friendship with Andrew always stayed strong.

Andrew would never say it, but when he kissed your cheek or patted your head, he was screaming,'I love you.'

But his dark thoughts, the ones he kept far back in his mind, would only double.

"Andy! Guess what happened today?"

"Hah?" Andrew turned his head from his spot on the couch.

"This cute boy at my job said he would love to take me out to dinner sometime!" You smiled brightly at the sly possibility that your bad streak with love would finally be over.

Every guy that ever walked into your life promptly bolted for the door the moment you opened it.

Andrew always told you that those guys just didn't appreciate you enough and that someone who bolted just like that was a quitter. Ashley?

But even then, you never gave up. Despite the long list of guys who ghosted you randomly.

"Oh...you said no, right? "

"What?" You walked over to Andrew from the door of the apartment. "Why would I say no...?"

Andrew looked at you with a dark shadow over his face, "Y/N, there are millions of creeps and perverts that are going to ask you out. They're only leering at you for your body."

You frowned at this notion,

"When you go to your next shift, tell him you don't want to anymore." Andrew thought for a moment and then shook his head.

"What's wrong?"

Andrew looked at your confused eyes.

"Just realized I have to get up early tomorrow to take out the trash."

When you went back to work the next day, he had quit just as suddenly.

Sad and upset over the millionth guy that ghosted and dumped you, you'd sulk to Andrew. Who would always make you warm cup of tea.

"Dumbass, you just keep picking quitters. It's not because of you."

"But Andy, I haven't had a boyfriend in years! At this point I'll die alone, probably with you right there to bury me with my hundreds of cats."

Andrew laughed at that and reached his arm around your shoulder.

"Just wait a little longer Y/N, I'm sure there's some jackass out there waiting for you."

"Yeah, right." You smiled at Andrew, "You're the only jackass I know, though. "

You leaned your head on Andrew's shoulder and began to fall to sleep rather quickly.

"The only...jackass...in my life... Andy, I'm sleepy."

Andrew took a sip of his tea and placed the cup far away from your drink.

"Rest Y/N. When you wake up, you'll have me right there besides you."

"Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, you're my best friend."

Andrew patted your hair as you drifted off to a drug-induced slumber.

"Yes, I'm your best friend," Andrew stared off to the distance as he thought about it.

"Soon, your only friend," He nodded at that statement, "Yes, the only friend you'll ever need."

His mask, although long forgotten, had finally cracked open.

You were his. Like a forbidden piece of art, it belonged to him. He was your painter, and as the painter, he declared you to be covered up. Only his retinas were allowed to peer at you.

It's your fault he went through all this effort to keep you safe. He's obligated as the painter to keep his art safe from dirty influences.

He's mildly disappointed in you whenever you speak to another man, but it's okay. It's his job after all to stalk the said man and hack his tongue off for even going to speak to you.

No matter how many guys he has to threaten, no matter how many people he's had to hack at, no matter how many people he's had to kidnap, it wasn't his fault.

It's yours.

All the blame is on his sweet, naive, poor, Y/N.

Still as innocent the day he found you at the playground.

"Still mine..." He mumbled as he stared at your sleeping face.

"Only mine."

Thanks for the ask!<3

[ihni]

A scenario: a couple of years have passed, they're all adults, and Steve has been noticing Billy for a long time now. Like, yeah, he's there and he's good-looking and cool and sharp and kinda funny actually and smart and secretly caring and -

Point is, since he's secretly watching Billy so much now, he definitely notices that Billy is into men. Because Billy is seen with men, a lot. Different men. And Steve doesn't know what he feels about that but he's feeling something. And so he keeps watching.

And then, of course he notices when there are marks starting to show up on Billy's skin. Bruises. And the way Billy winces at times when he moves, as if in pain. And that paints a very bad picture in Steve's mind, so he either confronts Billy or stages an intervention with his loved ones, and is so earnest and worried when he presents it, like, "We've all seen it, and we know what's going on. You deserve much better than being with someone who hurts you, Billy, you have people who care about you, tell us how we can help."

Meanwhile Billy's watching him (or them) like they've grown mushrooms instead of ears, and is like "What? no one hurts me in a way I don't want and specifically ask for. Jesus, I get beat up by my dad for half my life and no one gives a shit but I have too much kinky sex and suddenly it's a problem ..."

And Steve bluescreens of course because a) whoops, that all makes actually and also b) he's now imagining scenarios which he has previously not entertained and he is very interested.

(And whoever else is there with them are properly horrified of course)

(And yes they hook up later, of course they do, and Steve gains a new appreciative understanding for the marks on Billy's skin)

[wintrwinchestr]

bite the hand

the killer & the sound - chapter 3

summary: you hadn't expected joel to put such an abrupt end to... whatever it is you two had. or, what you thought you had, anyway. you write and perform a new song on the second night of the tour about it, and the consequences aren't quite what you expected them to be. how could something that seemed so simple at first have become so complicated?

warnings: 18+, smut, no outbreak au, no use of y/n, rockstar!joel, aspiring rockstar!reader, d/s dynamics, pretty major daddy kink, age gap (reader is early-mid 20’s, joel is early-mid 50’s), pet names (sweetheart, darlin', baby, babygirl, songbird(!!), etc), big time angst, daddy/mommy issues, religious shame, degradation (joel calls you a whore), spanking, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv sex, manhandling, one (1) kiss, spitting, smoking (reader & other characters), drinking (reader & other characters), getting walked in on, characters who need therapy sooooo badly, lots of internal monologue, let me know if i missed any!!

word count: 13.2k

a/n: as always, thank you so much for your patience and sticking around to see what i put our pookies through this time. these chapters just keep getting longer and longer but it's not my fault they have a lot to say!!!!! if you'd like an idea of what reader's lil diss track sounds like, i very much imagined gibson girl by ethel cain when i wrote it. thank you as always to my best babygirl kiers i love u to death. i hope you like this one, nice comments/reblogs appreciated if you enjoyed!!

series masterlist

read this chapter on ao3

divider by @saradika-graphics

Jesus Christ, what the hell is he doing?

Joel has been in the shower for at least thirty minutes now, and he’s spent more than half of that time just letting the scalding water pound against his back as his vision goes blurry from the steam. He finished his “rinse off” within five minutes of stepping inside the bathroom, and now he’s just stalling, wondering how the fuck he’s supposed to go back out there and get in bed with you.

If it weren’t for the decades’ worth of tattoos that he can see when he looks down at his bare body, he wouldn’t be able to recognize himself right now. He’s always been one to hit it and quit it, love ‘em and leave ‘em, or whatever little figure of speech you want to use for just being a fucking playboy. Since when has he ever cleaned a girl up, given her his clothes to wear, let her sleep over after he fucks her? Though, he has to give himself some credit, it’s not like he was planning on letting you stay. He was just trying to preserve some of your dignity, but then, when did he even decide to start caring about shit like that? 

Fuck.

When the tour bus jerks to life as the driver begins the trip to the next city, the loss of balance is enough to finally snap Joel out of the uncharacteristic morality spiral he’s now found himself in. He rubs his hands across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and cursing under his breath, knowing that he can’t hide in here and avoid you forever. Besides, he’s getting old, and he has to sleep at some point if he wants to be at least a little functional tomorrow. And what is he so fucking scared of, anyway? 

Joel turns off the water, and the knob screeches in protest as the dull roar of the shower fades into silence. He steps out of the stall and hardly makes any effort to dry himself off, solely focused on getting out of there before the fog evaporates from the mirror and he’s forced to confront his own reflection. He shakes out his hair and pulls on a clean pair of briefs, then sends out a silent prayer to whoever the fuck might be listening, begging for help in making it through the night without having to address whatever it is that’s gnawing at his conscience. He didn’t even think he had one of those anymore.

Joel enters the bedroom quietly, hoping that you’d be exhausted enough to have fallen asleep by the time he returned. When you don’t even twitch as he shuts the door behind him and climbs under the covers, he lets out the breath he’d been holding, and lays himself down as close to the edge of the mattress as he can without falling off the damn thing. If he can put as much distance between the two of you as possible tonight, maybe he can make it out the other side unscathed.

Just when he thinks he’s in the clear, having settled himself down with his back to you and situated his silk sheets and pillows to his liking, he feels you roll over in your sleep as you let out some dreamy little whine. Joel likes to keep it cold on the bus, and your shivering form must feel the heat still radiating off of him from his shower, because then you’re wrapping your little arms around his bicep and pulling him close. He wants to shake you loose, to put some extra pillows in between your bodies just for good measure, but he can’t be so cruel. Not when you look like such a goddamn angel, sleeping so peacefully with your hair spread out around you like a halo, long lashes fluttering against your cheeks. He wonders what you’re dreaming about. 

Joel isn’t sure when exactly it happened, but somewhere in between that very first rehearsal and right now, the lines started to blur between a fun little fling he wasn’t going to think twice about letting go of once the tour ended, and something that he wants to sink his claws into and claim as his own. He has to face it now, whether he wants to or not—he can’t get himself to push you away, to growl at you not to touch him and to stay on your own side of the bed, because he doesn’t want to. What he wants is to tattoo his fucking name right underneath that shitty moth on your upper thigh, and therein lies the problem.

He has a history of breaking things, of being too controlling and rough and mean when he plays with his toys, until they fight back and tear themselves apart as they escape his clutches. But you seem like something that can’t be broken, that would glue itself back together just to get played with again the next day, and that sets off some alarms he didn’t know he was capable of hearing. Maybe he does still have a conscience, after all.

At first, Joel had liked how eager and willing and naive you were, how easily he could push and pull you this way and that because you didn’t seem to realize what this was. Or at least, what it was intended to be. Whether you were smart to his intentions or not was never really his concern before, but now… You’re nuzzling your face into his arm, breathing in his scent and letting it soothe you as it coats your senses, and it’s awakening something protective, possessive, in him. Joel has never been good at romance or love or relationships, and he had resigned himself a long time ago to the fact that he’d never be able to settle down. The life he lives can’t sustain something steady or healthy like that anyway, what with the touring and the groupies and the sex and the alcohol. 

But now here you are, this fragile and yet unbreakable thing in his bed who he worries wouldn’t run away no matter how much he growled and bared his teeth. And god dammit, that scares him. Joel had thought he was done being scared, that he had left that feeling behind before you were even born, probably. And yet, here it is creeping up on him again, grabbing him by the throat and suffocating him. You’ve got real talent and beauty, with a promising future and blossoming career ahead of you, and you’d probably give it all up and follow him into the darkness if he promised to call you a good girl once you did.

Joel has never been a very good man, but something about you makes him really have to stare down the barrel of it now. He can’t do this to you, he can’t let you in, and he knows that. He’d poison you, if he hasn’t already. And he can’t give to you what you seem to think this is, what it could be, if he wasn’t so fucking damaged. So he decides it then, as he doesn’t stop his hand from brushing a stray strand of your halo out of your delicate face, that he has to put a stop to this first thing in the morning. And he has to be cold and concise about it, so that you’re perfectly clear on what the two of you are going to be from now on, even if it hurts you. You’re a big girl, and he trusts that you’ll get over it somehow, because letting this continue would hurt you a hell of a lot worse, in the end.

And you seemed to have taken it well, all things considered. He didn’t tell you the whole truth, the real reason why he decided to yank the arrow out of your heart when he was the one who shot it in there in the first place. Because then you’d know that he’s a broken man who also breaks things, and he can only shatter so many of your illusions about him in one morning. He knows this is his fault, and he was at least man enough to take the blame, he can give himself that. He had decided to paint himself as an actually respectable person who knows when he’s taken something too far, who definitely does have a conscience. Maybe you’re the one who lured it out of the dark cave it was hiding in, but he still can’t risk anything, on the off chance that he still is the same mangled man he always was and the one he will continue to be. So he lies to you, just a little bit, because what you don’t know won’t hurt you, and he can’t let you come any closer for fear of causing even more pain than he already has. 

Joel watched as your bare legs carried you out of the living area and off of his bus, the tops of your thighs just barely concealed by his shirt he had lent you the night before. He didn’t react when you slammed the door on your way out, he had expected you to do as much. But he did half-expect you to turn around and spit a fuck you, Joel at him the way he would have deserved. It might have hurt less if you did, that way you would have left a sour taste in his mouth to replace the still-lingering flavor of your pussy mixed with the cum he had spilled inside you last night. 

God, he is so fucked.

—

You had made sure to thank the audio technicians before you disappeared from the venue after your sound check, but otherwise avoided looking at or speaking to anyone on your way out. Especially him. You had held Angel close as you swiftly made your way back to your bus before Death’s Head had a chance to take the stage for their turn, not wanting to hear any more of Joel’s voice than you’ve had to today. Besides, it’s already been looping like a skipping record in your mind since this morning, refusing to let up no matter how hard you try to drown it out. 

Mistake, respect, and professional are the choice words that are chanting themselves over and over again, so many times that they almost don’t sound real anymore, just a random sequence of letters and noises that you can’t make sense of. What happened last night didn’t feel like a mistake to you, especially not when he was so gentle in cleaning you up afterwards, when he brought you a glass of water, when he let you curl up against him in his bed, wearing his clothes. He sure as hell had plenty of time to decide that you were worthy of respect before he had you act like a whore on stage in front of tens of thousands of people for his own sick pleasure. (And apparently yours, but that’s not the point.) And now you’re supposed to believe that he suddenly had a change of heart overnight, that splitting you open on his cock and using your body to get what he wanted made him finally develop a moral compass and decide that he wants to start acting like a professional? Damn, maybe you are more powerful than you thought. 

You just can’t believe you were stupid enough to let yourself feel something for him. He was just playing you like his guitar this entire fucking time, a pretty instrument that he can pluck and strum and draw pretty noises from, then put away without a second thought. He’s a celebrity, a rockstar, for fuck’s sake. Half of his songs are about sex, and if the rumors are true, he recorded the original intro to Kiss it Better while he was hooking up with some groupie in a bathroom. Just like you, he had probably used her to get what he wanted, then dropped her like it was nothing. Of course he never fucking cared about you. 

You should burn the clothes that he sent you scurrying back to your bus wearing this morning. They’re currently shoved into the bottom of your plain-looking laundry bag in the corner of your room, though you’re half tempted to just toss the whole thing into the dumpster behind the venue and set it ablaze. But you know he doesn’t care about material things as much as he does his ego, and it’s going to be much more satisfying to set that on fire than some worn-out pieces of clothing, anyway. Destroying them also wouldn’t do anything about the way you keep catching an inhale of his cologne every once in a while, the masculine smell of it wafting from his t-shirt and carving out an undesired space for itself in your brain. You try to ignore the way your cunt flutters against your will at the scent, at the memories it conjures, and hope that she doesn’t develop a habit of betraying you like this when it comes to him. She almost gets the better of you, tempting you to second guess your plan to perform your scathing new song at the end of your set tonight.

Almost.

You’re feeling good about what you wrote, and you’d be even more upset with yourself if you backed out now, if you gave in to Joel once again, without him even knowing it this time. He seems to think that he knows you better than you know yourself, that he can make decisions for you and that he always knows just what to say to get you to do as he asks. For once, you want him to be fucking wrong about you.

The show starts in just under an hour, and you’re dedicating your last bit of quiet solitude to solidifying the new words and the motions of your fingers in your memory. While you were scribbling in your notepad earlier today, you had tried to ride the fine line between calling him out so blatantly and using descriptions that were too clichéd, and you’re happy with the in-between that you landed on. The song could be about anyone, but it isn’t, and if the shoe fits when he tries it on, oh fucking well. Plenty of men wear the same size, and if he wants to make yet another thing about himself, that’s not your problem.

Ideally, you had wanted to include the song in your sound check so that your band would be prepared for tonight, until you had let your eyes drift to the side of the stage and saw Joel observing in the darkness, just like he had done while you were performing the night before. You suppose it wouldn’t be very professional of him to avoid you like the plague the way you’re trying to do with him, but still. You had averted your eyes as quickly as you had spotted him, and decided that the song was just going to have to be a surprise for everyone, not just Joel. Your band members are smart enough guys, you’re sure they’ll be able to catch on and back you up when it’s time to unveil what you had been working on all day. But if they don’t, you’re prepared for it to just be you and Angel up there, the same way it has been for as long as you’ve been making music. Until recently, at least.

You’ve opted to get yourself dressed and ready in the safety of your bus, attempting to avoid a repeat of last night’s pre-show interactions with Joel by minimizing the amount of time you actually have to spend inside the venue. You doubt he’ll try anything, but considering how unafraid he was to volunteer himself as a witness to your sound check, you’d rather not risk it. So, you do your best to keep your distance as you make your way off the bus and to the side of the stage with Angel in tow, hoping that your viscous aura alone will be enough to keep him away. 

Your band members are already waiting for you in the wings when you get there, and you tuck yourself safely behind the group of them as you wait for the lights to go down. You ghost your fingers along Angel’s strings one last time, just to make sure that your muscle memory is securely locked into place—it is, because you’re fucking good at this. You don’t need Joel’s whispered praises and soothing touches to know that you’re a star, and you don’t want them. You don’t. You fucking killed it last night, and you knew it before he told you so, because your ears were still ringing long after the audience had finished applauding and screaming for you. For your own performance, not for the on-stage degradation you endured because of a dumb teenage crush you couldn’t seem to shake off.

If your timing is right, you should’ve gone on a few minutes ago now. Each passing minute has you gnawing at your bottom lip and picking at your nails with increasing intensity as you and the audience both become more restless. You aren’t sure what the hold up is, but you just want to get out there and safely away from the possibility of Joel before you make one of your goddamn fingers bleed. You’re so consumed in your destructive self-soothing that you don’t hear the sound of jingling chains and creaking leather approaching you where you stand, followed by a clearing throat and the last voice you want to fucking hear right now.

“Tommy told me they’re jus’ tryin’ to fix a light or somethin’. Shouldn’t be too much longer now,” Joel says, and you stiffen as he speaks. He sounds earnest in the way he addresses the group of you, but the feeling of his gaze lingering on your skin tells you his true intentions.

Your bandmates hum in acknowledgement as they maintain their casual demeanors, while you shift your jaw and remain steadfast in your stoicism. Your face is calm and concentrated, but your fidgeting hands tell a different story, and the telltale habit is most of what prompted Joel to come over here against his better judgment. He so badly wants to take your hands in his so that you’ll stop tearing at your skin, to massage the worry right out of your palms and tell you there’s nothing to be nervous about, just like he did last night. Though, you’d probably bite his goddamn fingers clean off if he even so much as reached out a hand in your direction, and he wouldn’t entirely blame you if you did, considering that he’s more than likely the reason for your agitation.

Instead, he settles for asking, in as neutral of a tone as possible, “You okay, darlin’?”

Your gaze remains focused on the stage, on the mic you should be standing behind right now, if it weren’t for some stupid fucking light. After a pointed beat, you answer him with a short, “I’m fine.”

You can see in your peripheral vision that Joel nods and shifts his weight, moving a little further behind your band and closer to you. He lets a matching bit of silence pass, for some reason not using the opportunity to just turn around and walk away, before speaking again. “Quit messin’ with your fingers.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you snap, whipping your head to finally face him. You peer up at Joel from under your eyebrows, putting on a stony face and doing your best to look intimidating even as he towers over you. Despite your efforts, your heart still flutters for just a second when your eyes meet, before he drops his own gaze to the floor and takes a step back from you.

“That how this is gonna be?” Joel asks, and you could swear he sounds a little defeated.

“Yeah, it is.”

You turn yourself back to the stage again, and he takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself and suppress a reaction to your attitude that he might regret.

“Look, can we–” he starts, but a sudden burst of screams and hollers cuts him off as the venue lights finally dim. You push past your bandmates and stomp your way towards the stage, feeling volatile and as determined as you’ve ever fucking been to give a killer performance tonight. You could’ve spit some real fire at him, told him to leave you the fuck alone like you had been so tempted to, but you didn’t want to scare him off. You don’t even need to check to know that he’s still standing exactly where you left him, and that he’ll probably stay there and watch you the whole time because he doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, apparently. Maybe you should bring him onstage for his public humiliation the same way he did to you, see how he likes it. But you have a little more humanity than he does, and if it all works out, he’ll have to watch you tear him down surrounded by his own bandmates and brother, and that’s gratifying enough for you.

When you and your band have all taken your places, you introduce yourself to tonight’s crowd with a newfound vigor, and begin your set with a chord so resonant it vibrates your bones. The sound surrounds you, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking loose the wallflower version of you who performed these same songs just last night. It feels like a metamorphosis, like the moths that adorn the strap slung around your body and the one etched into your skin finally belong to you instead of him.

—

You sail through your set, never stumbling over a chord or missing a lyric, even in your anticipation to reach the end. While you thank the crowd and wait for their roaring cheers to die down, you finally chance a look at the side of the stage. Just as you had predicted before you went on, Joel’s silver-tipped boots are still planted in the same place they were thirty minutes ago. Perfect.

“Y’all have been amazing tonight, this was so much fun,” you pant into the mic. “I, uh… I actually have one more song before I go, if that’s alright. Just wrote it this morning.”

Another wave of whistles and applause engulfs you as you turn to check on your bandmates, who all wear confused expressions as expected. You step back from the mic to tell each of the guys the key and tempo of what you wrote, and ask if they can maintain something steady and follow along while you carry the melody. When they’ve all gotten the plan, they look at each other and wordlessly communicate a final decision, seeming to be up to the challenge. 

You resume your place at the front of the stage, taking one last look at your victim before beginning to strum the song’s now-familiar echoing intro. The tone is a little Western, and you wrote it that way on purpose, just as an extra hidden jab toward the obnoxious midnight cowboy persona Joel had first lured you in with. Your haunting voice comes in a few measures later, singing lyrics that are unlike anything you’ve written before. They’re darker, more graphic, and they tell the story of a girl and a cold-blooded man covered in leather and tattoos, who got her alone one night and ripped her clothes off and whispered things he didn’t mean while he fucked her. And after everything was said and done, the girl had lied to herself, replaying everything that had happened between her and the cold-blooded man that night, convincing herself that because it felt good, because he was good to her, that it had meant something. She had bared her body and soul to him, only to find out that he had also been lying to her that night, playing with her like a doll who didn’t know any better, who was just happy to get looked at and touched and praised by someone she had once held on such a high pedestal. You let the lights embrace you and warm your skin as you bare yourself once again, trusting this time that it won’t end in shame or hurt or tears. 

When the buildup of your lyrics and chords finally culminate in the song’s cathartic crash, the first thing you feel is relief, like a crushing weight has been lifted off your heart. The crowd’s enthusiastic response to your creation surrounds you, filling your ears and infiltrating your soul, and you can’t help but laugh at the overwhelming feeling. You gesture behind you for your band to meet you at the front of the stage, and you all bow together to another round of raucous cheering before making your way offstage. This time, you do remember to leave Angel behind, satisfied in what the two of you accomplished tonight.

You’re still reveling in the rush of your performance by the time you’re shrouded in the backstage darkness once again, so caught up in the feeling that you nearly forget what your moment of spontaneity was for in the first place. Or rather, who it was for. You didn’t have enough wherewithal to check if Joel would still be lying in wait once you exited the stage, mostly assuming that his ego would get the best of him and he’d just huff his way out to the buses for a smoke once he realized what you were doing.

You assumed wrong.

Before your eyes even have a chance to adjust to the change in lighting, a calloused hand is gripped tight onto your upper arm, dragging you deeper backstage as you exclaim in protest and try to snatch your arm out of the iron hold that traps it.

“What the—Joel?! Get the fuck off me! What are you–”

“Will you fuckin’ quiet down?” Joel hisses next to your ear. “Quit makin’ a goddamn scene, already made enough of one as it is.”

Despite your struggle against him, his size and strength overpower you, and before you know it you’re being shoved into a dressing room, the door getting slammed shut and locked behind you in a second.

“What the fuck, Joel?” you shout up at him as he backs you into the door, finally letting go of your arm to loom over you and brace one of his hands next to your head.

“I can ask you the same goddamn thing. What the fuck was that out there, hm?” He spits back at you.

You massage the aching finger-shaped marks on your skin where he had gripped you, eyeing him with an annoyed expression. “It was just a song, what is your fucking problem?”

He scoffs, rolling his neck as his brows twitch in disbelief. “Just a song, right. Everybody knew that shit was about me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, both from the anxiety of being confronted like this and the aggravation caused by his egomaniacal tendencies. “You are so fucking self-centered, it’s insane. It could’ve been about anyone—”

“But it wasn’t, huh?” Joel interrupts. “Who else do they know that has a filthy title inked into his hand, as you put it. Gimme a break, sweetheart. As if that same title didn’t have you soakin’ your fuckin’ panties for me last night.”

You hate that you can feel your cunt flutter in response to his words. “Whatever, will you just let me go? This isn’t very professional of you, locking me in your goddamn dressing room just so you can throw a fit,” you retort.

Realization flashes across his face as he steps back from you, breathing a heavy sigh. “Professional…” he speaks quietly, testing out the word, searching for the meaning behind why you had used it so pointedly. “Jesus Christ, is that what this is about? You are such a goddamn child, you know that?”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, crossing your arms now that he’s given you the room to do so. “Didn’t seem to think of me that way last night. I’m a big girl, I can do what I want, why do you care so much if I wrote a stupid song about you?”

Joel shuts his eyes, scrunching up his face like he’s fighting against what he wants to say next. “Because, fuck—This ain’t what I wanted, okay? Said I wanted to keep it professional between us, not that I wanted you to make a goddamn fool outta me in front’a God and everybody.”

“Well, what do you want?” You push, stepping into his space as your blood begins to boil over. “Because I thought you fucking cared about me, and then you just told me to get lost this morning, like none of it meant anything to you—”

“Of course it fuckin’ meant somethin’ to me, Jesus Christ.” Joel says, so breathlessly it’s like the words escape his mouth before he can catch them. “Did this for your own goddamn good—”

“Oh, for my own good?”

“Yes, for your own good. Because I know what you want this to be, and I can’t give that to you, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Joel doesn’t answer, but he shifts his jaw like he considers it, and lets your angered breathing fill the silence.

“Huh?” You provoke, hitting your palms against his broad chest once. Your push hardly does anything to knock him off his balance, but you swear it makes his eyes darken. “Why not?” You demand a second time.

You can tell he wants to bite back, but he suppresses the instinct, instead backing away from you as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Y’ know what, I ain’t gonna do this with you right now. We can talk about this later.”

Joel makes for the exit, but you dart in front of the door handle, feet planted firmly on the ground as you block his only way out. You grit your teeth as you stare up at him, daring him to either do something about it or finish what he started.

He takes another steadying breath. “Really ain’t helpin’ your case much right about now. I suggest you move, sweetheart.” His voice registers a somewhat eerie calm, the kind that a storm usually follows.

“You don’t get to back out of this.”

“Ain’t backin’ out. Said we’re gonna talk about it later. Move.”

You stare at each other in strained silence for a few moments, neither of you in the mood to give in to the other. You doubt that you’re about to bear witness to the first time Joel has ever submitted to someone else, so you slide away from the door, making a vow to yourself to find him after the show and force him to make good on his word.

“‘S what I thought,” he huffs, unlocking the door and slinking out into the hallway. He holds his head a little too high for someone too scared to tell you how he feels, like it’ll eat him alive if he admits to anyone that he really does have a heart.

You step out of the room and watch him walk, waiting until he gets a few paces away from you to grumble under your breath, “Self-centered and a fucking coward.”

Either Joel wasn’t as far out of earshot as you had thought, or the angry thudding of your pulse inside your head had made it difficult to tell just how loud you had said your little dig. He stops in his tracks, giving you a second to sweat before turning around to face you. “What was that?” he asks, but you already know he had heard you loud and clear. He begins to stalk towards you, and that predatory sway of his shoulders has you suddenly feeling meek.

“N-nothing,” you lie, backing into the dressing room as he continues his prowl.

“Nah, go ahead. You wanna do this right now, we’ll do it right now. What’d you say, baby? C’mon.” Joel’s movement forces you backward until the base of your spine hits the edge of the vanity table in the room. You wince at the impact and the sound of the door slamming shut again, and then he’s bracing both of his hands on either side of your hips, caging you in. Joel’s hot breath ghosts against your face as his eyes seem to glow a fiery shade you’ve never seen before. “Say it again.”

You swallow hard, nervous eyes flitting around his face, unsure of the safest place to land, or if there even is one. “Called you a coward…” you admit softly, voice trembling.

“Yeah? I’m a fuckin’ coward? What else, hm? Why don’t you use your big girl words and say to my face what you really wanted to say about me out there instead o’ that bullshit lil’ poem you wrote.” He’s just being mean now, lashing out because you hit him where it hurts. But god fucking dammit, there’s something about the way he’s standing over you, how he’s using his size to intimidate you and how the smell of his cologne mingles with the fading aroma of his last cigarette, that begins to cloud your judgment. You can’t help the way a dampness begins to bloom between your thighs as a result of his demeaning words and close proximity.

You figure you don’t have much of a reason to hold anything back anymore, already having pissed him off by threatening his ego twice in one night. “I hate you,” you rasp, which is pretty much what the lyrics of your song boil down to. You do hate him, for saying all the right things and touching you all the right ways to make you think he wanted the two of you to be something, only to throw your naivety in your face, tell you that you’re acting like a child when he’s the one who tried to give up and walk out when something became more complicated than he could handle.

“Yeah, I bet you do. Think you can do better than that, though, huh? Sure had plenty to say earlier, don’t get all shy on me now, sweetheart.” He spits the pet name at you like it’s an insult, coated in the venom dripping from his sharp canines.

“Fuck you,” you snap, eyes welling up and threatening to spill over despite yourself.

Joel spins you around as soon as the words leave your lips, pinning your wrists behind your back with just one of his hands, using the other one to grip your jaw and make you face your own reflection in the vanity mirror. You shut your eyes tightly, not wanting to confront what he’s reduced you to, and he allows you to keep them that way for now.

“You want me to? That why you’re all fired up, ‘cause you need Daddy to fuck this bratty ass attitude outta you?” Joel rumbles next to your ear.

You struggle to shake your head in his hold, mumbling, “No, I don’t.”

“No? So if I reach my hand under this lil’ dress, I ain’t gonna feel that pretty pussy drippin’ for me?”

You aren’t sure why you bother lying to him again, humming an mm-mm that sounds more like a whimper.

“Hmm, let’s see about that, then,” Joel muses, releasing your face from his hold to bend you forward and flip up the skirt of your dress. “Would you look at that… panties are ‘bout fuckin’ soaked through, ain’t they?” You whine as he begins to rub your folds over your underwear, pulling back the crotch of them and letting it go so that you can feel the damp snap of the fabric against your sensitive skin. “Thought you were such a good girl… you like it a lil’ mean, hm? ‘S that why you pulled that stunt tonight, to get Daddy all worked up so he’d treat you the way you really been wantin’?”

You feel a stinging smack on your ass before you’ve even finished muttering a complete No. Joel’s rough hand does nothing to soothe the burn as he rubs it around your smarted flesh, squeezing at the plush of your ass with a possessive grip. “Had just about enough of you lyin’ to me tonight. Why don’t you tell me the goddamn truth and I’ll give you what you want, hm? Gonna ask one more time. You want Daddy to beat up this lil’ brat pussy?” He asks, moving his hand back to the wet fabric of your panties, circling your clit over the material with the pad of his finger.

You can’t help but moan at his crude language, releasing another pulse of wetness in response. “Mmh, yes, please—” you mewl.

“Open your fuckin’ eyes,” Joel barks, and it startles you into obedience. “Yes, who?” he challenges, making eye contact with your reflection in the mirror.

He continues his ministrations over your covered clit, and you force your brain to work through the distraction, to give him what he wants and not earn yourself another spank.

“Y-yes, Daddy, I want it,” you admit, your voice drenched in a pathetic need. 

Joel swiftly yanks your panties to the side, practically tearing them clean off your body with one hand in an effort to expose your swollen core to him, not daring to release your aching wrists from the other one’s hold. He circles your dripping entrance with the rough tips of two of his fingers, not pushing all the way inside just yet.

“Think you owe me a goddamn apology first, hm?” he taunts, using his fingers to smear your ashamed slick around your entrance.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry–” you whine, pushing back into him impatiently.

Smack. “For what, baby? What’re you sorry for?” Joel presses, his harsh spank telling you to stay fuckin’ still. 

“For… for writing that song… for calling you a c-coward… ‘m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry–” you cry. He shoves both of his thick fingers inside you as your reward, carving out space for them inside your little hole as he starts up a bruising pace, the obscene wet sounds of his movements filling the room and mingling with your broken little wails. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does, getting ordered around and talked down to and used like this by someone you said you hated only a few minutes ago, but you don’t really care to unpack that right now. Or ever. Maybe you were naive and immature in thinking that this thing you’ve gotten yourself into could ever pan out like what you’ve seen in the movies, but you think you could learn to be content with what he is willing to offer you—praise doled out as easily as he deprives you of it, a firm hand and fingers that can strum along your clit as expertly as he does the strings of his guitar, and a cock that makes you feel like someone else entirely, that can send you somewhere far away and bring you back down to earth at the same time. You let him use his fingers to pound all that angst and fire and attitude out of you as your eyelids flutter shut again, losing yourself in the feeling of him.

“How many times I gotta tell you, huh? Keep ‘em open, look, baby,” Joel commands, letting go of your wrists to deliver a light smack to the side of your face. You fall forward at the sudden release of his hold, catching yourself on the vanity table and digging your nails into the hard surface to ground yourself. His punishing hand forces your gaze straight ahead with a claw-like grip on your jaw, and your eyelids still feel so heavy, everything moving slowly as you look at yourself in the mirror. Your parted lips, smeared mascara, and unfocused gaze paint a debauched version of yourself that you don’t recognize, blurred by the sleepy submissive state he seems to be able to plunge you into so easily. “Take a good goddamn look in the mirror, at what I’m doin’ to you, and you tell me if you really want this.”

Every sharp thrust of his hand against your cunt knocks loose more and more of your ability to think, let alone speak. But you know by now that if Joel demands a response from you, he’ll get one, coherent or not. He seems to like it when your words come out a ruined mess of whines and slurred syllables, anyway, getting off on how hard and fast he can knock down those walls you attempt to put up and turn you into something so servile and saccharine.

“Want it, please, Daddy,” you beg, struggling to hold yourself up as his fingers get you closer and closer to your release.

“You sure about that? ‘Cause this is what you’re gonna get, sweetheart,” Joel grunts, the exaggerated word punctuated by the stretch of a third finger joining the other two inside your already fucked-out cunt.

“D-don’t care, just want you—ah—” you’re cut off by the sudden stroking of Joel’s curled fingers against a particularly tender and unfamiliar spot inside you. You begin to unravel at the overwhelming feeling, letting out little wanton pleases and Daddys as you continue to soak his tattooed hand.

“Fuck, gonna be the goddamn death o’ me, lil’ songbird, you know that? Tried to stop this shit before it could get started, tried to keep you away from me, but I just can’t seem to fuckin’ help myself, can I? We’d be nothin’ but bad for each other, but—shit—been thinkin’ ‘bout this tight cunt all goddamn day, couldn’t get the taste o’ you outta my mouth. Reckon I never will… In fact—” Joel pulls his fingers out of you in an instant, and you cry out from the sudden loss as you watch him suck them clean in the mirror. You feel dizzy, letting him manhandle you as he spins you around to face him and hoists you on top of the vanity table with little effort. He groans as he crouches, pulling your drenched panties down your legs and tossing them somewhere behind him. With your raw-looking cunt now fully exposed to him, he spreads your legs wide and curses under his breath, “Should’a done this shit last night, fuck—” before diving in between your thighs and licking a long stripe from your entrance to your swollen clit. He latches onto the sensitive nub, closing his eyes and sucking hard as his large hands force your legs to stay open. You let your upper back rest against the mirror as he works you over, and the cool glass sends a shiver down your spine as your hips tilt upward, allowing him better access.

He drinks from you as if you taste like his favorite top-shelf whiskey, growling into your flesh as he’s surely leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on the softness of your thighs. He alternates between swirling his tongue around your clit and fucking it in and out of your hole, beckoning you to spill yourself into his mouth. He savors every wave of slick that pours from you, each of your little cries and whimpers making his cock strain harder against the confines of his jeans. 

You can’t help but let one of your hands drift to his hair, and he doesn’t stop you from grabbing onto his messy curls as you buck pathetically against his tongue. 

“Such a sweet lil’ cunt, got me fuckin’ addicted to it, I swear…” Joel half-whispers, rubbing his thumb in circles around your clit to make up for the absence of his tongue as he speaks, your hips still desperately chasing after his movements. He spits onto your folds once, watching it drip between the curves of them for a moment before lapping up your combined juices and picking up where he left off. Your eyes are shut tight, brows peaked with need as you beg him to keep going, please, Daddy, gonna come.

Joel pulls away again just enough to tease, “Always come for me so easily, don’t you? Sing for me, songbird, c’mon.” A few more rough strums of his thumb and pulses of his tongue have you crying out, shaking where you sit on the table as you gush into his waiting mouth. Joel works you through it as you practically ride his face, your hips twitching with each overstimulating flick of his tongue over your sensitive clit.

He doesn’t wait very long for you to come back into yourself, the impatient bastard that he is, before he’s commanding you to open and using his strong fingers to yank your jaw downward. Your eyes blink open just in time to watch him spit a mouthful of your own release onto your waiting tongue, and then he’s pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss, tongues twisting around each other as he forces you to taste yourself. So immersed in the distraction of finally feeling his lips against your own, you don’t notice when he loosens his grip on your face to grab one of your hands instead, placing it on his still-clothed bulge and growling into your mouth as you massage the hard shape of him.

“Feel what you do to me, babygirl?” Joel breaks the kiss to ask, voice low and eyes dark. “Even if I kept you away from me, wouldn’t fuckin’ matter. Still have to take care o’ myself one way or another, would just be pretendin’ it was your perfect cunt squeezin’ me instead o’ my hand, anyway. Might as well stick to the real thing, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree, lashes fluttering at his filthy words.

“Yeah? You want it? Want Daddy to split you open again?”

Your skin is burning hot, every one of your nerve endings on fire with need, and you don’t care how pitiful you sound when you answer with, “Please, Daddy.”

“Good girl,” Joel praises. He makes quick work of ridding himself of his belt, tossing it aside to join your discarded panties on the floor with a metallic thud before freeing his leaking cock from his jeans. He prods the thick head at your entrance, still so wet and stretched out from the earlier efforts of his fingers and tongue that he slides inside with hardly any resistance. “Greedy thing…” he hisses, holding onto your hips as he watches his thick length begin to slide in and out of you. A flash of silver catches his attention from the edge of his vision, and he focuses there instead, on the cross shaped charm dangling from your neck and resting between your breasts. He picks it up between his large thumb and forefinger, rubbing the pads of them along the smooth metal. “Probably shouldn’t be wearin’ such a thing anymore, hm? Now that I know how much of a whore you really are.”

“Not… ‘m not a whore,” you counter, but it’s so futile, meaning nothing at all when you really take a look at where you are now, how it all began, and how your voice cracks in your poor attempt to prove him wrong.

“Y’ are, though, songbird. ‘S okay that you are. Only for me though, huh? Jus’ Daddy’s whore? All mine?” Joel drops the cross in favor of cradling your cheek, hurrying his pace as he taunts you. There’s no use in denying it, not when his degrading words prompt your cunt to squeeze around him and provide more slick aid for his quickening thrusts, an involuntary whine escaping your throat. You’re seeing such a different side to him now than the one he showed you the night before, and you begin to wonder which one is the real Joel, or if either of them are, or if both of them are, somehow. Or if he even knows. You’re willing to take whichever one he decides to let you have, you think.

“Y-your whore, Daddy… wanna be yours, please,” you babble, his cock hitting you deep and hard as you let him fuck you so dumb you allow yourself to just give in and agree to whatever he says you are, whatever he wants you to be, just the way he likes.

“Fuck,” Joel curses through gritted teeth, removing his hand from your face and to grip onto the plush of your hip again. Your pliant state and filthy admission combined with that sinful symbol around your neck spur him on, and he uses his hold on your skin to fuck into you with abandon. “Really would just let me ruin you, huh? Tried to be a decent man for once in my goddamn life, but you just had to be a fuckin’ brat about it and start some shit, didn’t you? If you don’t want me decent, tha’s fine by me, baby. But lemme make somethin’ real goddamn clear to you,” he rambles, each slam of his hips into yours getting you closer to release for the second time. He delivers another sharp slap to your cheek with a You listenin’? and you nod to the best of your ability, finding it impossible to focus your eyes on him as that knot in your stomach begins to tighten.

“You want this, you wanna be mine, you can be mine, babygirl. Lord knows I’d find my way right back inside this sinful lil’ cunt, anyway. But this ain’t gonna be a fuckin’ relationship, you understand? Take it or leave it, songbird.” He slows his thrusts as he spells out his ultimatum, but they still make you ache, all the same. His fiery gaze bores a hole straight through your skull as he awaits your response.

“Take it, w-wanna take it, Daddy.” The desperation in your voice and painted across your expression have him returning to his punitive pace, grunting and swearing into the warm skin of your neck as your hands scramble across his back, pulling yourself into him and burying your face into his shoulder. His thick leather jacket helps to muffle your cries as he loses all control, using your body to chase after his own high.

“Course you’re gonna take it, filthy thing. Made to fuckin’ take it, Christ,” Joel rambles, your vocalizations increasing in pitch as you squeeze around him, whole body tensing as your sore pussy prepares to drench him one more time. “So goddamn desperate… Just take whatever I give you, however I wanna give it to you, always have you comin’ on my cock just the same, huh? Go on, babygirl, come for Daddy again, tha’s right…”

With his permission, and a few more just-right strokes of his tip against that sweet spot deep inside your walls, you’re spasming in his hold, whining that filthy title you had just used against him less than an hour ago. He spills his release into you at the same time, and despite the way he’s treated you and the words he’s spat at you tonight, it makes you feel whole again.

You breathe heavily against each other for a few minutes, neither of you wanting to let go as you both struggle to process what the hell just happened, what it will mean for the remainder of the tour. 

A sudden knock at the door quickly yanks you out of your thoughts, offering a taste of what the future may hold much earlier than you were expecting.

“Joel? You in there?” a voice asks from outside the dressing room.

“Huh…? Yeah, just gimme a–”

The door opens before Joel can finish answering, and you can see clear as day over his shoulder that it’s Jesse.

He claps his hand over his eyes when he notices you, but you can still see how his cheeks burn red under his fingers as he shifts where he stands, undoubtedly trying to come up with the least mortifying way to get himself out of this situation.

“Jesus, kid–” Joel grumbles, finally pulling out of you and shoving his still-slick cock back into his briefs. He zips himself up as you tug the skirt of your dress back down to cover yourself, still feeling much more exposed than you’d like as you eye your forgotten panties laying just a few feet from where Jesse stands.

“Sorry! Sorry, Joel. It’s just, uh—”

Joel turns to face him as he finishes adjusting himself, and you’re thankful that he doesn’t walk away from you completely, using his broad form to provide you with what little modesty he can afford under the circumstances. “What, Jess?” he barks, exasperated.

“Um… The guys asked me to come find you, we’re on in like a minute—” 

“Well, tell ‘em to hold their fuckin’ horses. I’m comin,” Joel orders.

“A-alright, I will, man. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you out there.” 

Jesse leaves the room as hurriedly as he had entered, nervously fumbling with the handle as he shuts the door on his way out. “That kid ever learn how to fuckin’ knock?” Joel mutters to himself, picking his belt up off the floor and looping it back around his waist. He retrieves your ruined panties when he’s done and casually tosses them over to you, a stark contrast from the attentive aftercare he had provided last night. You slide off the vanity table and tug them back on over your legs, shivering at the feeling of the cool, damp fabric against where you’re so sensitive and sore, still leaking Joel’s spend. You fidget with the hem of your dress and try to ignore the way your heart sinks into your stomach, wondering what Jesse must think of you now. You haven’t really spoken to him at all since this whole thing started, and you doubt you ever will after what happened tonight. Of course, he’d had a front row seat to your obscene little performance during Kiss it Better, but it was all just an act, as far as he knew. But he has more than enough confirmation now to know that it very much wasn’t, and the humiliation of it all makes your anxious imagination begin to run wild. Your bottom lip quivers at the thought of Jesse running straight back to the guys with a shit-eating look on his face, eager to tell them all about how he just saw their opening act with her legs spread for Joel in his dressing room. Images flash through your mind of the band you’ve looked up to for so long now shooting you dirty looks backstage and whispering about you amongst themselves, sharing their doubts about if you really deserve to be touring with them at all. Maybe they’d call you easy, say that you’re just another dumb slut who gave it up for the first rockstar who asked, that your career will be doomed unless you grow up and learn to respect yourself a little more. And maybe they’d be right.

You can’t stop a few hot tears from rolling down your cheek at your catastrophizing, but you wipe them away quickly. This is what you asked for, isn’t it? Joel had given you an opportunity to leave this where he had ended it, and you were the one who had begged to be his, even after he showed you what it would look like, and told you explicitly what it would never be. You pull your shoulders back and make an effort to stand up a little straighter as he addresses you again, not wanting to look like some pathetic, defeated thing.

“You good? Need anythin’?” Joel asks, and it would be kind of sweet if he weren’t halfway out the door already. 

You sniffle a little, but try to feign nonchalance as you shake your head and reply, “No, ‘m fine.”

You must not do a very good job of it, because he’s craning his neck to look down the hallway as soon as you finish your sentence, like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. “Don’t worry ‘bout him,” Joel says to you, giving an annoyed shake of his head. “If he knows what’s good for him he’ll go to his grave swearin’ he didn’t see anything. Kid knows better,” he reassures, and it does help to slow the unspooling of your thoughts some. 

“Okay,” is all you offer, along with a small smile.

Joel nods curtly, “Okay.” And after another beat and a rake of his eyes along your form, “I’ll see ya, songbird.”

He’s gone before you can reply, and you let the sound of the door closing ring out in your ears until you’re left in total silence, save for the sound of your own unsteady breathing. More than anything else, you just want to head back to your bus and scrub yourself clean of him, to put on unstained clothes and remove your ruined makeup so that you have a better chance of recognizing yourself in the mirror if you’re unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of your reflection. Maybe if you hurry the pace of your walk of shame, you can outrun the feeling altogether, you think, swinging the dressing room door open and letting it slam behind you as you make a swift exit, heading straight for the one place that even slightly resembles a home to you right now. You keep your head low as you wander the unfamiliar backstage halls, and hold the skirt of your dress down against the breeze that threatens to expose you yet again when you push open the venue’s back door. More tears begin to fall as your boots carry you up the steps of your bus and lead you to your private little room in the back, and you don’t wipe them away this time, although you can’t put your finger on why they stream down your skin so impatiently, one stinging droplet after another.

You sit down heavily on the edge of your bed, although you have a strange urge to kneel at the foot of it instead. Your fingers find their way to your crucifix as you contemplate the idea, and it hits you all at once how very lost you feel. You miss… something. Your mother? Perhaps not, but maybe the idea of having a caregiver, someone to turn to when you feel the way you do now, to help you sort through the tangled knot of emotions unraveling itself in your heart and attempt to make some kind of sense of it. She wasn’t the perfect mother, by any means, but she tried, and it was her first time being a woman too, after all. You are following in her footsteps, as many daughters aspire to do with their mothers, but you don’t think she would be very proud of the particular path of hers you’ve begun to find yourself stumbling down—the one that leads you to a man who won’t change himself, who can’t, but who you’ve somehow convinced yourself that you deserve, because you’ve never known a man who’s told you otherwise. 

And now here you sit, alone, in the dark cave of your too-big bus on the second night of a career-changing national tour, crying girlish tears and missing something you can’t place but that you know you can’t go back to, wishing someone could just wipe your mind clean and tell you that you’re good and that you’re not a disappointment to your mother and God even though you don’t really care what they think of you anymore, anyway. You need someone to tell you who you are, and Joel seems to know the answer—a good girl, a whore, his songbird. You shift at the memories of when those names for you have spilled from his mouth, and you’re reminded of the wet fabric still pressed against your core. It feels good when he tells you who you are, after all, when he slots himself inside of you and makes you feel like something he owns, when he makes you feel perfect and floaty and beautiful and like he knows you better than you’ve ever known yourself.

And how could something that feels so good ever be bad for you?

—

The whiskey burns as it slides down the back of Joel’s throat, but it still isn’t strong enough. All it does is remind him of the igniting spark that led to the blaze now engulfing him—when you’d both had a few glasses of the stuff swimming around in your blood streams in the green room of last night’s venue, when he’d lured you onto his lap and teased the wet spot on your panties and asked if you’d let him touch you. He knew you were going to say yes, but it was still the respectable thing to do, and he had liked hearing you beg for it all pretty and polite. He fears that’s the last he may have seen of that version of you, that what he did this morning had stomped out the little delicate, glimmering light that had drawn him to you in the first place. And if it wasn’t snuffed out then, it’s surely nothing but a wisp of smoke now.

Joel had recognized when everything had started to become too real too fast, in the dark of his bus last night when even in your sleep, you had seemed to consider him as something warm and comforting and safe, instead of the beast that he knows himself to be, with too sharp of claws and too loud of a roar. He had tried to do the right thing for once in his goddamn life by finally thinking about someone other than himself, so why didn’t you take the opportunity to get out of this while you had the chance? What is it that you see in him that he knows for a fact isn’t there, has never been there? You had retaliated because you had wanted this to work, because he had hurt you when he shoved you away, but he can’t possibly fathom why you’ve chosen to fight so hard for this. And he’d only gone and proved himself right when he responded to your reprisal the only way he knows how, especially when you’d used that word against him that he’s always been avoidant to admit about himself—coward.

And you were right, weren’t you? Joel is a fucking coward. He does everything in his power to pretend otherwise, to show his fans and the world a version of himself who’s never for a second thought of himself as anything less than God incarnate. And maybe except for Tommy, no one has ever been the wiser to his ruse, until you. And it scares him, to be seen so clearly. Because then he might actually have to try to understand where all these defense mechanisms came from in the first place, and he can’t have that. 

Coward.

Joel tosses back the last of the amber liquid in his glass, releasing his white-knuckled grip on it and slamming it back down onto the green room’s bar cart. He knows that his band and about twenty thousand people are waiting for him to buck up and emerge from yet another hiding place, and he realizes that this is becoming a pattern with you—you awaken some long-dormant feeling from deep inside of him, it makes him feel threatened, and he retreats until it goes away and he remembers how to paint his mask back on. And the one time you didn’t allow him to run away, he lashed out like a caged animal and undoubtedly gave you a pretty solid idea of what he meant by “for your own good”. And yet, you were so desperate to be allowed any part of him at all that even in his most volatile and beastly state, with his talons out and his teeth bared, you didn’t run away. You didn’t even try. You didn’t want to. You took everything he had given you like it was a privilege to do so, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand why. 

Joel shakes himself out, hitting a solid hand against his cheek once in order to bring himself back from the depths of another unwanted episode of introspection and self-loathing, and lets the burn of the whiskey dissipate as he makes his way to where the rest of Death’s Head is waiting for him. He can feel their eyes on him without even needing to look, and snaps out a defensive I don’t wanna hear it before any of the guys get a chance to say anything. 

Tommy shrugs, stepping up to Joel with his arms crossed. “Wasn’t gonna say nothin’.” 

Joel finally turns to face the group, giving each member a scrutinizing once-over in an attempt to read their body language, to suss out if they’re just pissed because he left them waiting, or if Jesse ran his mouth while he was gone. When Joel’s examining eyes land on the dark-haired guitarist, Jesse’s quick to shake his head, mouthing the words they don’t know. Satisfied, Joel nods once in understanding, adjusting his jacket and cracking his neck before turning toward the stage again.

“Y’all ready, or what?” he mutters rhetorically, not bothering to wait for an answer before he marches his way into the spotlights and allows them to enshroud him, burning up what remains of that cowardly version of him, if only for the remainder of the night. Joel picks up his guitar, swinging the strap around his chest before fiddling with his mic stand as the deafening sound of the crowd reminds him of who the fuck he is, or at least, who they think he is. Who he pretends to be. And he gets to believe it for the next two hours. If he plays the part well enough, maybe he can lose himself in it entirely. But then, hasn’t he been trying to do that for the past couple of decades? It hasn’t seemed to work yet, but it doesn’t hurt to keep trying. 

Or maybe it does.

—

You feel a little better now, more at ease, now that you’ve had some time to focus on taking care of yourself. It’s easy to forget the wonders that a hot shower can do for a girl, especially when you have to fight against your own brain just to get up and take the ten or so steps towards the bathroom, when you’d much rather stay curled up in the same position on your bed until your skin adheres to the sheets. Now having scrubbed away the tears and the sweat and the tacky dampness between your thighs, you emerge from a cloud of rose-scented humidity as someone you think you understand a little better now, who deserves to be taken care of instead of reprimanded for only doing her best with what she’s been given.

With clean hair and skin and a comfortable change of sleep-ready attire, you decide to finally make some efforts to unpack your suitcase and make your little room feel more like a home. You hang your dresses up on the rack, set your shoes into a somewhat orderly line on the carpet below them, and place your jewelry neatly onto the antique tray you had carefully packed away to bring along with you. You had found it in a little thrift store downtown, when you had first left home and decided you needed something that was only yours, something pretty and special that you could look at everyday and know that it was the very first step in building the life that you had always wanted for yourself. The brass needs a little polishing, but it’s still one of the most beautiful objects you’ve ever seen, and the way the ceiling lights glint off the metal brightens up your space just enough that it feels a little more familiar to you now. 

Your earrings and other necklaces fill the blank space in the center of the neatly carved filigree, and you make the decision to add your crucifix to the pile of silver studs and chains. It’s strange how such a simple charm can make things feel so complicated. You haven’t taken it off in so long that you fear the guilt that might come with removing it, but you figure it will still be there for you if you ever feel like clipping it around your neck again. And if that feeling never comes, then you’ll deal with that then, too.

For now, you breathe a little deeper without the weight of the thing resting against your chest, and smile to yourself when you hear a small group of excitable-sounding male voices approaching your bus. Your bandmates file through the door a second later, though you’re suddenly shy to greet them as you emerge from your bedroom, worried that they might be pissed at you for what you sprung on them earlier in the night. You lean against the doorframe as they each collapse onto the living area couches, cracking open beers from the minifridge and passing them around to each other.

“Hey, you,” greets your floppy-haired drummer, Max, patting the cushion next to him. If any of the guys were to be easy going about what you put them through tonight, it would be him. You’re happy to see that he doesn’t seem to hold any animosity towards you. “You want me to crack one open for you?” he offers.

“Um… sure,” you agree, approaching the group and relaxing into the open seat next to him as he hands you a bottle. You take a few swigs while the guys begin to talk amongst themselves, waiting for an opportune lull in their conversation for you to chime in.

It comes about halfway through your beer. “So, listen,” you start, setting the sweating bottle on the table in front of you as you feel their gazes shift in your direction. “I’m sorry for pulling that on you guys tonight. This whole thing is just as big for y’all as it is for me and… I guess I forgot about that, for a second,” you say, although the end of your sentence kind of sounds like a question. “I really appreciate how you backed me up out there, that’s all.”

It’s rare that the four of you get sincere with each other like this, and your apology lingers in the air for a moment before someone else speaks up. 

“It’s alright, kid.” The comforting voice comes from Scott, your quiet and kind-eyed bassist. “We’re all professionals here, yeah? We’d be some sad fuckin’ musicians if we couldn’t improvise every once in a while.” You laugh at that, and his lopsided smile warms you when you meet his soft expression.

“I mean, I kinda fucked up a little bit,” says Joey, your rhythm guitarist, ever-reliable for lightening the mood. “You sounded badass though, so whatever. Nothin’ you need to apologize for.” When you turn your head to look at him, he looks slightly uncomfortable with the way Max has him pressed up against the wall, but his gaze is sincere. “You wanna talk about it, though? Some pretty heavy shit you wrote.”

You do consider it, but shake your head, having reflected on it quite enough for one night. “Not right now,” you reply, and he gives you a sympathetic smile in return. “One of you have a smoke, though? Think I’m just gonna get some air and call it a night.” 

“Now, how are you gonna ‘get some air’ with all that smoke in your lungs?” Scott jests, and you give him a look before standing up and holding your palm out flat to him, making a hand it over gesture with your fingers. 

“Don’t give me shit, dude, I know you have one. That’s why I asked.”

Despite his protest, he digs the pack out of his pocket and slides one out, playfully holding it hostage against his chest. “Still shouldn’t smoke ‘em, though. Gonna ruin your voice one of these days.”

You roll your eyes at him, but laugh, anyway. “Fine, tonight’s my last one, I promise. Just gimme.”

Scott extends his hand out to you, and you snatch the cigarette out of his hold. “Light, too?” he asks, and you nod, leaning down to him with it in your mouth already.

You make a quick exit when the tobacco begins to burn, trying to fill the bus with as little smoke as possible, but not before making your appreciation known to the guys one last time. When you step out into the chilly night air, you wish you’d brought a sweater to wrap around you, but figure the flame between your lips will warm you up soon enough. 

The Death’s Head bus is parked just up ahead, and you can make out Jesse’s silhouette in the moonlight, his back leaned against the idling vehicle as he puffs his own cloud into the sky. The sound of your bus’s door shutting behind you draws his attention your way, and you give each other a friendly nod as you each burn through your cigarettes.

“Can I join you?” he asks, having to shout in order for his voice to reach you over the rumbling engines.

The fears you were ruminating on a few hours ago all come rushing back to you in an instant, but his inquiry seems casual enough for you to let your guard back down a little. It would be rude of you to decline, and it might be nice to get to know him a bit more if he’s offering, you suppose.

“Yeah, okay,” you reply, nodding for good measure in case your voice didn’t come out loud enough. His long legs close the short distance between you in just a few seconds, and you shove your unoccupied hand into your pocket in an effort to come across more relaxed than you feel. You’ve never been great at small talk, or meeting new people, especially ones who’ve walked in on you after having just been fucked by the lead singer of his band. 

You’re grateful that Jesse decides to break the silence first. “So, uh… you two, huh?”

“Mhm,” is all you offer, kicking a rock around the asphalt with the toe of your shoe.

“Yeah… Well, I don’t want you to feel weird around me, or anything. We can just forget it ever happened.”

You can’t help but release a puff of smoke through an awkward giggle. “Sounds good to me.”

“And I didn’t tell the other two, just so you know.”

His admission makes you pause, trapping the rock underneath your shoe as you peer up at him. “You didn’t? So… they don’t know?”

Jesse shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Well, Tommy might, just ‘cause he knows Joel better than anybody, but Eugene’s probably clueless. They’re all good guys, they won’t give you shit for it even if they do find out… I might, though, just for fun.” He nudges your shoulder with his as he jokes, and it makes you laugh a little more earnestly this time. “Just… be careful, that’s all. And I want you to know you have a friend in me, if you ever feel like you need one.”

His kindness is nearly enough to bring you to tears. You feel so relieved that everything the worst parts of your brain had conjured up had all been a lie, that Jesse isn’t who you feared he’d be, and that he’s offering you his friendship, even after he’d seen you in such an embarrassing and compromising state tonight. 

“Jess!” Joel yells from the doorway of his bus, and the harsh gravel voice startles both of you out of the moment you’d been sharing. “Finish up, kid. Takin’ off in a few.”

Jesse nods, raising the end of his cigarette in acknowledgement before stomping it out on the pavement. “It was nice talking to you. Remember what I said, okay?” 

“Okay,” you nod, and he’s handsome and boyish when he smiles back at you before following his orders and jogging back to his own bus, sliding through the door past Joel’s broad form.

Joel’s expression is hard, but otherwise unreadable as he juts his chin at you, wordlessly suggesting the same direction he’d just barked at Jesse. He shuts the door behind him as he steps inside, and you think on Jesse’s words as you finish puffing your smoke down to a nub. Be careful, he’d cautioned, and it’s like he had been waiting outside for you to make sure he had a chance to tell you that. Remember what I said, like it was important to him that you took his words to heart. You finally toss the end of your own cigarette onto the ground, letting it sizzle out before heading back inside and carefully passing the now-occupied bunks as you make your way to your own little sanctuary. 

You’re still buzzing from the tobacco as you close yourself into your room and crawl into bed, and you can’t decide if the emptiness of it makes you feel comforted or afraid. You don’t necessarily wish you had Joel’s heavy, lumbering form tucked in beside you, but you hadn’t anticipated how having a bed to yourself would leave you with only the company of your own thoughts. You try not to dwell too much on Jesse’s warning, instead trying to snuff it out like the smoldering end of your cigarette so that it doesn’t prevent you from getting some much needed rest.

Even for being a bed inside of a tour bus, you have to admit that it’s one of the most comfortable, luxurious things you’ve ever slept on, especially compared to the lumpy double bed from back in your apartment. You don’t fight it when sleep begins to pull heavily on your eyelids, the incoming wave of it washing away any lingering anxieties as you allow yourself to relax into the plush mattress.

You hardly rouse even as the bus heaves forward on its trip out of the parking lot, leaving everything that happened tonight exactly where you left it, the ghost of it now left to wander the halls of the venue instead of haunting you as you travel to the next one. And there’s something comforting in that, you think, in the idea that nothing on this tour is permanent, that your life begins anew every 24 hours in a city you’ve never been to that doesn’t know your name yet. 

And maybe that’s how you’ll figure this whole thing out, by taking it one day at a time, fluttering as close to the flame as possible without touching it, because you kind of like feeling the heat on your wings. As long as you’re careful when you dance around the fire, then there’s really nothing to be afraid of.

But only time will tell.

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[slocumjoe]

Ive talked about how infuriating Danse x Sole is from an outside perspective, but. Imagine being Hancock.

You know this person is who is brave, and kind, and not afraid to knock someone's teeth out for being asshole. But they're good to kids and Lil old ladies and they're nice to you, for someone reason. They say they just like collecting strays. The actual dog barks and you think more and more that it's a synth, because a dog responding to conversation is weird.

The Survivor is a good person. You look up to them in ways you didn't know you could look up to anyone. The way they knock on doors before entering, the please and thank yous, the way they hold conversations with strangers like they're lifelong friends. This person is kind. Truly. Their heart is gold. Their heart is also, as you learn, weak, and will lead them by the nose to whatever it desires.

It leads to Danse.

You think they're joking, but then you realize they barely know what it is they feel for him. You also quickly realize he feels the same and is even dumber then them, outside of everything else Danse thinks.

You are a ghoul. Danse disparages you constantly. He then turns around and makes nice with Daisy, and Kent, and other ghouls. He mocks you for your drug use, your slogan, your getup, your appropriation of history. You call him various names, relating to his bigotry, his lack of imagination. The survivor tells you both to knock if off like you're toddlers. They have seen both of you pummel people into paste.

You follow around this out of time, love sick puppy and their big dumb boyfriend who wouldn't know love if it sucked him off behind a slocums joe. He fixes their armor and weapons for them. When they do the same, Danse makes a face like he wants to marry him. Then you knock on the door frame because you kinda need the Survivor for a minute and he looks like he's actually been shot, how dare a ghoul interrupt their weird ass flirting.

You watch Danse throw himself in front of a ghoul family to save them from Gunners, the Survivor right behind him. You do the same, but wonder aloud if you took some tampered mentats, because why the fuck is a BOS dude protecting ghouls? Danse, to his credit, asks rather politely that you shut the hell up and focus on blasting people's heads off.

You fall into a routine. You wake up, argue with Danse, take some kind of chem, and go murder people. This routine becomes comfy to you. Danse gets sick and isn't available to argue with so you chase down Deacon to bicker with him. It's not the same. Deacon bullshits everything he says, Danse is wholly Danse when he uses giant words in inappropriate sentences.

This routine is damaged when The News breaks out. So you all trek to a bunker and you all watch the Survivor low key threaten to murder their boss and walk away unscathed and with their boy toy. Their boy toy is miserable and having some kind of come to Jesus moment. You confront the Survivor on their boy toy and his boy toy status and they say they're just friends. You bang your head on a wall.

You go to the boy toy next. He claims that the Survivor is too good for him in every single way and especially now that he's both a synth and realized he's an asshole, he's basically just waiting to die in the line of combat. You go ask Nick about this romcom no one else wants to be in. Nick says you should be grateful, you can at least drink.

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 19, Unfriended - Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of sex, confrontation, uncovering of lies.

Word Count: 1.3k

Previously On...: Tony has a new mission for you, and everyone finds out you used to be a stripper.

A/N: CONFRONTATION TIME, BITCHES!

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Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

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You left the conference room with a better idea of what Tony was hoping you’d be able to accomplish, and you were feeling slightly optimistic for the first time all day: You actually had a chance to help women escape the hell you’d lived in for seven years, and you were going to do your damnedest to do right by them.

You hadn't gotten very far down the hallway toward the elevator when you felt the cold, vice-like grip of a vibranium hand take hold of your wrist and pull you into a storage closet.

"Jesus Christ, Barnes," you yelled, wrenching your arm out of his grasp and rubbing the skin where he'd grabbed you. "What the hell?"

"Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing." His eyes were dark. He was angry at you. Of all the fucking nerve. He had the gall to be angry at you? "What the hell, Pocket? What was that back there?"

Well, you thought, I guess this is actually happening.

"Really?" you asked, your voice calmer than you could have ever imagined it being. "Can't think of a single reason I'd be upset with you?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, seeming genuinely confused. "We were fine this morning. Fuck, we talked about getting place of our own, for Christ's sake."

"Yeah," you said, "that's not going to be happening. Ever." He had the audacity to look hurt.

"What do you mean?" He reached for you, but you pulled away from him, trying to put as much distance between you as possible in the cramped space. "Sweetheart, talk to me. Whatever's wrong, we can figure it out together."

"How was Russia, James?" you asked, ignoring the concern in his voice. "Anything... I dunno, exciting happen over there? Twice, maybe?" You watched with a sense of sick satisfaction as all the color drained from Bucky's face and a look of panic overtook him.

"I-I don't know what you mean," he stammered.

"Please," you scoffed. "If there's one thing we can both agree on, it’s that I’m not intellectually stupid. Emotionally? Obviously. But not intellectually. Don't insult my intelligence by acting like you don't know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Whatever Carthage told you," Bucky said, trying to draw close to you again, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, "she's lying to you."

"Oh, no worries-- Jade didn't tell me anything, so no need to follow through on your threat to kill her and make sure no one ever finds her body, which, by the way, what the actual fuck?!"

"Doll, you gotta understand," he began, but you cut him off.

“No,” you said, putting a hand up to keep the distance between you. “I’m tired of being understanding when it comes to you, James.” You watched him flinch at your use of his government name. Good. “I’m tired of giving you second chances you don’t deserve. I’m tired of your fucking lies. I am so tired of you.”

You reached into your pocket and took out his phone. “Here,” you said, shoving it into his chest, “you left this when you went to your debrief.”

Bucky clutched the phone, looking between it and you. “You… you went through it?”

“Of course I fucking did!” you seethed. “Imagine my surprise when I picked it up, planning on just pocketing it to give back to you when I next saw you, only to see a notification for a new message from Jade fucking Carthage. The girl whose number I blocked from this very phone. The girl who, you swore to me, you were never going to speak to or be alone with again. Imagine how absolutely devastating that was.”

“You weren’t supposed to read those messages,” Bucky said, his voice low and full of sorrow. “I never intended for you to see them.”

“Well, no fucking shit, Barnes,” you said, throwing your hands in the air. “Kinda defeats the point of having a secret affair if the girlfriend knows about it, doesn’t it?”

“But it wasn’t like that!” Bucky exclaimed, desperate for you to believe him. “I didn’t intend for it to happen. It was an accident! I never meant--"

"Oh, an accident? My bad; I didn't realize you'd 'accidentally' tripped and got your penis stuck in her vagina. Two fucking times." You were hit with a realization. "Was this why you didn't call me when you were supposed to? Why you never returned my messages? Were you lying about your phone dying?"

"Yes, but--"

"For fucks' sake, James!" You were shouting now. "I fucking knew something was going on between you two. I fucking KNEW it, but no, you assured me it was nothing, that I was overreacting. That you loved me. I thought I was losing my fucking mind with insecurity, and meanwhile you've been fucking her behind my back and feeding me bullshit about how much you wanted to be with me."

"Baby, no!" Tears began pooling in Bucky's eyes, but they didn't sway you. "I swear, Russia was the only time anything happened. I promise you."

"See, here's the thing: your promises don't mean shit, James," you spat. "I can't believe a word that comes out of your lying mouth. I'd ask you why, but I wouldn't believe whatever bullshit you'd tell me."

"Because I thought you were with Steve," he blurted out, as if desperately grasping for any chance at making you understand. "I saw the news articles from the gala, and I was so angry! I– I wanted to make you hurt as much as I thought you hurt me…"

His words left you momentarily speechless. "You took the word of fucking trash rag as gospel, thinking I would do that to you? That STEVE would do that to you? And before even thinking about talking it over with me, you decided the smart choice was to go balls deep in the one person who I've been begging you to stay away from for months? That you swore I didn't have to worry about?" God, he seemed so pathetic to you now. “You just made the executive decision that I was a piece of shit? I’ve been to enough therapy sessions to recognize projection when I see it.”

"I'm sorry! I know I fucked up. Please, please just tell me what I have to do to make this right. What can I do to fix this? I'll do anything. You want me to never speak to Jade again? Done."

"That's just it, James," you said, the fight leaving you. "There's nothing that you can do. This is over. We're done. I refuse to do this any longer."

"Sweetheart, please," he cried, "please, you can't mean that. Don't talk like that."

"James..."

"Stop calling me 'James'!" he sobbed. "'m not 'James,' 'm your Bucky. 'm always your Bucky."

You shook your head sadly. "'My Bucky' died the second you decided to sleep with her, and there's no bringing him back. Welcome to the consequences of your actions, James. I hope you and Carthage are happy together. You fucking deserve each other." You started for the door, but Bucky grabbed your wrist before you could grasp the handle.

"Please," he moaned, "this-- this can't be it. We can't end like this. We were supposed to be forever."

You pulled your hand out of his grasp and opened the door. "You should have thought about that before you broke my heart," you whispered. “Again.”

"I don't know how to live without you," he murmured.

"Well, you better figure out how to fucking start," you said as you made your way out the door. "When I get back from this mission, I'm moving out of the Tower. Alone." The idea had just come to you at that moment, but you knew it was the right thing to do. You couldn't stand to live under the same roof as Bucky any longer, let alone across the hall.

"But this is your home," he pleaded. "You don't need to leave it."

"You were my home," you told him. "I don't have one anymore." And you left him standing in the open doorway of the storage closet, alone and crying.

<- Previous Part / Next Chapter ->

[thewordfortheday]

Joshua 1:9

Be strong and courageous! Do not fear or be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.

One thing that characterises a Christian is courage and fearlessness. Before I became a Christian, the number one thing that confronted me daily was fear- fear of the dark, fear of death and the list goes on , but now I know who I am in Christ, and I'm not afraid anymore.

For God has not given us (believers in Christ) a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and sound mind. 2 Timothy 1:7

When Joshua was confronted with the task of taking over leadership from Moses, the Lord commanded him to be strong and courageous. Why? Because the Lord was with him. Today, maybe, you are facing a huge roadblock in your path, or you are facing a huge giant that is intimidating you, threatening to overpower you. Don't give into fear. Be strong and courageous, the Lord Jesus is with you. He will fight your battle. And when He does that, the victory is undoubtedly yours.

Pray: Father, dispel every fear and anxiety from me. Help me to know that You have me in the palm of Your hand, the safest place one can imagine. Thank You Lord. In Jesus' name, Amen.

[coolgrl111]

love is overrated

patrick x reader

The two of you lay sprawled across the couch, the faint glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm light over the room. Your head rests comfortably on Patrick’s firm stomach, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a familiar rhythm beneath you. His hand absentmindedly strokes your hair as you both settle into a shared silence.

“Did you see Art and Tashi today?” you ask, a soft laugh escaping your lips, breaking the quiet. “Jesus Christ.”

Patrick chuckles in response, his body rumbling beneath you, the sound low and comforting. You can’t help but smile at the shared amusement.

“They're so gross!” you continue, shaking your head slightly. “Like, I’m happy for them, don’t get me wrong, but they make me sick.”

Patrick’s hand pauses for a moment, then resumes its gentle caress. His agreement is unspoken, but the easy way he laughs along with you is enough. There's a peacefulness to this moment, a sense that neither of you needs to fill the space with too many words.

You sigh, closing your eyes for a beat before gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes, your head still nestled against him. “Can you even imagine acting like that?” you ask softly, the question lingering between you. “I don’t think any man could make me act like that.”

He shifts slightly beneath you, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns in your hair, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, thoughtful second. There’s something unspoken in the air—something neither of you are quite ready to confront, but it hovers just on the edge of awareness, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.

Patrick doesn’t say anything immediately, but his hand on your head speaks volumes. His presence is steady, reassuring, but there’s a tension in the quiet that suggests the conversation isn't quite over, that there's more than just laughter and casual musings lying beneath your words.

————

The living room felt like a memory, warm and worn, the light dimmed by the fading evening. The once playful chatter between you and Patrick had settled into something quieter, deeper—an unspoken connection neither of you wanted to define. It had been months since that afternoon spent laughing about Art and Tashi, months of you and Patrick spending more time together, slipping effortlessly into each other’s lives.

But tonight, something felt different.

You were sitting on the floor now, leaning back against the couch, Patrick’s legs stretched out on either side of you as he sat behind, his presence as familiar as the space you shared. The TV played softly in the background, though neither of you were paying attention. You could feel his eyes on you, the weight of a moment neither of you had spoken about pressing in around you both.

“So,” Patrick began, his voice softer than usual, a little rougher at the edges. “Are we going to pretend we’re still just friends, or are we finally going to talk about it?”

Your heart skipped, even though you’d half-expected the question to come sooner or later. You stared ahead, not quite ready to turn around and meet his gaze. The sound of the TV buzzed like static in the background, a distant hum that made the silence between you feel louder.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. You could feel his presence leaning in closer, the familiar warmth of him now carrying a kind of urgency that wasn’t there before.

Patrick sighed lightly, his breath brushing the back of your neck. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted. His hands, usually so casual and unbothered when they touched you, now rested deliberately on your shoulders, gentle but sure. “About us.”

Your chest tightened at the words. They hung in the air between you like a tether, something binding you to a truth you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to confront. For months, you’d let the playful banter and late-night conversations keep you afloat, but now… now everything was different.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance back at him. His face was earnest, his green eyes steady, searching yours for an answer. And in that moment, the laughter and easy companionship you had always shared felt distant—replaced by something far more complicated.

“Do you remember what I said that day? About Art and Tashi?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Patrick’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. “That you could never imagine acting like that with someone.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quiet. “I lied.”

His breath hitched, just for a second, and you could feel the weight of those unspoken moments between you. The way his hand would linger on your arm a little too long, or the way you’d find yourself watching him, waiting for him to notice you in a way that wasn’t just friendly.

Patrick let out a shaky laugh, the sound more surprised than amused. “I figured,” he said, his hands still on your shoulders, his fingers tightening slightly, almost as if he were anchoring himself. “I don’t think I could ever act like that with anyone either. Except you.”

You turned around fully this time, kneeling between his legs, your faces inches apart. The air between you felt electric, like the entire room was holding its breath.

You didn’t need to say anything more. There was no need to analyze every moment that had brought you to this point, or to go back to all the times you’d both skirted around the inevitable. You knew it. He knew it. And now, there was no going back.

Patrick’s hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch light but deliberate. For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable but undeniably tender.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispered, almost as if speaking the thought aloud made it real.

“You won’t,” you said, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. And then, before either of you could second-guess, you leaned in, closing the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting to happen for a long time.

It wasn’t rushed or intense, but slow, almost cautious—like you were both testing the waters of something you’d both been afraid to ruin. But as soon as it happened, everything else fell away. The laughter, the teasing, even the conversations about Art and Tashi seemed distant now, irrelevant.

When you pulled away, Patrick rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “So… what now?”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers still lightly touching the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words honest but not uncertain. “But I think we’ll figure it out.”

Patrick grinned, his eyes fluttering open, looking at you with the same affection and ease that had always been there—only now, there was something more behind it.

“We always do,” he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence, as though everything that had happened between you up until this point had been leading to this.

And for the first time in a long while, you believed him.

[lilydalexf]

You are welcome for the lists! This one is fics recs for "Orison". They are all related to that episode, though they're not all angsty smut fics. So it's not quite the ask, but I hope you and others enjoy the stories! Another Dark Forest by @aloysiavirgata Post-Orison sex Anyone with a Gun by V. Salmone (Punk and Sab) Mulder, Scully, and a gun. Atomic Split by Pteropod The world is glued together by the strong force, the weak force, the electromagnetic force, and gravity. Better Angels by wonderland (@amplifyme) “She’s okay, Maggie, I promise... No, no, just forget whatever you might hear. Don’t even watch the local news. She’s okay. She’s safe and resting. I got it.” Jesus, how many times had he had this conversation with her, or one very much like it? More than he’d ever wanted to. Black Hole Season by Penumbra (@mashnotesofthemythopoeic) Mulder muddles through the aftermath of Orison. Ceremony by @darwin-xf What’s left when words fail? Cold Comfort by Joann Humby When 3 men die, the killer seems to have a story to tell, but is it the same one that people are hearing? X-Files are dangerous, very dangerous if you're working alone. Exorcist Stairs by Elanor G Scully is adrift and on her own after the events of Orison. A chance encounter forces her to confront the banality of evil... fluorescence and night on all sides by audries (@audriesfic) He steps over a corpse to touch her. Ghast by @leiascully (No summary provided) Glub-Glub-Glub and Calming Spells by PostApocolypticAlien (@scullysexual) “you can stay here, tonight. for as long as you’d like.” / “Hey babe, babe, wake up.” The Devil's Instant by Maria Nicole Post-ep for Orison Incorruptible by Anjou A submission for an epistolary challenge on the Scullyfic/E-muse list in January of 2000. Set mid-season 7, immediately after the events of Orison, when Scully has been faced with an evil from her past. Mytharc heavy. i have your dreams and your teeth marks by audries (@audriesfic) Also in the trunk of the car: the latest edition of JAMA, The Amityville Horror on VHS from Blockbuster, Moby Dick, a Jewel CD, a bag of clementines. Her still-closed Bible. - post-orison. mulder takes scully on a witch hunt. there's nail polish involved. Imperfect Shadow by Nicknoc In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deepening shade. Intuituve Reasoning, I Say Obsessive, You Say Compulsive, and I Can Eat Glass by Mish You can’t fool *all* of the people, *all* of the time. / Kosseff vs. Mulder - one analysis, seven minute time limit. / A late night distress call shatters the calm. The Nearness of You by a_steady_wish Her first night back in her own bed after the events of Orison, and Mulder is there to comfort and love her. Neptune's Ocean by M. Sebasky (No summary provided) Nothing Apart by Dyann Zimmerman What happened after the events in 'Orison'. Noyade by Rocketman Noyade--(french) whirlpool. Of Ladies Most Deject And Wretched by Circe Invidiosa and Helen Quilley (@invidiosa) It wasn't a question worth answering...post Orison. Orison by @scullywolf The aftermath of Pfaster's attack takes its toll in more ways than one. Possession by @mldrgrl Based on this prompt request: Mulder and Scully have both dealt with abductions and kidnappings where they were held against their will. I imagine that it took a while for them to feel comfortable with any type of bondage. I think it’d be interesting to explore how or when they became comfortable with that and if it felt really empowering the first time. I especially see Scully having reservations at first but maybe requesting it. the praxis of a water bed by skuls (@ghostbustermelanieking) Five of the first times Scully woke up in Mulder's bed. Right Here by @smalldisbeliever The soft thud of her duffle bag hitting the floor marks their arrival at her apartment. It’s been a little over a week since Donnie Pfaster tore through the space.

Sedimentation by Maria Nicole Musings on the edge of sleep Sins Remembered by rah What happens after they leave her apartment. soap bubble memories by @softnow five times mulder and scully showered together + one time they bathed. Some Nights by otto_tis_eratai Or "Six times Mulder and Scully slept together, and one time they did something more". A collection of seven one shots, all post/mid episode (although it can be also read as one story). Some fluff, some angst, some hurt/comfort elements, eventual smut, a lot of friendship. Submerged by hellsteeth (@wexleresque) Mulder helps Scully cope with her post-Orison anxiety Taller Than Other Waves by amyhit (mayhit) She read Salem’s Lot at ten years old, was brave enough to kiss her partner by thirty-five. That Was Then, This Is Now by @mldrgrl The difference between how Scully deals with the aftermath of Donnie Pfaster in Orison v. Irresistible.

Unintended Consequences by Sarah Segretti Just when you think you know how you’d react to a horrific event, life steps up to surprise you. Scully and Mulder deal with the aftermath of the Pfaster shooting. Untitled by @aloysiavirgata Prompt: alternate post-Orison where Scully doesn’t get to her gun and Mulder is the one that kills Pfaster. Untitled by @aloysiavirgata Prompt: Scully to Mulder: Make me feel alive again... Untitled by @o6666666 Prompt: can't wait to read their argument for anniversary date. who would win??? Walls by Ellie I can't hold out forever; even walls fall down. An Orison post-ep. The Weight of Water by @dashakay The aftereffects of trauma are sometimes unexpected.

[yea-baiyi]

feng xin and mu qing are making me feel insane. every time they are in a scene together it’s about them. the tension between them is more potent than any romance it is a character unto itself. they never even fell out directly. they have never talked about it. they are working side-by-side in the job they dreamed about while growing up together. losing the friendship is still so raw that they cannot have a civil conversation. it has been seven hundred years of peacetime and they still have to be placed on opposite ends of the room at every social event. the moment xie lian is back both of them show up at his sides and fall back into their old bickering dynamic. and don’t confront the other about it despite their shitty disguises. after 700 years of not speaking. can you begin to imagine how much love is there. how much grief. jesus fucking christ.

[triptychgrip]

Viktor's potential insecurity in the aftermath of Yuuri's poster reveal

As much as I absolutely adore YOI, one thing I would have killed for the creators to show us is the long-term aftermath of the moment (or perhaps, series of moments) where Viktor grasps just how big a fan Yuuri is. And not only even for humor reasons (i.e."Wow, Yuuri! Not even my publicist is able to get their hands on that poster, but you have four different copies!), but also because, depending on when it occurs, the discovery might pose a sort of crisis for Viktor.

Because as confident as he is with regards to the ice, as he and Yuuri begin to spend more and more time together outside of training, I imagine he might find himself confronting a pretty important question: what does he have to offer in terms of personality, and in general besides his skating talent, or the association that comes from his reputation (and, by extension, the longevity of his career)?

While the beach scene is hugely important for the progression of their relationship, you could argue that it's a beginning: when Yuuri tells him that he wants Viktor to be himself, it's from a place of saying "you don't have to pretend, show me who you really are", so Viktor may feel that while Yuuri truly wants to see his full personality, it doesn't necessarily mean he will be accepting of it.

To be clear: I think that Viktor can grasp that Yuuri accepts him for his flaws -- after all, it's pretty apparent that he forgives him when he royally screws up at the Cup of China in that damned parking garage. But accepting someone's flaws and being able to celebrate their positive traits are two different things, even when they are opposite sides of the same coin.

Speaking of the Cup of China (which, don't get me wrong, has me completely in my feels every time I watch that episode), while it's extremely powerful when they both express their feelings for one another via skating, sometimes actual words are needed when it comes to assuaging our insecurities. At some point (and when would this have occurred? I wish we could have seen!) Viktor probably needs concretization around the things that Yuuri perceives about him, good and bad.

Back to the poster reveal. Once Viktor realizes the extent of Yuuri's fanboying, part of me wonders if his thoughts might take a turn in the vein of "What if Yuuri thinks my career is the most interesting thing about me? And "What if the other parts of me aren't palatable enough outside of that?"

When they have the inevitable "come to Jesus" conversation(s) whereby Yuuri tries to articulate that he sees Viktor as more than just an idol on a pedestal, how might Viktor react, and would he be able to take Yuuri's words at face-value? Similarly to Yuuri's journey of realizing that he is more than worthy in Viktor's eyes, I think Viktor goes on a parallel one, and those moments of reassurance are something I really love ideating around.

I think this is part of why I get so much comfort out of writing post-canon/established Viktuuri, particularly in my married Viktuuri Olympic Games series: it gives me a bit more freedom to "move" and portray some of the security they've developed with time (and allows me to imagine some scenarios where Yuuri is able to verbally demonstrate how much he values Viktor in a way that is unrelated to the ice)

[j4desblurbs]

HURT YOU

sierra six (courtland gentry) x fem! reader

this man has been running laps in my brain since august so hope you enjoy 🫶 thank you to the loml @retrosabers for helping me with this

summary: six comes home wounded, and seeks comfort in your presence.

warnings: kissing, touching, description of injuries

word count: 1.2k

it had never been this bad.

sure, six had come home with injuries before. it was a part of the job, something that was expected, that you learned to get used to when you started dating him.

but the sight that confronts you now is something that you’d never imagined.

there’s a slight limp to his walk, like he’s favoring one side and doing his best not to show it. his nose is bleeding and looks broken, and there’s probably more under his clothes.

he stumbles through the doorway, trying his hardest to hide the true extent of his injuries. but even his bravest face can’t disguise the great deal of pain he’s clearly in. immediately, you rush to him, gingerly taking his face in your hands. you can feel him relax a little bit into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut at the relief of being home. of being back with you.

even though he was the one who was battered and bloodied, he took the time to ask, “you okay?”

you manage a feeble laugh, looking over him. “i’m fine. but you don’t look okay.”

“i’ll be alright.” he says, wincing slightly.

“court.”

he knows better than to deny you the truth when you use his real name. he lets out a heavy sigh as you lead him over to the bathroom.

“got ambushed in bogota.”

you sigh, helping ease his clothes off him as he sits down on the edge of the bathtub. you look over his injuries, clocking the bruises all over his torso and legs.

you know your way around his body. many nights spend tangled between the sheets, committing every inch of him to memory. you know something doesn’t feel right, no need to look at the blossoming purple on his side.

his rib is definitely broken.

“jesus christ.” you breathe out, trying your best to remain calm. you’re of no use if your hands start shaking.

you busy yourself by digging through the cabinet for the first aid kit, deciding to focus on the things you can handle. six knows you well enough to see through all your nervous ticks. his hand is warm when it wraps around your forearm, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin. it’s a delicate gesture that stands in harsh contrast to the way he sits before you.

“hey.” he says, his tone soft. “it’s okay.”

you close your eyes and let out a puff of air through your nose. his other hand comes to rest against the back of your knee, gently nudging you closer to him.

“promise me that you’ll be more careful next time?”

you both know he can’t promise that. but he always promises it anyways. if it helps you sleep just a little bit better tonight, he would do just about anything.

six nods his head a bit glumly. “i promise.”

you then take care of all the smaller scratches and cuts and bruises, and it’s not long before all that’s left to cover is his broken nose, and the long bruise along his left side, purpling as time passes.

you hesitate to touch it again, recalling the way he flinched earlier. it’s like court can read your mind. he can tell from the wrinkle between your brows that you’re frustrated and unsure.

“there’s nothing you can do.” he tells you softly. “broken ribs just need to heal on their own.”

you frown. “but you won’t have ti-”

“i know i won’t have time.” he moves his hand from your shoulder to your hand, squeezing affectionately. “i just have to be careful, that’s all.”

tears well in your eyes. you hate that he has to do this. that he has to throw himself into mission after mission with barely any time to heal from the last one. knowing that the people he works for view him as disposable. you can’t fathom having anyone but six by your side, and it cuts you to your core knowing the people who put his life on the line don’t view him the same way.

his hand comes up and cups your face, his thumb brushing away a tear that’s made its way down your cheek.

he says your name softly, gently moving your face to look at him.

“i’m okay.” he reassures you once more. your bottom lip trembles unwillingly, and it nearly brings tears of his own.

“i’m okay.” he repeats for a final time before your resolve finally crumbles. you collapse to the floor between his legs, and you let go of a wrecked sob.

you do your best to reign it in, not wanting to come undone, but you can’t muster enough energy to try.

this breakdown is just because of tonight. it’s been weeks, months even, of having knots in your stomach at the thought of six never coming home. never again being in his arms, never getting that sliver of softness he reserves for you, and only you, ever again.

he wraps his arms around you and hold you close to his chest, in spite of his injuries. he could deal with the pain of a broken bone. he didn’t think he could deal with the pain he feels responsible for.

“sweetheart.” he whispers, trying to get you to calm down as he wipes your tears with his thumb. “look at me.”

with tears still blurring your vision, you look up at him. even with your glassy eyes, you could see he was hurting just as much as you.

one of his hands reaches around to rub at the nape of your neck. “i’m not going anywhere.”

“six-“

“listen to me.” he’s a bit firmer now, but not mean. he knows it’s the only way to snap you out of it sometimes. “it’s going to take a lot more than a broken rib and a bullet hole to keep me away from you, you hear me? nothing could keep me from coming home to you.”

of course, the rational part of you knows that. six is too good at what he does to die, even if he does get injured regularly. despite this, you can’t help the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the constant fear that the next time you see six is in a body bag.

you don’t want to let that fear control you. not right now at least. there may only be a few hours left in today, but you’re going to make them worthwhile.

you pick yourself up off the floor, reaching for six to lead him to your bedroom. you know that you should probably clean up the first aid supplies, but frankly, you couldn’t care less. six rests on the edge of the bed as you find him a shirt, making sure not to disturb any of his wounds as you help him slip it on.

he slides under the covers, pulling you in the bed with him. as he wraps his arms around your waist from behind, six presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, resting his chin there for a minute.

“i love you.” his voice is gravelly.

you place your hands over his, gently rubbing your thumbs in soft circles on his wrists. “i love you too.”

he pulls you even closer, cocooning his body around yours and pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. you love moments like this; soft, domestic ones that you don’t get to have often because of how much six is away.

you hope that one day, these moments won’t be so fleeting.

[loveinhawkins]

Dustin knows that as soon as you cut one monster’s head off, another is bound to grow in its place.

So when the late Jason Carver’s family and friends move out of Hawkins, he’s secretly glad about it, sure, but he’s not exactly relieved.

Rumours are a hard thing to kill.

He’s careful; he tries his hardest to be careful. On the occasional days that Eddie happens to pick him up from school, he makes sure Eddie parks down the sidewalk, so he’s out of direct view from the parking lot. In all honesty, he doesn’t think anyone would actually try to start anything; the cover story for Eddie’s innocence hadn’t been watertight, nothing ever is, but it had been enough to stop full blown accusations.

Still. Dustin starts to think that maybe monsters now come in the form of silent looks, of parents whispering as they pick up their children from school, whisking them away as if Eddie might turn them to stone with one glance.

“I’ve had whispers all my life, man,” Eddie had told him, blasé, “I’ll get over it.”

But Dustin figured he could at least spare him from hearing some of it; a little walk before catching a ride isn’t exactly a hardship.

But in all of his imagined worst-case scenarios—picturing himself having to defend Eddie from the town’s rubberneckers—Dustin doesn’t expect to be confronted in the middle of the school day.

And certainly not while he’s alone.

A junior stops him on the way to the cafeteria. Dustin racks his brain, comes up with the name Aaron, blanks on the surname; yet he’s sure that there’s no crossover with Jason and his crew.

“Henderson, right?” Aaron says with a seemingly pleasant smile.

Dustin’s hackles are up from just the way he says his name—it’s not like the way Eddie and Steve say it, rounded and soft with fondness. It’s cold, oil slick.

“Yeah,” he says shortly. He makes to step to the side; Aaron doesn’t stop him really, but his weight shifts subtly, as if to silently declare that there’s no room for argument.

“Come on, let’s take a walk.”

-

At first Dustin tries very hard to convince himself that it’s just a coincidence when Aaron leads him into the woods.

But then he sees the picnic table.

Eddie had described every interaction he’d had with Chrissy in a kind of vivid detail that bordered on desperate—almost as if by recounting it, he might find a scrap of impossible hope: that it hadn’t happened like he thought, that she might have somehow survived after all.

It’s like Dustin can see the memory of her now, can hear Eddie’s words. I noticed she was… jumpy, you know, but, Jesus, I just thought I must’ve spooked her.

“This is where he did it, right?” Aaron says. “Where it all started.”

Dustin stays very still. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb. I saw them that day, wandering off.” There’s a horrible gleam in Aaron’s eyes, and Dustin knows it’s been fuelled by the darkest of whispers. “They timed it so it looked like they went there separately, but I fucking saw them.”

“I’m not—”

“He cursed Chrissy here, didn’t he? Then he finished off what he started at his piece of shit trailer. Fucking creep.”

In his mind’s eye, there’s a flash of Eddie in Steve’s arms, something he saw unintentionally, waking in the early hours of the morning. He remembers quickly shutting his eyes again, but that hadn’t been enough to block out Eddie’s gasping, tearful breaths. I thought I could help her, Steve, I-I thought—oh, God—

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dustin says flatly.

He can hear Eddie’s voice in his head. Don’t rise to it, don’t give them an inch. But that had been about teachers itching for an excuse to give someone a detention, not…

“That’s right, Henderson, walk away. You a freak like him?”

The leaves rustle as Aaron stalks forward; Dustin doesn’t look back.

There’s some kinds of people you just can’t reason with, Henderson.

“Yeah, I think you are. Did he teach you everything? Bet you loved it. Bet you begged for it. Begged him to show you how to be a fucking faggot—”

Dustin doesn’t remember actually deciding to throw a punch. It’s like the next few seconds of his life turn to static, to nothing, and suddenly he’s breathing heavily, and Aaron’s looking up at him from the ground in faint surprise.

It must not have been a good punch; there’s not a mark on Aaron’s face, and when Dustin glances down at his knuckles, he can’t see any blood on them. He probably just caught Aaron in the chest—winded him, if anything.

But he stands his ground. Tries to channel how Steve had squared up to Billy Hargrove.

“Say that again, and you’re dead.”

His heart pounds in his ears, a drumbeat of fury. He wonders if maybe a part of him has never stopped being twelve years old, has never stopped being angry when people spat poison about Will.

“No,” Aaron says, getting to his feet, “you are.”

And Dustin is shoved backwards. His ankle is still weak from that damn fall through the gate, so he goes down hard.

And as he lies there, trying to catch his breath through the flare of pain, he suddenly realises that no-one knows where he is. That he could get really, really hurt.

Aaron looms over him, saying nothing. He spits in Dustin’s face.

And then he leaves.

-

“Where were you?” Mike asks the period after lunch, passing over a cup of chocolate pudding he’d saved.

Dustin spins a tale about having lunch in the music department, waiting for a slot to become free for guitar lessons. It’s not technically a lie; he’d simply planned on doing it next week instead: just a taster session so he could tell Eddie about it, and then Eddie would bitch about promising youth getting ruined by learning “fucking godawful technique”, and then he’d teach Dustin properly.

Mike buys it, but his forehead wrinkles in concern when Dustin doesn’t touch the pudding.

Dustin bites down the stupid impulse to ask him about how it felt to jump off Sattler Quarry—because right now he thinks he’s been left dangling over the edge of a cliff.

Just waiting to fall.

-

He thinks he’s doing an okay job at hiding the persistent throb in his ankle, takes care to walk to Eddie’s van with his head up.

But then Eddie opens the door, and his first words are, “Hey, are you limping?”

Dustin just stops himself from sighing. Plan B, then.

“Had to run track at gym,” he lies easily.

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“I thought it would be fine!”

“C’mon, man, you’ve got a doctor’s note for a reason.”

Dustin does sigh this time—a harsh, frustrated sound as his ankle gives another warning twinge. He doesn’t stop himself in time, and he snaps, “God, you sound like Steve. It doesn’t suit you.”

The surprised glance Eddie gives him is awful. He’s silent for a moment, starting up the engine.

“Didn’t realise only Steve could care,” he says lightly, but Dustin can see the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But while a part of him instantly regrets what he says, another part is relieved: he knows that, for now, Eddie won’t pry anymore, will just give him a pointed silent treatment for the rest of the ride.

Dustin tells himself that he doesn’t mind. He’d rather Eddie be hurt by his words than anyone else’s.

He can do this. He can handle this on his own.

He has to.

[bloogers-boogers]

Forbidden Power AU. This AU focuses on Michael, it's the end of all Creation, all thanks to Lucifer's Spawn. Michael's final attempt to fix everything is to Disturb their father Only To Discover that his father is dead and has been dead for what looks like years there is still hope his father may be dead but his Authority can still be used... All angels authorities are held in Halos and God is no exception... Michael has a halo So he can go back and fix everything... The issue is the darkness in his heart, his Desire for the First man... Originally he was going to leave Almost everything unchanged...but this is an Opportunity he never did get or never should have had...can he stay on the noble path...ya No Michael has bin the good boy all his Existence and he will continue to be the good boy But he will be so when it comes to Adam and make Adam Exactly how he wants him to be

Hopefully this ask is for me and not mistaken for another blog shsiwbdjiwe do not get me wrong I love the guitarhero ship but I haven't posted anything about them aside from the drawing I made for @/ironbatpaperturtle (and my adamsapple fic) so I have a feeling that maybe this ask wasn't for me 😭

I should tho... like write more of them cause ngl I really like them together but my whole view on those two is far different than @/ironbatpaperturtle's Michael and Adam ahdjendiw

BUT if this anon is for me then I appreciate you for sharing me your au whdjwkdjdwoek 💖 now, with all that said let me proceed on actually answering you.

Omygod. Okay first, I think the God being dead for the longest period is such an interesting concept I read something similar like this before in a fic (adamsapple) called 'the devil you know /by anglotron' so I like it, kinda explains why angels would be put in so much work (do drastic choices) if God isn't there to guide them and solve things for them or just get involved but I also love the concept of him not giving a f*ck shjsiahdwiwbs after Lucifer's fall/betrayal he was just left hopeless for anything; his most "perfect creation" (Adam) corrupted by evil and then his most "perfect angel" turned out to have been the one to bring said corruption. (he may still care for Michael and Jesus tho but like it's hard for him to care about the rest) and letting all his children figure it out themselves (poor Sera), like, I can picture him just as depressed like Lucifer in the show issisofksos but unlike him who copes with making ducks, God just lays in the couch mopping about how disappointed in humanity he is and how "perfect" everything was before he planted the damn apple on earth, while he bosses Michael and maybe Metatron too (tho with him he's a lot more harsher bc he was previously human and he's kinda just bitter about them in general, but he's proven his worth enough) around to bring him shit like ice cream or junk food (tho he could easily just summoned all those things he subconsciously just wants company and Michael is there to bring it to him the only angel that has not yet disappointed/maintain loyal to him). So yeah.

Anyways — I still like the concept of God actually being dead. Like when you say Michael has a halo do you meant like he holds on to God's halo? Cause that's kinda cool af, imagine him just holding on to the halo of God (maybe even pitifully hopeful their father would return 'saving it for him') so he just has the halo on him and everyone just "oh shit this motherfucker really could just end it all if he wanted to" but Michael just doesn't cause 'with great power holds big responsibility' type of mentality and I think it'd be funny if Lucifer confronts heaven and is in a determined search for Michael to provoke him and remind him he's still the most perfect of all God's creation (mosty just salty as hell bc Michael cast him to hell lmao) and then when he finds Michael he like comes up with a taunting comment about how bad heaven turned out to be Yada Yada that neither realm is perfect or better than the other, and BAM suddenly his eyes drifted to Michael's head and recognizes the halo.

"Is that—...!"

"Yeah," Michael simply states defeated in his chair, unfazed by his brother arrival, from all the chaos going on, his people being murder, just, done, "father's gone, Lucifer."

So they just stare at eochother in silence, Lucifer with a stunned almost hurt expression and Michael with a nonchalant one. After the realization hitting him like a truck Lucifer realizes there was no end to the chaos released to all realms after Charlie unintentionally brought it to them if God wasn't there to fix it all...

Fear overwhelming him now cause he was kinda chilled out about the whole thing knowingly God would have to intervene soon because heaven was also being attacked by evil- but now realizing he's dead, it like hits him hard, mostly worried for his daughter's fate more than anything else.

Then, another thing hits him, "wait! What aren't you doing anything?! You can fix this, Michael! You have father's power, we can-"

Michael lifts his hand to signal him to stop, "I'm not planning to do anything."

"WHAT?!! Do you realize your people are also being attacked!"

"Your daughter brought this among ourselves, now, she must find her way to solve it."

"But she won't be-"

"Silence. If she was able to bring it to us then she's more than capable of putting it back. If not, that's no longer my problem"

"YOU-!"

"No, Lucifer," he stands up, the power of God emitting through his aura, the millions of eyes on him, big six graceful wings extended to show their full on glory, eyes bright like the intensity of a star. His voice was much more deeper and cold, distant, detached, "I lost everything because of your silly dream of free will, and now redemption. Look at where it lead us, prove me wrong this time, if it doesn't succeed then it was meant to be that way. Accept your fate.

I would create something new, something different. Something that won't betray its kind. No longer you existing. It will be perfect."

Lucifer felt so tiny now. That was no longer the brother he once knew. Not the caring, gentle, protective fiercely warrior that he once was.

Only filled with rage, grief and pain.

Michael... is dead too.

But anyways with all that, somehow lets say both Charlie and Lucifer mange to remind Michael of his love for the countless souls left at his hands to care and protect. And I dunno maybe a song too ahdhdiqgsjahsia and what gets the cake is Michael seeing Adam alive, behind the two, who somewhat stumble across their intervention in a 'bad timing'.

"Hey bitch you forgot your tampon— oh shit! Wrong room," Adam (now sinner) appears at the door oblivious of the whole deal.

"Adam!" Charlie shouted annoyed as they were already, almost, having a heartfelt moment between her father and Michael.

Michael eyes watered, "ADAM!" He pushes past Charlie and Lucifer who are now just confused as fuck seeing how Michael (filled with new growing hope) crushes Adam in a big hug with all the intensity of his power and somehow it was till so gentle and careful that it didn't kill Adam.

And the first man just there struggling to get loose while also suffocating.

Idk I just like Michael still having to be the hero even in circumstances where he doesn't want to. So the universe just grants him a purpose for he to keep following up God's title for him. If he wasn't gonna do shit because he lost Adam? Then BAM! Sinner Adam is now a thing so keep your ass moving Michael!

Michael now wants to fix things up to keep Adam safe; his new purpose (reason) on protecting heaven, his people and the countless souls God left him in charge with.

[candlecordyceps]

Ok I’m taking the time to Yap now WARNING FOR ANIME SPOILERS IF YOU HAVENT WATCHED IT!!!

This is just my raw emotional reactions, opinions, and just general interpretations of the last few scenes in the episode.

Starting off, I’m beginning with Shuro confronting Laois for what he did. Shuro seems to be a very high-standing fellow from what I’ve been given so far (as an anime only currently- I will start reading the manga once it finishes releasing I promise). He has guards that are close to him, and I assume he’s rich, and knowing that he will DEFINITELY care a lot more about black magic and laws, because they effect him more due to his (assumed) status. He’s understandably terrified of what this means for Falin. And he confronts Laois by asking him,

“Do you know what you’ve done?” He tells him all the hell that he can go through for it, what FALIN will go through for it, Marcille will go through- but Laois knows.

He’s well aware of the consequences and he was willing to do it anyways. For Falin. For his sister. Because she was willing to risk her life for him and for everyone, everyone followed suit, and the desperation to do so was so powerful they were willing to do what it took. And Laois ALSO knows, that despite what Shuro is doing right now,

He would’ve done the same. Shuro won’t kill him, because he knows he would’ve done anything too. Laois doesn’t GET people. He thought he could trust Shuro to be quiet. At this point it’s pretty obvious to me, especially in the episode with him being clingy and friendly with Shuro, calling him the one of the “only ones to call him a friend”, despite Shuro’s very obvious uncomfortable-disturbed-annoyed attitude toward Laois and general unwellness being unnoticed (until told specifically of it, to which Laois immediately got onto Shuro about his health). Yet, he knows Shuro would’ve done anything too.

Shuro stays his sword, Laois wishes for understanding, Kabru gets a drama boner (I find it funny how into it he is), and the scene changes. And FUCK man.

Laois loves Falin so much, and he knows how much Shuro cares. He cared enough to return. He told him everything because he needs the help, and he’s banking on the care for Falin to be enough to work with him to return her to safety. I’m SOOOO hoping he does help. That he breaks down and the sword falls from Laois’s neck. That even though it goes against a law so potent it could get everyone involved into extremely deep trouble, the bonds he’s made are enough. I don’t know Shuro well enough at all. Lord knows if he’ll even keep it to himself if they get out of the dungeon. But GOD am I not thrilled to figure out more. AND NOW, to the scene that made me scream from my seat multiple times,

Faliiiiiinnnnnnnnn GHHHHHOOOODDDD. When I tell you I GASPED. Watching the hands that we had witnessed painstakingly put together. The hands That two people took the care into fixing and making sure each was in the perfect place- scraping against the floor. Bloody around the sleeves, clawing forward- on a mission for someone she doesn’t actually know. Her mind is warped by the mission of the mage. Put back together just to bleed and be reshaped and melded to something scary and unknown and new-

AND ITS TERRIFYING. LOOK AT HER. JESUS CHRRRIIIIIIIST. Someone so loved and someone they all want to protect is RIGHT THERE, but she’s almost unrecognizable beyond her face, and mentally she’s so incredibly far away.

I can’t imagine the distress in everyone as they realize that they have to fight the exact person they’ve been fighting for. Because there’s no way she is peaceful and there is no way she’ll just “be Falin” without some extreme inbetweens. There’s no way that the mage doesn’t return if/when they succeed. I’m SOO excited to witness them figure it out and try to save her once more.

IF YOU MADE IT HERE THANKS FOR READING ME YAPPING!! This is mainly a little storage for me later when I wanna revisit and figure out what I thought before I knew what happened. Have a nice day/night readers!

[overleftdown]

farleigh start thoughts

this is going to be a very random, very eclectic post. i just wanted to share some stuff that i can't figure out how to post independently. some headcanons, some commentary, some references... who knows. probably just a lot of yabbering.

"keep the rain" by searows. dude. just listen to the lyrics, i swear.

i was wondering about what the cattons really give farleigh. there's kind of... endless possibilities. his family in america is emotionally neglectful, but how do the cattons differ? i can imagine that having felix and venetia, two people of similar ages that he can glue himself to, is important to him. i also think that frederica start is an overlooked aspect of farleigh's character. e.i. he needs to have some semblance of closeness with the cattons if he has a chance at convincing them to financially support his mom. i think his ultimate mistake when confronting felix was perhaps centering himself, when the conversation was originally about frederica. although farleigh needed to finally say what he knew all along; he's different, and he's being treated differently because of it. i digress; farleigh wants companionship, a loud and distracting lifestyle, the security that only wealth can give you, and the possibility of helping his mom. that's how i sum it up, at least.

although farleigh is prone to escapism (into his wealth, into drugs, into his social life, into the games he plays), he doesn't seem as committed to cognitive dissociation as the rest of the cattons. i don't think farleigh is deluded by the wealth and power he has access to; i actually think it's the opposite. he is so hyper-vigilant of what he can lose that he's entirely aware that he doesn't know how to exist without wealth. the rest of the cattons have convinced themselves that wealth isn't an inherent part of them (elspeth with her odd anecdotes that imply she's a worldly woman, felix with his down-to-earth "i'm beyond classism" attitude, venetia with her general boredom of wealth and everything attached to wealth). farleigh never has that attitude. he knows exactly who he is with wealth, and he's terrified of what he will face without wealth. how would he cope with his sometimes-debilitating otherness? how would he have any power, any control, if not wealth and status? (this is a warped perception of reality, but i believe that's the perspective that comes with omnipresent wealth since you were born).

i think that farleigh would smother his room in pictures. i mean all kinds of media. films he likes, artists he likes (beyonce, justin timberlake, gwen stefani, aaliyah, madonna), pictures of new york, polaroids, photo booth strips, favorite travel locations (greece, italy, LA, germany, whatever), chad from hsm because that's his hair inspo, vogue magazine clippings- jesus, dare i say... postcards? i'm picturing anything and everything. but let's say that farleigh is a very private person. i mean, he's a professional hider, secret keeper, "inside thoughts" kind of person. i'm imagining anything just slightly too personal would be kept in a box. maybe that same box he keeps his cocaine! family pictures, baby pictures, personal photography (would it be bold to imagine farleigh as a notorious street photographer?), old knick knacks like his first friendship bracelets or seashells he found on the beach. i'm getting carried away. farleigh seems like the type to consume, linger, consider. i feel like anyone who wears gucci loafers also has an immense amount of sentimental material.

farleigh doesn't like english food that much.

farleigh is clearly able to apply himself in an academic setting, if the tutoring session is anything to go by. he takes a gamble on whether spending time with people is more beneficial than actually doing his work, and maybe he's just a little bit bored by school. but at the same time, he listened to oliver's entire essay and counted each individual time that oliver said "thus." where the tutor wasn't even listening, farleigh made the choice to specifically comment on oliver's rhetorical content because he understands how to apply yourself academically, even if you've yet to get around to the actual assignment. so.

i think farleigh likes to read. clearly felix, vee, and farleigh all made an agreement to read harry potter together. but i'm also imagining farleigh as a sort of classic literature, historical drama, and romance type of reader. i just think he'd get a kick out of it. i imagine his myspace page genuinely contained moments where he shared book plot like it was school drama.

based on archie's information about how he was asked to audition for farleigh, i think that farleigh speaks to his mom less often and very casually. in a few of archie's interviews, he said he was asked to mimic a phone call with the character's mom while he talked about guys he slept with recently. i think farleigh learned to avoid attempting any substantial conversation with frederica from a fairly young age (also from what archie has said about farleigh's dynamic with his mom). there's a level of both maturity and immaturity to farleigh's relationship with frederica. frederica clings to youth and avoids traditional aspects of motherhood. farleigh had to meet her in this odd middle ground, speaking to her like a friend that's similar in age to him. i can imagine that very few people have had any genuine, serious, emotional conversations with farleigh. like archie has said, farleigh and felix's heated confrontation has never happened before. farleigh doesn't say shit about what he's feeling or thinking.

farleigh and the cattons is so GAH. familial but transactional, familial but not quite. the cattons resolutely ignore the massive elephant in the room that is their inability to let go of how they view farleigh. "dad felt so guilty that he agreed to pay for all of farleigh's education," which also implies that farleigh is only living with the cattons because james has roped himself into this odd situation where farleigh is being shipped to england for school. now that he kinda has to stay with them based on that one agreement, it would also be weird if the cattons didn't treat farleigh the same as felix and venetia. i'm getting carried away. supporting a family member isn't supposed to be on the basis of guilt or pity. there is supposed to be... love? like, c'mon. this makes farleigh's relationship with his cousins odd. venetia believes farleigh is spoiled ("talk about biting the hand"), felix agrees that farleigh is there for entertainment. both comments didn't sit very well with me. the normal family dynamic is shrouded in this strange obligatory and transactional attitude. odd. odd odd odd.

YOUR BEST AMERICAN GIRL BY MITSKI

nothing, just farleigh's relationship with sex and how abysmally unhealthy it is, actually. and also the fact that oliver coerced him sexually GAH. i see this character and he makes me insane to be so honest.

he had to mourn both his cousins ALONE??

i hope farleigh eventually does something incredibly sinister and conniving and mean to oliver.

okay i'm done. hope you enjoyed... all of that.