#john krasinski imagine

[nouearth]

candy-wasted.

john krasinski x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. with halloween coming to a disappointing end, what's a better way to end the holiday than to get candy-wasted on john's offer of his king-sized candy bar?

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 6.7k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 domestic!au 〳 halloween!au 〳 husband!john 〳 established relationship 〳 kissing 〳 sexual content: top!john, bottom!reader, anal penetration, rough!sex, no prep, breeding, spitting, blowjob (r!giving), pain kink, slapping, spanking, armpit fetish, humiliation, degradation, body worship, cock worship, over-stimulation, extremely hung!john.

“Think that might be the last of ‘em,” John said, shutting the front door and turning off the porch light. “Not a single Lydia Deetz, Ennui, Deadpool, or Wolverine costume in sight.”

It was Halloween night.

Declaring Halloween as your favorite holiday would be unjust to the true fanatics. More than anything, you loved the celebration for the atmosphere. You loved the smell of autumn coming into full bloom by virtue of artificial cinnamon and apple in soy candles rather than the fresh leaves withering outside. You loved driving by neighborhoods to see all the houses that had been decorated, fictionalizing a house-decorating competition in the process. You loved how spooky TV would get, from horror movies to reruns of old sitcom episodes that had a Halloween theme.

Most important of all, you loved taking your kids out to trick or treat with John, watching them outgrow their costumes every year and growing teary-eyed at the likelihood that they’d eventually stop having you and John come along with them in favor of their friends.

Even though you mentally prepared yourself for the moment, you weren’t expecting this year to be the time where your son and daughter would tell you that they would be sleeping over at a friend’s for the celebration. As if there was any option for you and John to protest too, it suddenly struck you how quickly they were becoming their own person, because they had already packed their bags the night before.

But also—damn you, for raising them to be so direct.

When John returned back to the couch, you glanced at the bowl.

“Do kids these days not go trick-or-treating anymore? We’re doing less refills than usual,” You took the half-empty bowl from him and rummaged through the assorted candy bars. “When I was a kid, I used to circle my neighborhood multiple times because I was determined to not end the night with a barren bucket. I also knew my parents would steal from my stash whenever I was asleep, so that was another incentive to prolong the pain in my little kid legs.”

You knew you were babbling and were beyond caring. From the smile John gave you, he seemed more entertained by the endless vault of childhood stories than the horror marathon you two had started since six o’clock in the evening.

“All those candy runs seem to be paying off considering your calves are the size of bowling balls,” John laughed, arranging your legs to lay them across his lap as you resumed lounging. To prove his point, he began unzipping your costume’s pant leg one-by-one, ventilating your ankles and calves finally free from the tight spandex.

You breathed a sigh of relief when the draft in the air chilled the sweat on your skin, then another, when John’s large hands began stroking and kneading at your legs. You probably should have guessed that John had other intentions in mind since his hands only traveled north, in which your calves were nowhere to be found.

But what would be the fun in calling out your lover’s extremely apparent advances? For a brief moment, you two sat in silence, putting the TV on mute because the marathon had run its course, but also to hear the sound of John’s hands, calloused, warm, and large over the plane of your body, exploring you and the ribbed costume like he was learning texture for the first time.

It had been quite a long time since it was this quiet in the house. You had to have accidentally said it out loud, or John’s telepathic abilities were only awakened on Halloween night, because he was looking at you like you had whet his appetite, hazel eyes cataloguing your body like it was a dirty magazine, lips bitten in secrecy.

“What’s on your mind, Captain America?” You let your legs wrap around John’s waist when he pulled you to sit on his lap, fixing his tousled hair with a smooth swoop of your hand, and affectionately squeezed his large shoulders after.

God, John filled out his costume so well. No wonder you couldn’t stop glancing at him throughout the night, the tactical suit made him look much larger and imposing—you couldn’t help but run your hands all over his body and his tight muscles beneath the fabric, the contoured lines of the costume was practically inviting you to do so.

“I’m thinking… the neighborhood is quiet. I’m thinking that the kids are preparing for bed, and that the parents are drunk off their children’s candy stash, which means you can finally take it easy for tonight, Spider-Man.” John’s smile was terribly broad. You could feel him fiddling with the pull tab on the back of your costume with one hand while the other was caressing the side of your thigh, nearing dangerously closer to your rump.

It was a cheap costume that ran for no more than forty bucks, which meant you could feel the heat radiating off of John’s palm.

“Take it easy? I’ve been taking it easy. I got my popcorn, some king-sized candy bars, a scary flick, a rather inquisitive man holding me…” You shivered when his hand paused on your right buttock and squeezed. “Nothing’s beating this right now.”

He began kissing your neck, his beard ticklish and feathery over your flesh. “Really? Nothing at all?” Both of his hands were on your rump now, massaging tenderly at the handful of thick flesh in his palms.

You must have indulged in the warmth and strength of John’s grip on you for far too long, because out of the blue, he began knocking the silence out of you with strong smacks to your ass, drawing out a collection of moans and grunts from you as he fixated on marking up your neck until your mouth was in vicinity.

When his strong palms came down onto your cheeks again, your lips parted at the right moment he would seize them, capturing your mouth for a slow, languid kiss. John’s lips tasted like a celebration. You could feel the crumbs of sugar from the fruit ropes he was eating prior roll off his lips and onto your tongue, flavoring the kiss of green apple. You moaned, gently holding at both ends of his jaw, while your hips grew conscious of how your body was reacting to John’s tongue invading your mouth, pressing your growing tent against his pelvis with slow rolls, pushing your ass out to meet his hands.

“Nothing at all, unless…” You groaned when the stinging over your covered ass was only heightened by the unrelenting grasp John had on your ample skin. If he wasn’t so busy tonguing your mouth open, you wouldn’t be surprised to find him tearing your costume into two within the next second. “You have something to bestow upon me?”

“Ever heard of a monster-sized candy bar? I got one that’s filled with vanilla cream for you, specifically curated to your taste buds. What do you think? I’ll trade ya’.” The spirit of Halloween affected him as he laughed into the kiss, the tip of his nose crinkling in effect and swiping over yours when he resumed in exploring your mouth.

“I think it sounds like a trick, you a con-man?” You lightly pushed at his chest to break from the kiss, then lingered to silently admire his well-built pecs. You weren’t sure if you were more turned on by John’s hard-work and dedication, or the fantasy of him as a superhero—saving you from your ultimate demise.

Regardless, your hips only rutted harder, swooping low to brush your erection against his, then raising them high, to grind your rump over his arousal.

“Keep moving your hips like that, and you’ll find the answer soon.”

An inquisitive hand of yours reached in between John’s thighs. It didn’t take long, hardly a millisecond, to find what you’d been searching for.

The mass in your palm was overwhelmingly large and thick. You felt your throat go dry when the weight of John’s bulge was heavy enough to unfurl itself within his suit, across his right thigh, and reach to a point of hardness where one hand of yours found it impossible to tame it alone.

You stroked the enormous print, focusing on the apparent head with your thumb, and then squeezed. Hard.

“Fuck, (M/N). Upstairs, now.”

As you sat on your knees, the scent of arousal filled your nostril. There was something enthralling about this position, being bare and naked on the carpet, while you were looking up at John’s hard cock through your lashes. He was already monstrous enough, but the angle from below provided insight just exactly how jaw-dropping his size was.

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Captain. What would you like in exchange?” Bracing your hands on his strong calves, you nuzzled the underside of his erection. You sucked in a breath at the smell of it. The heat and musk built from a long day of work, finally released out into the air, tickled your nose pleasantly and made your mouth water. “‘Three musketeers?’ ‘Butterfingers?’ ‘Hershey’s?’” You slapped his heavy cock over your lips, mouthing over the tender spots of his glans.

He had his arms behind his head, exhaling slow and steady, sporting an expression that told you he was the luckiest man alive, not that you needed that affirmation, as you held his cock tight around the base and suckled at the plump, pink tip. “How about ‘(M/N)’s Pieces?’ Yeah? Is that up for grabs?”

You could feel his hairy thighs tense up when you taunted him with the tiniest licks over his heavy, full balls. It was amusing, watching his cock jolt over your face—like they were envious of such half-hearted actions.

“You mean, the candy that would make a kind and handsome dad, such as yourself, turn into a ferocious beast of a man?” Holding John’s lustful gaze, you took a long and slow lick at the underside of his shaft, the girth of it thicker than the width of your tongue.

You felt complacent when he let out a hoarse moan upon pressing your nose deep into his cock-slit, inhaling deep. “Yeah, that one…”

You traced the prominent veins on his cock with your tongue—thick, pumping blood vessels that made him throb over your mouth with rage. “You know, you’d have to work really hard…” Between fondling and suckling his full sack into your mouth, you stroked his shaft and muttered, “To break me into pieces.”

It was difficult enough to maintain some semblance of order, but the taste of John’s sweat, blooming delicately and stimulating your appetite like an hors d’oeuvre, made you nearly submit as your knees felt inclined to spread wider, and wider, letting you enjoy your last moments before you’d yield.

You hoped you were distracting John enough, being caught in the middle of humping the air and fucking yourself back on some imaginary dick would’ve gave him the upper hand.

“I do—oh, fuck…” He choked back on a moan, the heat of your mouth as you suddenly slid his cock inside melted the composure off his face. His thick shaft strained, stretching your wet mouth uncomfortably. The chances of you taking all of John inside of your mouth was slim to none. You’d done this so many times, tried everything, from practicing with a dildo to enduring the tears welling, to get him down your throat, but your body wouldn’t give in—it simply couldn’t.

He was much too big for your own good.

John was large. Tall. Always has been, and always will be. His muscular legs were open wide, his face was slack-jawed from your tantalizing tongue, and even though you could barely fit half of his cock inside of your mouth, you were still in control.

You pulled him out with a gasp, nearly choking back on the spit pooled in the back of your mouth, and sniffled. “You do? You sure about that?” There was no doubt that the inevitable was going to happen. Gagging on John’s large cock was a given, but it was the messiness of it all, that made your cock leak. “I don’t think you can handle it.”

His cock was coated thick and heavy in a glorious sheen of spit, translucent pearls shining on the veiny skin. One hand was massaging his balls while the other was adamant in slicking him up until the weight of your own saliva was enough to weigh him down.

You temporarily freed John from your fist to slap his wet and large cock around. It was delectable, watching his giant tool swing from the impact of your smacks. Webs of thick spit occasionally flung to your face, as if his dick was fighting back against your horrendous taunts, but all you needed to do was tame it with your mouth again, and the reign on John’s body resumed.

“I am, and I can…” John grunted, his abdominal muscles flexing. You could see his toes curling into the carpet at the corner of your eye, swirling your tongue over the swollen pink head while the rest of his monster cock was being man-handled by your quick hand, tightly grasping to keep your hand from slipping.

“You absolutely sure?” Your words turned him on, his cock maddening in course as it spat out drips of pre-cum from the squeezing grip you had around his shaft.

The substance wouldn’t stance a chance against your urges, you eagerly went on to lap it up, forcing more of the viscous fluid to come out with competitive strokes to aid.

“I’m sure—baby, come on, enough—“ He struggled to contain his moans, arching his hip forward to push himself further into your mouth, but you wouldn’t have it. Instead, you reeled yourself back, slapping his cock once again as punishment, and remained at tip’s length.

You could tell he was getting frustrated, you knew of his mannerisms for years now. For God’s sake, you were his husband. His jaw tightened and his eyes leered down at you with sudden alert—like a silent warning. He exhaled sharply as if the draft in the room had infected his strong body with frostbite.

Nonetheless, you continued entertaining yourself, knowing the consequences—anticipating them, rather.

You tongued the urethra of his dick, welcoming every drop with greedy sucks, all while you hadn’t left John out of your sight for a single second. You could make John orgasm right then, you were so sure of it.

“You really, really, really sure?” Your smile was smug, feigning innocence while you mouthed on his thick piece of meat, stroking yourself to the copious amount of pre-cum leaking from his tip.

John’s gaze immediately darkened.

He loved watching you slap his dick across your face. He loved being in awe at his own size, especially when you’d shower him in praises as you compared his big cock to your forearm.

I’m going to break my ass taking you, John. Holy fuck…

He loved having his dick sucked, point blank period. How sloppy it could get, how nice his cock felt when it was being slimed up with such pent-up arousal. You were confident that you were over-delivering in that department too because the lower half of your face was dripping in your own saliva.

“What’s the matter, big man? You don’t want to fuck me anymore? Break me into pieces like you originally wanted to? Think you won’t satisfy me enough?” You pursed your lips over the plump head, provoking John by the sudden languid pace of your wrist. “Answer me,” You slapped his large cock again, your own erection throbbing from watching John grit his teeth in sudden refusal to give in.

“Are you sure or not? Huh? Answer me,” John sucked in his teeth every time you smacked his cock, and you proceeded to hound him harder, narrowing your tone. “Your cock’s useless. Can’t satisfy me. Can’t satisfy a fucking flashlight with how big it is.”

“Ghoul got your tongue, or what?” You smacked his cock hard. “Your big fucking cock—” His cock swung. “—seems to be doing—” Pulsed in a fit of pique. “the speaking for y—“

A harsh slap cut your taunts short.

You let out a gasp, your hand instantly coming up to hold your cheek and tranquilize the stinging pain. Shock crossed your face, bewildered as though you hadn’t been anticipating his catharsis the entire time.

“Enough,” He pulled you up by the jaw to meet your lips hungrily, his large hands clamped tight around your neck like you were fresh carp farmed for hatchery. “You’re really testing me today, aren’t you?”

The kiss was searing, your lips volunteering themselves to be bitten and sucked to be forgiven upon the increasing pressure around your throat. Maybe you were still coming to terms with the slap, but it swallowed you whole nonetheless, rendering you incapable of producing a single coherent thought.

You whimpered softly, his resentment was beyond recall as his hands remained solid, one thumb looming over the center of your throat, “Hit me again—“

He stabilized you with one hand around your throat, squeezing tight, and let his other hand swing across your cheek, harder than previously.

“F-fuck!” You could feel your cheek blooming with heat, stinging as if a million of rose thorns had prickled your skin to poison you with its color, and you couldn’t have asked for more.

It was too good. John’s large hand imprinted hot on your face, and it felt too fucking good. You were branded, an extension to the wedding band around your finger, a reminder of your undying love for him.

“Get on the fucking bed,” John growled, tugging on your lower lip with his teeth, slow yet imposing, before sending you away with a gentle kiss on your stricken cheek, a much-needed relief you had been silently clamoring for.

The metal clanking behind you sounded like church bells, but you resisted the temptation of looking over your shoulder, fearing that whatever John had in mind, he’d strip it away upon your lack of diligence. You crawled onto the bed on all fours and anticipated nervously

At long last, you felt your royal throne crumble into a million pieces.

You suppressed an urge to swear. The heat emanating from a strip of leather when he struck your ass was bartered directly with the devil himself. Another peep out of you, and John would’ve banished you to hell to pay your dues to the fallen angel.

“It was cute, I have to admit…” Your body jolted when John muttered near your hear. In the time his hand was soothing your whipped ass cheeks, the other had a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back for you to look at him. “Seeing you think you had control over me, even going as far as to humiliate me and my cock—did that make you happy? Huh?”

“I-I don’t know—“ You struggled to find the words, your mouth parting instead to lean in for a kiss in hopes to distract him, but John quickly caught on. He knew you, very well in fact, yanking your head back harder to coax a gasp out of you. As John had expected, he then pushed a thick wad of spit into your mouth before pulling you by the back of your neck into your original position.

You shuddered, smacking your lips at the arousing taste of John’s saliva spreading in your mouth. You savored him, wanted John to last forever on your tongue. You didn’t want to swallow. You wanted to simply let his spit pool with your own and mix into the perfect elixir that would work perfectly as a muscle relaxant, something that would greatly aid you in taking John’s cock—knowing the likelihood that he wouldn’t be easing up anytime soon.

“Answer me.” Your eyes widened in a silent plea when John taunted you with the belt in his hand. Before you could moan out so much of a beg, the leather in John’s hand came down swinging at your buttocks and seemingly cut through flesh. In turn, your four limbs gave out from the electrifying bolts of pain, making you collapse onto your stomach from the arresting strength of John’s resentment as you cried out in pleasure.

“Oh, fuck! F-fuck, fuck, fuck…!” You writhed in bittersweet glory, choking back on swears and instead, what came out were delicious straggled sounds that made John’s cock uncontrollably pulse. Your hands roamed the bedsheets, clawing at the silk material in search for a physical outlet to release the tension in your body. “I-I’m s-sorry—“

His cock was near you, lubed up in a thick, alluring sheen. Maybe John wouldn’t mind if you held him. Plead for him to stop with lazy, but abiding stroke. You bit your lips and stretched over to grab him.

He lifted your head again for you to face him. You sniffled, letting the tears roll down your flushed face before another wad of spit would accompany them in their journey. “You’re not answering my question. Were you happy?”

Upon barely brushing your fingers over the head of his cock, you reeled yourself back when the belt came striking down on your ass again, breaking skin as repercussions to your hedonistic behavior. Your legs came up to kick back at the air violently, grinding out the pain by digging your swollen cock into the bed.

You had enough.

You needed John.

Now.

“Y-yes! I was fucking happy! Watching your large cock swing like that. Degrading you to the point where you were too ashamed to answer me. Abusing your pathetic tool because it’s too immersed in its own girth to know that I actually despise your cock. Should’ve seen the look on your handsome face—god, I could’ve came right there. All because I was in control. You fucking let me, you fucking delusional self-obsessed cuck—”

At breakneck speed, John curtailed you of your vigorous speech by shoving your face into a pillow, mounting on top of you with one foot pressing hard to the back of your head, and grunted, “How do you like me now?” Pushing all of his body weight to vault you out of an escape route, you felt his cockhead suddenly breach your hole.

“Holy—shit!” You sobbed at the discomfort, kicking your legs back as John pushed more of his large cock further in, adding onto the painful stretch of your unsuspecting hole. You felt his a palm on your ass, spreading one cheek open to aid the slide. “Fucking, more—Johnny! More, more, more—“

“There we fucking go, fuck. Look at that hole. Fucking swollen around me, and I’m only halfway in,” he licked his lips, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his forearm as he loosened your raw hole with shallow thrusts, his cock pushing deeper at every rut.

Your body’s natural reaction was to propel yourself up for some air, but after the first turn, John instantly took both of your wrists and bound them behind your back, your back muscles squeezing in effect. When you pushed your ass out, his foot pressed harder like it had the power to bury you six feet under if John had no concept of restraint.

It was painful, all of this, your neck was hurting, but especially your hole, his unrelenting thrusts—but, be that as it may, you were so happy that you didn’t have to remind John to leave you unprepared. Otherwise, the pleasure of John’s large cock gutting you raw wouldn’t have overstimulated you, not to this profundity. Your wriggles only made John hold onto your wrists tighter, his heel press deep into your nape, you were sure it would be bruised by the next morning.

You felt so used, your body at his disposal. Your cock was painfully rubbing between your pelvis and the bed from the impact of his strong thrusts, but you were leaking and throbbing nonetheless, staining the sheets from the thrill of it all—of being John’s personal fuck-toy.

“Feels fucking incredible. Shit, baby—“ His cock was digging into you like an excavator, slow in its journey, but you could feel him sowing excitement deep into you, nearing the crown of your prostate with the grind of his hips. You clenched tight, gripping your aching walls around the girth to provide John an incentive to go at you harder.

Not loose enough.

He had to fuck you open.

And you were desperate.

The perks to being married was that pleasuring one another came second nature to both parties. Luckily, you led a charmed life, and John was here to bestow upon you your weekly demands.

He released his foot on you, but you groaned when he pressed his remaining weight on top of your writhing body. “If you’re good…” John panted hot on your shoulders, accompanying the abruptly slow roll of his hips with chaste kisses to the shell of your ear and the moist parts of your neck. “Maybe I’ll let you play with your cock.”

“Please…” You flexed your toes into the sheets when John nearly pulled himself out, thankfully leaving only the swollen tip in.

“No, I had a change of heart. Maybe, I’ll let you jack off until you explode all over your sweaty body,” you pushed your ass back to slide more of him in, but a hard smack to your ass nipped your oscillation in the bud. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I’ll be good—promise…” you looked over your shoulder at John with glistening eyes and a sniffle, finding yourself frowning when he pulled himself completely out, and insisted on rubbing his wet cockhead over your raw, blossomed pucker.

“See? This is how it’s supposed to be—the natural order between you and I,” he sighed, giving into your desperation, and pulled you in for a sweet, lingering kiss after releasing your hands. A sigh of relief, you braced yourself half-way up with an elbow, the other hand reaching back to rest on John’s nape, and locked his lips deeply into yours, pacified by the soft fur of his beard on your chin.

His tongue messily swiped over yours as you both had intended to explore each other’s mouths. You two met in the middle, bridging each other’s spit from one mouth to the other. When a dribble of drool dared to leak from the corner of your mouth, John had incredible foresight and was already lapping it up before it could trail to the bottom of your chin.

“Say you love my cock…” John whispered, swaddling you into his arms from behind and carefully maneuvering your body on top of him as he switched positions, reclining himself onto his back.

Interlacing his legs with yours, John then pushed them apart with the spread of his knees, twisting his ankles over your own to lock you in place. He angled his hips to slide his dick over your taint, letting you wallow in the sight of his plump tool nearly curve over your throbbing erection.

“I love your cock…” You muttered softly, nuzzling the side of his kempt beard. The smell of bourbon vanilla lingered delightfully in your nostrils as you watched him from the corner of your eye, drooling when you caught a glance of his large cock spit thick drips of pre-cum over your balls.

It was fruitless to even try to attempt to close your legs, John’s calves overpowered your own by tenfold. In spite of your wish, John compensated by reaching below, trailing his warm hand over your ribs and stomach in passing, and wrapped his hand around your cock, slowly pumping.

“Say, you’ll be a good boy for me…” Brushing your hair back, John claimed a hold over the back of your head, raising his left arm to welcome your face into his armpit.

You moaned at the warm, musky odor. The thick hairs reeked of sweat. Salty and slightly spicy in your nostrils, yet you couldn’t help but inhale for more, breathing in the natural pheromones and making your cock dribble out ample amounts of pre-cum when the aroma of John’s masculine scent fogged your passing judgement, and had you licking at his pit.

John cradled the back of your head, quickening the strokes on your cock seemingly as a token of his appreciation while you buried your face in the bush of dark hairs, nuzzling and licking long stripes over the plane. It was addicting, yet embarrassingly filthy as it registered how easily John had reign over your freewill. Your spit gathered in the center of John’s armpit, where the hairs were grown the thickest. They were beads of your devotion, and you couldn’t have felt prouder marking your territory.

Your mouth watered and tingled at the ripe taste lasting on your tongue, then, when John suddenly tipped your chin up and spat inside of your mouth—you felt like you were in heaven, like your body wanted to crumble in front of him from the intimacy of it all.

He captured your lips again, and you muttered softly, “I’ll be a good boy…” You watched him with lustful eyes, anticipating his next move. His right hand had stopped stroking your cock in favor of massaging your tight balls, making you squirm with desire. When his other hand released his hold over the back of your head to toy with your perky nipples, the simultaneous pleasure carried a hoarse tune of desperation out from your throat.

“You’ll be daddy’s good boy?” He nuzzled your ear, kissing the shell of it.

“I’ll be whatever daddy wants me to be,” you slowly rolled your hips when you could feel John line his cock over your hole, lubing your pucker with the thick fluid leaking from the crown.

“And you want daddy’s big cock?” He rested one hand on each thigh respectively, spreading your legs farther by the aid of his knees.
 “I’m aching inside…” Your cock twitched upon feeling so completely vulnerable and bare for him.

“Then, let’s turn that ache into pleasure, shall we?”

That was all it took. A heartbeat, a single push of John’s hips, one strong stroke, and he claimed his territory. It was beautiful. Your silky flesh fluttered and clenched on his cock, and your eyes popped open wide when he slammed upward.

John ripped a glorious moan out of you. Your neck strained with beautiful veins as your attempts to bite them back were powerless in comparison to the spark of passion in John’s hips. You could see the very moment the fire flared in John’s eyes, his fingers gripping a mound of your thighs until they had turned white.

You were filled to the root, uncomfortably-so as John’s biceps bulged with strong veins on account of the bend of your legs. He capsized them, holding them back at the crook while he deliciously hollowed your hole deep with his monster cock, your feet dangling in the air from the pure drive.

It was a reminder. That you were his. That you were his only. Nobody could ever own you like he owned you now. John made sure those thoughts wouldn’t dissipate by making sure you felt every inch of his plump, meaty cock burrow in and out of you. John was adamant in making this more than a memory. He wanted you to wake up and sleep thinking about him. Thinking about his cock. Thinking about how brutally stretched you felt right now, and that you didn’t mind at all—because it was John, your loving husband. He would do anything for you, and right now, he was living up to his many vows of loving you fiercely, of completing you, of loving you forever and every day.

“T-too much, John—“ It wasn’t, you were lying—it was fucking perfect, but god, did you love making your husband feel powerful. You loved feeding his cock with arousal, feeling him throb harder while he pummeled himself faster into you at your spoken truth. “Cock’s too big—“

“I’ll make a cunt out of you, wear out your tight little hole until it’s leaking like one,” He growled. You cried out from unabashed lust, holding your legs back to expose yourself further, and John set the animal free at the depiction. He held your waist, dragging your unsullied hole through his hardness until only the tip was left before connecting the drop of your weight with a powerful thrust, punching into your prostrate.

“That’s what you are, right? My good little cunt? Just a good boy who can do nothing right, but take my large cock.” John gutted loud moans out of you, his gaze locked on your wrecked expression because watching you take his cock was equally as gratifying as sinking himself of you, down to the root. “Say it. Say you want daddy to make a cunt out of you.”

You were falling in love with this animalistic side of John. With the sensations he was supplying and overwhelming you with. Your cock was sure to agree, throttling as if there was a phantom hand stroking its shaft.

“I want—a fucking cunt. Want daddy to make a cunt out of my hole, please—“ You felt deviant, like those words shouldn’t have left your mouth, but it was all the worthwhile because John kissed you hard on the mouth, groaning.

Up to the hilt, John thrusted into faster—harder as you choked back on a moan and nearly gagged on his tongue. “I’m going to fill you up with so much of my cum, you’d be leaking for days.”

“Oh, God—“ You gritted your teeth, exhaling loud and hard because it was coming. Your stomach clenched and your balls tightened without the need of your hand.

“You’d be lucky to walk tomorrow, (M/N). You’d need my help walking you down the stairs. Even then, I wouldn’t be so sure if we’d make it to the floor. Knowing the prospect, I’d just take you right then and there, on the fucking stairwell, making your ass gape once again.”

“John, s-stop—I’m going to—“ Your eyes rolled back until John could only see whites. His words supplied you with the mental picture of the filthy smut coming out of his mouth. It came to you naturally—the smile on your face. You were broken in your state of reverie, dazed by the fantasy of taking John’s cock anywhere and anytime he pleased. Using you however his mind and body desired like he was now. Balls-slapping against your taint, sweat sticking your body to one another, pants and groans loud in your ear, the air thickening with the act of pure lust, pounding into you with no intention in letting you recover your breath. “S-stop, fucking coming—“

“Look at me,” John ordered you, panting.

Your eyes were heavy when you looked up, mere slits from the weight of your desires, heavily drugged by John’s poisoning rapture on your wrecked body. You pressed a smile against his mouth, making no attempt to kiss him, but to simply be in close proximity, pressing his nose against yours. He grappled at your hips, digging your insides with the weight of his large cock, piercing into prostate harder and faster as he took a bargain on your orgasm coming to a near.

You were stunned, the gutting you were enduring from John hitting you like a ton of bricks. You emptied your throat of sounds, the inner walls dry and scratched like the desert. All you managed for John was vigilant whimpers, any more forewarnings were fallen on deaf ears as you’d been knocked into a trance that melted your speech into meek garbles of incoherency.

It only took a few more seconds before your brain rewired itself and had your body floundering within John’s loving embrace, alerting you awake. With the help of John’s cock continuously assaulting deep at your prostate, you felt your body tense up, your hole clenching around pillar John’s pistoning staff to stop him, but he prevailed, breaching through the resistance, and slammed hard into your prostate once more, splitting your ass open and knocking the orgasm out of you.

John held your gaze, marveling over the ecstasy in your otherwise blown-out expression. His brows furrowed in utter fascination as your mouth parted open, only for your moans to adhere to your throat instead, blowing your load in agonizing silence. Thick ropes spurted powerfully out of your throbbing cock, splattering messily over your chest. With the buck of your hips, you graced your face with your cum-shots, additionally provoked as John used the strength of his heels to lift himself to meet you at an elevated height, fucking the cum out of you.

The sound that came out of you was guttural, transporting you into another dimension where you were caught in a whirlpool of toe-curling sensations. Rubbing a hand over your stomach, he could feel it sink in as you liberated yourself from your high, uncontrollably spilling over your pelvis in midst. Yet, despite your dazed state, your eyes never left his, provoking him to come inside of you with desperate, but gentle murmurs on his lips, as well as the addition of the ring of muscle spasming around his shaft.

“Fill my cunt up, make me fucking leak…” You showered his lips in soft whispers, finally releasing your grasp on your legs to stroke at his cheek. Squeezing, caressing, urging—for him to seal your hole.

On the drop of your legs, you squeezed them close together until your knees touched, confining his shaft between the clamp of your inner walls. You clenched hard when he was buried to the root, foiling the pace of his hips, and let your swollen insides bring him closer.

“Oh… shit…” John’s eyes rolled back, and finally spilled with a shudder.

His large cock jerked deep inside of you, and soon, you felt his warm seed fill you to the brim. You felt your bond with John transcend, higher, beyond space and time, with every pulse of his thick veins pumping cum deep into you.

Upon capturing John’s lips for a kiss, he circled his hips, making you moan languidly into his mouth. You swallowed every breath of his, swirling your hips against his own cautious thrusts in retaliation, gratified by the warm, thick coating of cum your insides were receiving, soothing your spellbound hole and stirring his connection to you.

“Didn’t hurt you too bad? Think I slapped you too hard.” John asked softly, gently rubbing a palm over your stricken cheek. You could see guilt in his expression as he brought you closer to claim your lips The moment was soft, the complete opposite of previous events, silent apologies to your mouth as John’s mouth was lingering, yet electrifying all at the same time as he sucked on your lower lip.

“You. Were. Perfect.” You warded off the guilt with a smooch after word, rubbing his chest. “I asked for it, you know that. It was fun, wasn’t it? Something different to spice up the bedroom.”

“Hm…” He laughed at your sudden eagerness, as if you hadn’t been debilitated from his cock moments prior. Tucking one arm behind his head, his other hand idly began petting at your head. He retired for the night with the shut of his eyes, contemplating on their newfound kink. “Let’s see how I feel when you’re the one slapping me next time. Then we can judge it accordingly.”

“Holy shit…”

“Mhm.” “I’m pulling out the dumbbells. Too late to go back on your word now, John.”

“Wait, now that you—“

“Not a single word, or I’m making you call me ‘Doctor’ as an early punishment.”

“We both know how this will turn out. I just need to pull my dick out, and you’ll be back onto your knees, no matter how much you try to resist.”

“I… plead the fifth?”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[imyourbratzdoll]

𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒉

summary - lunch turns into something much more spicier.

warning - smut, swearing, creampie, uncomfortableness, slight jealousy.

18+ only please, the gif and dividers I use aren’t mine.

Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

You were bent over the desk, struggling to untangle some wires. Unaware of the eyes watching you and the presence behind you. You jump as a hand rests on your lower back, causing you to straighten up, your eyes landing on your new boss, Charles.

He smiles down at you, hand still resting against your back. “You alright? You seem to be having a bit of trouble there?”

You hum, nodding. “Mmhm… Yeah, thanks.”

“I think I’m the only woman in the office that isn’t attracted to Charles…” You stare at the camera before your eyes drift out the window, staring at a certain salesman. “He’s just not…” Your voice dies down, not finishing your sentence. You look back at the camera, blinking rapidly as you come out of your daze. “Anyway, I get the impression he doesn’t exactly like that?”

“Did you need any help? I can happily have a look at it for you. Don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“I’m… uh good… Thank you though.” You give an awkward smile, your body twisting slightly to try and get his hand to drop but it doesn’t budge.

From across the room, Jim glares slightly. His grip tightens on the pen, he didn’t even feel this amount of jealousy and anger when Pam was with Roy. He stands, making his way over when he notices how uncomfortable you seem.

“L/n? No, no…” Jim shakes his head at the camera, “I don’t… We’re not… She’s just… We’re friends.” He stumbles over his words, eyes drifting out the window, immediately finding you. “I don’t even know where you would get the idea that I like her…”

“Hey.” You let out a breath of relief as Jim appears next to you, slightly pushing Charles away. “I came to help you with the thing you needed help with.”

You smile, subconsciously moving closer to him. “Yeah, that’s right!” You turn to Charles and put on an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry! I completely forgot I asked Jim to help me before.”

He looks between you and Jim, a scowl appearing on his face. “Oh. That’s alright, I guess.” He goes to turn before adding. “But if you need anything, you can always come find me.” He finally leaves.

You shudder, looking up at Jim. “Thank you… He makes me so uncomfortable. I don’t know why he doesn’t take the hint that I’m not into him.” You scrunch your nose, shaking your head a bit.

“All good. Now, what have you been trying to do this whole time?” Jim gestures towards your desk and you nod, moving over, feeling him press against your back. You swallow hard, hesitant to move because one small move would cause you to brush up or press up against Jim… Especially the lower half of him.

“Uh…” You swallow, feeling him press closer, leaning over to look as well. “Some of my wires got tangled and caught onto something” Your pulse quickened, and your heart pumped hard and fast.

“Oh, that’s an easy fix* Jim’s hand skims your arm as he leans over, fixing your problem. “See.” Only to cause another problem between your legs.

You facepalm, "Oh, now I feel stupid." You turn, your breath catching in your throat as you choke out. "T-thank you though."

Jim smiles down at you, "How about you thank me by agreeing to go to lunch?"

You didn’t know how it happened… One minute you were getting into Jim’s car, ready to go to lunch and the next he was pulling into a secluded area and your hands ended up pressing against the cars roof.

“Fuck… Jim!” You moaned, his large hands gripping your hips as he bounces you up and down on his cock. Your hands move, gripping and tugging his hair as he pounds up into you.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.” He groans, his lips latching onto your neck, covering it with kisses and marks. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

You nod, head falling back as a moan falls from your lips. “I am… I’m a tease!” You struggle to get the words out as he hits deep inside you, pounding harder and harder into you causing you to clench around him. “Feels so good!”

Jim cups the back of your head, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. Teeth and tongues clashing as moans fill your mouths and his hips move faster. “You gonna cum for me, Sweetheart?”

You moan into the kiss, pressing against him more, clinging to him as you rapidly nod, your hips rolling and jerking. “P—please. I wanna cum…” Your eyes roll back as Jim jerks up, hitting the soft spot deep inside causing you to clench and pulse around him, cumming fast and hard. “O—oh! Jim!”

“Fuck…” Jim grips your hips tight as his cock twitches, thick cum painting the inside of your cunt.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[starrgazed22]

THE OFFICE'S HALLOWEEN

Jim Halpert x gn!Reader, but Pam and Dwight are also in this. :) Word count: around 600 Summary: Reader needs to quickly think of a Halloween costume to not get K.O.'d by Dwight's ego. Author's note: I became obsessed with X-men again after seeing Deadpool & Wolverine and I've got this idea! Enjoy!

As you step into the office, a sinking feeling hits you like a ton of bricks. The atmosphere is different today, buzzing with an excitement you can't quite place—until you look around. Every single person is in a costume. Pam at the reception, with her whiskers carefully drawn on and a headband with perky cat ears, looks up at you and offers a soft smile. Across the room, Kevin stands proudly in a superhero costume that’s almost comically tight, and, unsurprisingly, Angela is also in a cat costume… and Phyllis too.

You freeze for a moment, dread creeping up your spine. Halloween. How could you forget?

You walk to the reception, greeting Pam. Then, like a scene from a horror movie, you catch sight of Dwight. He’s sitting there, shrouded in a long black hooded robe, his eyes piercing you.

“You’re late…” Dwight announces, his voice dripping with ominous intent, clearly trying to stay in character.

“Yeah… there was crazy traffic down there,” you respond, scrambling for an excuse.

He inhales deeply, then lets out a dramatic sigh, clearly enjoying his role a little too much. “What are you supposed to be?” His tone suggests he’s already anticipating your failure.

Your mind races. You can’t let him know you forgot it was Halloween. That would be handing him a victory in whatever unspoken battle the two of you are constantly fighting... sometimes three of you, when Jim joins.

You need to think of something fast. Something that’ll completely throw him off.

You got it.

Dwight opens his mouth to speak again, ready to announce your defeat. “I could’ve—” he starts.

You cut him off, smoothly drawing your index and middle finger up against your temple and squinting your eyes in concentration. “—thought so…” you finish his sentence, trying to mimic the deep, contemplative voice of someone who’s just accessed the hidden corners of their mind.

Dwight’s expression falters for a second, his usual expression of suspicion giving way to genuine shock.

“I am Professor X, Charles Xavier,”you declare, trying to sound as confident as possible.

He snorts, immediately slipping back into his usual skepticism. “No you’re not. He’s bald.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, just imagine him young!”

“He was always bald, because of his mutation, dumbass,” Dwight snaps back, and you can tell he’s savoring this moment.

You lean in closer to Pam and whisper, “What a nerd.”

Pam stifles a laugh, as she watches you stroll to your desk, which, unfortunately, is directly across from Dwight’s.

“And you are?” you ask, gesturing to his dark, ominous ensemble.

“I am a Sith Lord,” he declares, his voice dripping with melodrama as he pulls back his hood slightly, revealing his intense, steely gaze.

You tilt your head and smirk. “Oh really? I thought you were having an identity crisis. No offense.”

Dwight opens his mouth, ready to retaliate, but he’s suddenly distracted by the sight of Jim walking in through the door. Jim is wearing his usual attire, except for three black circles taped to his shirt.

Dwight is done. “And you are supposed to be?”

Jim glances down at his shirt, then back up at Dwight with a grin. “Three punch holes, Dwight. Normally I’m just Jim. Today, I’m three-punch-hole Jim.”

Dwight stares at him, annoyed that no one seems to take Halloween seriously here. “You’re both so boring. Seriously, you’re made for each other,” he mutters, shaking his head as if the sheer absurdity of it all is too much for him to process.

Jim gives you a look, clearly remarking the last sentence Dwight said. You can’t help but blush slightly. Suddenly Dwight storms off in disgust, robe billowing behind him like a dark, disgruntled shadow, making you, Jim and Pam laugh uncontrollably.

In this bizarre office, it’s the small victories that matter, and you and Jim know you’ve just won this round without even trying.

Another author’s note: I know Professor X as James McAvoy had hair in the films, but they only know the X-Men with Stewart + I read somewhere that in the comics he didn’t have hair at all so Dwight may be right. :D

[drewsephrry]

okay so i have come to a realization

if you don't know, i am a huge fan of sitcoms (any recs are welcome)

so i was rewatching the office and my favorite character has always been jim and i couldn't help but notice (don't call me crazy) that he looks a lot like drew

so i did a side by side to send to one of my best friends and she agreed with me on this

so i want your opinions too!!

[birdy-bat-writes]

Y’all…there’s a crisis we haven’t addressed. It’s come to my attention that we, as a society, haven’t written anywhere NEAR enough Reed Richards (Mr. Fantastic) fanfiction!!! 😔

I encountered that mesmerizing Reed Richards Marvel Rivals character and…I slipped and fell and accidentally watched all the fantastic four movies and Reed is so cute!! He’s so adorkable and he’s so clueless at times but he’s tall, kind, smart, goofy, and totally dreamy! Why is there no fanfiction for him?

Truth be told, I know there will be an influx of fan content when Pedro pascal’s Reed Richards drops but I think we should give some love to Ioan Gruffudd and John Krasinski too, so if you have any fanfic recommendations please send them my way! 🤭

Like… do you see the vision? This nerdy dreamboat right here can be our new obsession! 🫢🫣

[sorryahwhat]

Is anybody out there still writing Jack Ryan x reader fics? I recently watched the whole series in a few days and I can’t get enough. He is so hot 🥵😱 I really would love some slowburn stories 🙏🙏 or any Jack Ryan x reader ❤️‍🩹

[trailertrends]

Unveiling the Whimsical World of IF: Ryan Reynolds Shines

Estimated Reading Time: 2 minutes 30 seconds Introduction: “IF,” directed by John Krasinski, is an enchanting film that blends fantasy and reality to explore themes of imagination, family, and the power of belief. Featuring a stellar cast including Ryan Reynolds, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, and Fiona Shaw, the film invites viewers into a world where anything is possible. Plot Summary: The story…

[lilislegacy]

has anyone seen that video of john krasinski talking about going through customs and when the passport dude found out he was married to emily blunt, he was all really? YOU?

does anyone else feel like that’s how some people would react to finding out annabeth is with percy lol? like obviously we all know percy is the most powerful, adorable, hilarious guy ever. everyone with a pulse is (rightfully) in love with him.

THAT SAID. percy acts like such an idiot. we know he’s intelligent, but strangers do not. he’s just so ridiculous all the time. and annabeth is so… well, not ridiculous. and especially if they’re someone who knows she’s the legendary demigod annabeth chase, one of the prophetic 7, wisest daughter of athena, she who found the athena parthenos.

like just imagine them at a bar or party or something

annabeth: that’s my boyfriend over there

person: oh the one with the light curly hair

annabeth: no that’s will. the one with the dark hair

person: oh the bulky guy?

annabeth: no thats frank. the one up there

person: the one… the one who’s wearing the finding nemo t-shirt and… is crowd surfing while… eating a churro…?

annabeth: that’s him!

person: …really?

person: THAT guy?

annabeth: yes 🥰

[daphnethebanjolover]

Thoughts on IF

Also known as "Ryan Reynolds Looking Hella Fine for 1 hour 44 minutes Straight"

You gotta watch this movie. Don't ask why. Just do it.

I've always wanted to know what Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends would look like in a live-action setting, and if John Krasinski has to be the one to bring that to life, then so be it.

I will admit, I was confused at the beginning as to why Bea was at the hospital when the mom was already dead.

Before I say anything else, the soundtrack. This is why music is in movies. The music always seemed to fit both the specific scene and the whimsical mood of the film as a whole.

Also, the CGI. All of the IFs fit seamlessly into the live-action scenery without being excessively photorealistic. I mean, there's one scene where Bea walks past Blue, and he casts a shadow on her. How do they do that?

Speaking of Blue, 10/10 casting. Steve Carell has the exact type of energy needed for Blue.

John Krasinski had to have heard of Foster's. I mean, come on. There's literally a character named Blue.

Blue: I'm Blue. Me: You're purple. Bea: You're purple. Me: (hits arm on armrest from laughing too hard)

We wear suspenders in this house.

The surprise I felt when I heard Steve Carell's voice coming out of that guy was exactly the same as when I realized Billy Crystal voiced Calcifer in Howl's Moving Castle.

I like that lil' freak who looks like the Faker from Jackbox, but he's gotta stop climbing onto people.

Also, that art mannequin guy looks kinda sexy. Is that just me?

That ghost guy just spent the whole time vibin'.

The Better Be Good to Me dance number has me convinced that this would make waves on Broadway. We just need the budget for Bea to re-imagine the house.

The underwater scene after Cal gets pushed in the pool was sick. This must be why people like that one Nirvana album cover.

I had a feeling that Blossom used to be Grandma's IF just from looking at Grandma's tutu in the picture. I didn't even notice her in the background.

The scene where Bea is by her dad's bed while he's sleeping makes me think this is the type of movie that would make my mom cry.

I know that the "picture was folded the whole time" trope has been done before, but that twist actually got me while also putting together so many pieces at the same time.

Seeing Ryan Reynolds in that dorky-ass clown outfit was simultaneously the most beautiful and the most hilarious moment in the entire movie.

Overall, 9/10. That 48 on Metacritic is wack.

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

Jenna Well, this whole thing ends with Jim walking back into the break room, seeing that Pam has watched the video and handing her the original teapot note. 

Angela The one he took back and put in his pocket all of those years ago. 

Jenna We got a fan question from Lainie B in Westerville, Ohio, who said, Was it always the plan to revisit the teapot card Jim wrote for Pam, or was it something that the writers remembered and wanted to incorporate into the episode? Lainie, it was not always planned. Like, not from when we did that first Christmas episode did anybody say, one day we're going to reveal what was on this note. It sort of took on a life of its own. People became so curious what was in the note that Jim didn't give Pam. And I've told this story before, but when we were pitching to Greg about season nine, I said, Greg, we have to read the Teapot Note. 

Angela I mean, it's the greatest callback of the whole series. It's brilliant. This is a fantastic idea. Did they lose their minds when you pitched it? 

Jenna Well, I felt like I kind of had to convince them a little bit because-. 

Angela What?! 

Jenna Here's the thing. Greg said, I don't think we'll ever be able to write anything that would satisfy everybody's imagination of this note after all these years. Like, the beauty of the note is that as the audience member, you've written the perfect thing on the note. 

Angela That's brilliant. I mean, he's so smart. 

Jenna Right? 

Angela That is a very smart take. But it's enough for me to just see it. 

Jenna Well, that was the thing. We didn't have to read it to you. You just needed the satisfaction of Pam getting it. of Pam reading it. 

Angela She finally gets it. Yes. 

Jenna And then you still get to fill in the blank, but you get that closure. I've told this story before, too. But John Krasinski wrote the note. It was a private note. 

Angela That he wrote to you as Jenna. 

Jenna Correct. 

Angela About being your scene partner all those years. 

Jenna Yes. So it was kind of like a goodbye thank you note. I still have it. It's private. I'll never reveal what was in it, but it was a beautiful, beautiful note from one scene partner to another. It made me cry. So when you see me crying in the episode, those are my real tears. 

Angela I did notice when you were reading it, it seemed like some genuine surprise that you didn't know what was going to be given to you. 

Jenna Yes, they told me they were going to let John write the note, but I thought he was going to write it as Jim to Pam. So as I'm reading it and I'm realizing that it says Dear Jenna and then it's just this beautiful letter about what it has meant for us to work together and be these scene partners. And, you know, it's like to be Jim and Pam. I was like, my gosh. My goodness. 

Angela Yeah. You see your face goes through a bunch of realizations. 

Jenna Yeah. And I think you can see John watching me read it. I think you see him be like, okay, I'm standing here as you read this letter. 

Angela Yeah. Yeah. Well, I agree with Greg. I'm glad you've never shared what you actually read, what was from John to you, because I don't want to break that fourth wall. I want to imagine this moment between Jim and Pam, and I want to imagine what I would have wanted Jim to say. 

Jenna Well, as a wrap gift at the finale, I wanted to return the favor. So I bought a little teapot, and I wrote a note to John from Jenna, my own little teapot note to him thanking him for all those years working together and what it had meant to me. I mean, I'll never have a scene partner like that again. I feel like I have a work partner and a creative partner like that here with you, Angela. This is like another moment of, like, chemistry that you just you can't plan for it. It just, like, it's perfect. But to go on a nine year journey with another actor in such an intimate and vulnerable way as our characters do, it's pretty special. I mean, we're bonded for life. For sure. 

[toxicanonymity]

Hope you don't mind me spamming you a bit. I appreciate your reviews and commentary! Other movies that came to mind which I enjoyed were Ready Or Not, The Invitation, Don't Breathe, Black Christmas, Last Night inSoho (technically this is a horror movie). And because it's popular, what are your thoughts on A Quiet Place?

I don't mind one bit. These are fun questions, especially this one. Buckle up lmaoooo.

Ready or Not - I liked it, and it inspired the wedding dress in one of my darker stories.

The Invitation - Hell yes, love a dark dinner party movie. Won't spoil why.

Don't Breathe - Loved. So depraved. If you haven't seen it I won't spoil, but holy shit lol. Kink alert.

Black Christmas - Yes! Prefer the original by a mile, but enjoyed the Blumhouse take too.

Last Night in Soho - Need to see this, it's on my list.

A Quiet Place -Just my passionate opinion: I fear there is no movie I despise more. My disdain is well-known among irl friends. I'm about to go off.

Krasinski referring to his film as "elevated horror" put him on my bad side from the start. Really low to put down others to promote himself. Dismissing an entire diverse genre, disrespecting everyone who paved the way.

Krasinski gets (takes) far too much credit for things that have been done and done better, including the climax which mirrors The Descent Part 2, shot-for-shot. Don't Breathe is another example of the have-to-be-quiet premise.

Huge hit among non-horror fans who didn't know better and raved about its originality. Meanwhile gushing, "I'm not even into horror." Soo maybe they hadn't seen much? Especially lesser known movies. The horror tent is big enough for all, but he brought new fans into it while infusing them with his condescending attitude.

Far too many gratuitous close-ups of himself going 🤫. This man's ego, stg.

Some of us detected a strong whiff of right-wing energy. Pro-life in a risk everyone's lives for a fetus way. Pro-gun in a rural, white, get off my land way (btw I'm obsessed with John Wick. it's not the use of guns in this, it's the energy).

He bragged about how his wife was so unaffected by her most intense scene (childbirth) that after it she said, "Who's ready for lunch?" Why is that so good, John? Is your view as a director that actors should snap in and out of character and not be affected by their roles? If she needed to cry or rest, would he think less of her? Personally I admire people who feel. Also, harder to imagine paying a man the same compliment.

I have one nice thing to say, which is that it's nice to see deaf/hard-of-hearing representation, and it was the least they could do good to cast an actress from the community as his daughter.👍

If they committed to total silence instead of using a dramatic score, that would've been cool.

You can do your own take on an old concept and make it good. But to meanwhile put down everything else to distinguish/promote himself?? That ain't it.

Anyway, I still hate-watched the sequel (not nearly as bad) and may do the same with the prequel 🤪.

[imyourbratzdoll]

Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

𝐉𝐈𝐌 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

♡ 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇 ➳ 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕 ❥ 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 ❦ 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌

೫˚🖤❀ *ૢ🥀೫˚🌑

𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 ❥

summary - lunch turns into something much more spicier.

೫˚🖤❀ *ૢ🥀೫˚🌑

[happyunbday2u]

So finally remembering that I watched IF I decided to take another look at the cast and oh my god have I forgotten the amount of people I recognize so here’s a random shitpost about the people I forgot/didn’t realize were in the movie

First of all John Krasinski not only played Bea’s dad but the burning marshmallow

Steve Carell voiced Blue and it wasn’t hard to distinguish his voice

Phoebe Waller-Bridge voiced Blossom

Emily Blunt voiced Unicorn

Matt Damon voiced Sunny, can’t believe they got Jason Bourne to play a sunflower therapist

Sam Rockwell as Guardian Dog which is kinda ironic cause he voices Mr. Wolf in The Bad Guys

Christopher Meloni voiced Cosmo which is fitting since he played Elliot Stabler in Law and Order so I’m 100% certain that while creating Cosmo they were like “Hey we should get that one dude from Law and Order to voice him” also the mental imagine of him in a sound booth yelling “CLOAK AND DAGGER” is funny to me

Awkwafina voiced Pop and like Steve it was easy to tell it was her

Blake Lively voiced Octopuss

George Clooney as Spaceman, the space joke was funny to me

Bradley Cooper as Ice, went from voicing a raccoon to a glass of ice

Amy Schumer voiced Gummy Bear, loved her in Trolls (she voiced Velvet)

Keegan-Micheal Key as Slime who reminds me of the Bounty Paper commercials

Bill Hader as the Banana

And lastly Brad Pitt as Keith, nice to see the original Ocean’s 11 trio in a movie again.

[epiphainie]

do yall know that devil wears prada bit emily blunt tells about john krasinski? that's how i imagine tommy watches movies and it both drives buck insane and makes him aggressive from the cuteness

[maccreadysbaby]

there's a little synopsis of a quiet place under the cut for my bentley followers that have no clue what I'm on about!! 9000 words later lmao, the quiet place au is finished!!! ALSO WERE GOING BACK BABY BENTLEY MY PEEPS, HES 10 AGAIN IN HERE 🥹🥹

Project: Killcode Drabbles

tw: violence & gore

wanna read the extended fic? here’s the table of contents!

⚠️ THIS IS NOT PART OF BENTLEY’S MAIN STORYLINE, THIS BENTLEY INSERTED INTO AN AU (ALTERNATE UNIVERSE.)

brief overview of A QUIET PLACE:

A Quiet Place is a sci-fi/horror movie series originally directed by John Krasinski, in which aliens crash into earth via a meteor. They spread quickly, and are extremely strong, agile, and resilient. They’re completely blind, but they can hear as much as an unsteady breath across massive distances and likewise get extremely violent towards anything that makes even the slightest noise. Not many people survived, and the ones who did… may not be the lucky ones.

Bentley Whittaker was 9 when the meteor hit. The monsters were probably twice as tall as him, and no one could have ever stressed enough just how the tiniest of sounds could kill.

photos for your imagination ↴

THE “MONSTERS” - formally called death angels, but Bentley only calls them “aliens” or “monsters”

TEN-YEAR-OLD BENTLEY WHITTAKER WALKED DOWN THE GOTHAM STREETS SLOWLY, ONE STEP AT A TIME, LISTENING.

It was a thirty-six degree overcast afternoon. The city was dead silent apart from the subtle howl of wind that came and went every now and then. 

Debris was blowing softly across the street, piled full of crashed cars and decomposed bodies reduced to nothing but clothes and what looked like ashes. The electricity in most places was shot. It had been since the meteors fell, since the monsters got there and started to rip apart and kill every single thing that made the slightest bit of noise. 

Most of the buildings lining the streets were mere bones of what they had been, the windows shattered, doors ripped off, and some of the walls entirely collapsed — undoubtedly by the creatures ripping them apart, seeking prey that’d been inside. People.

Bentley stepped cautiously, holding tight to his father’s bloody shotgun that was far, far too big for his little hands. It was nearly his height, and probably his weight, too. An old blue bag sat on his back, the zipper haphazardly cut out and replaced by a myriad of safety pins to eliminate the sound. (It was the biggest backpack ever, his father had said once. Good for the end of the world.) 

He was wearing three jackets, all thin and soft instead of puffy and loud, and cargo pants he’d gotten for his birthday a few months ago that almost covered his feet. His shoes, dirty and torn red tennis shoes, were wrapped in thin cloth cut from his old sheets so the soles didn’t make noise against the concrete.

The monsters could hear a pin drop. They could hear an unsteady breath. They could hear everything.

Which was unfortunate, because Bentley was out of food. He’d gone as long as he could without it, attempting to substitute with other things like water and uncooked rice that were left inside the Whittaker Estate, but now he was really hungry, and therefore forced out of hiding and into the city. Where absolutely everything made noise.

It was strange to see Gotham abandoned. He hadn’t been there since before the monsters showed up — once, with his father on business. It was bigger than Drew, and had more places to get supplies, which was why he was there. Not a soul remained in the streets now; the city was a sad, lifeless husk, nothing more than a graveyard. Bentley’d wondered… Why didn’t the monsters eat their kills? Were they just slaughtering humans for fun?

Bentley missed when people were everywhere. The world was so quiet now… he was so lonely. People used to make him nervous, but now, he would probably kill for the chance to be with someone else. 

He kept walking, keeping his breathing slow and shallow, exhales rising in front of his face as clouds of vapor. His feet were falling in very precise, very calculated heel-to-toe steps. He’d learned quickly that it was the quietest way he could walk.

There was a corner store coming up at the end of the block that his father had taken him into, the one time they’d been to Gotham together. Not just out of the goodness of his heart, though — it’s because Bentley was sick and his father was pissed off that he’d even think about throwing up in a Maserati. He shoved him into a corner store bathroom, went home, and sent some men to pick him up later.

Bentley was really upset at him, then… but now, he guessed it was an advantage to know where the store was. 

Plus, he couldn’t be mad at his father anymore. He glanced down at the shotgun splayed with blood and grimaced, inhaling lightly. No, he couldn’t be mad at him at all.

He continued to walk in silence. A piece of newspaper clipping blew across the street near his feet, and the headline was something about baseball. Bentley had never seen anyone play baseball, nor did he know the premise of the game, but he missed it. He guessed it was normal to miss stuff from before the world started ending, though. Even if he never really saw it.

Suddenly, one of the shutters on a nearby building started blowing in the wind, hitting the the brick with soft clacks every few seconds that made Bentley’s anxiety thrum within his veins, his heart quicken in his chest. Everything was silent except that shutter, clacking above him, seemingly deafening in the dead Gotham street.

He closed his eyes and held his breath, pausing his movement to listen. He counted from zero to ten Mississippi. Nothing moved. Nothing made any noise — no pounding feet, no chittering, no growling… nothing.

So he resumed walking, but at a slightly more brisk pace than before.

Maybe ten minutes of that passed before the corner store finally came into view. The front was blown out, the doorway nothing more than a large hole in the brick, and all the windows were shattered, but… the inside looked intact.

So he moved for the door, keeping his footfalls silent, stepping over debris and parts of cars and bodies that he didn’t dare look at until he made it to the blown out front wall and peered inside.

The entire thing seemed coated with concrete dust and ashes, but there were also supplies left on the shelves.

With a quiet exhale, he glanced down at his shoes, at the ground. There was a pile of ruined brick blocking the doorway (that was really just a massive hole in the wall), too large to step over and definitely something he couldn’t step on without making noise. He took a step back and glanced at one of the nearby windows. There were only two in the whole store, small, and on either side of the door.

He moved for the one on the left. Most of the glass was blown out of it, a few shards lying outside but most scattered on the floor inside.

So Bentley stepped over to it and inhaled.

He took his backpack off and carefully lifted it through the window, laying it gently on the other side. He did the same to his shotgun, carefully laying it atop the bag so it didn’t make any noise against the concrete floor.

He exhaled. Well, his turn.

Ever-so-slowly he lifted his right foot, holding his breath and swinging it over the windowsill at a glacial pace. It was pretty high, so he had to sort of push himself up to sit on it, holding on tight to the edges while he brought his other foot over. 

He set his feet on the floor gently, and-

CRUNCH. The shards of glass on the floor cracked under his weight.

He flinched, ducking beneath the windowsill as quickly and silently as he could. With a flare of terrible pain and a little tearing sound he could hear in the silence that Gotham had become, a piece of glass still stuck in the window frame sliced his left hand open from his wrist all the way down between his middle and ring fingers.

He slapped his right hand over his mouth as a pained noise threatened to escape him, his eyes involuntarily brimming with tears. He sank down into the floor of the building silently, tucking his bloody arm close to his chest. His entire hand was throbbing and burning and already drenched in red that made him kind of dizzy to look at.

Something hit the ground with a fleshy thump outside.

There were no words for how hard Bentley’s heart was pounding, threatening to break out of his chest all together. The reflex tears in his eyes quickly became real and started streaming down his face. With a deep, guttural set of clicks, he heard the monster’s feet as it walked, away from the window but toward the door.

He choked down every sob that threatened to force it's way out and stayed eerily still, holding his breath for as long as he could, breathing in and out, then holding it again.

The next time the monster took a step, a loud sound came along with it that he recognized as the bricks at the door, sliding and falling against each other.

Something moved in Bentley’s peripheral, and he closed his hand over his nose and mouth, forcing himself not to breathe.

He saw the monster’s head peer into the building. Its front legs, lanky and insanely long in an unnerving type of way came to rest on either side of the hole in the wall, its long, narrow claws clicking against the brick there. Its head, covered by probably a dozen or more plates of armor, swiveled this way and that, the armor plates opening up like some kind of horrifying flower to reveal the fleshier inside of its head. Bentley knew that when they did that, they were listening. 

He stayed dead silent, forcing his body not to move, forcing his lungs to burn for just a little longer, forcing everything to shut down and stop as best he could. Could it hear his heart trying to break out of his body? Could it hear the sobs trying to rip up his throat?

His stomach growled.

The monster whipped its head around to face him directly, no longer chittering but making a deep, ear-splitting hiss.

Bentley didn’t move.

He didn’t move when it came fully inside the building, propelling itself forward by using its long arms to grab walls and shelves, shooting across the distance with speed uncanny to anything else. It knocked over shelves and slashed a few magazine racks across the room as it came directly. Toward. Him.

Bentley curled up a little tighter, and when it was mere feet from him, it-

CLACK! Something hit something else outside. CLACK! And again. It was faint, but Bentley could hear it, and the monster paused with its wide jaws full of serrated teeth a mere foot from his face, turning to the window and opening its plates to listen.

CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!

The shutter. It was the shutter, from down the road.

With a terrifying screech, the monster all but lumbered out the window right over Bentley’s head, its back leg brushing his hair right before it slammed on the road and skidded away like a car drifting on ice.

The sounds of its thundering footsteps faded away, and for a long time, Bentley just sat there, crying silently.

After a while, he reached over and unpinned his bag, shifting things around until he found a small cylinder of unpackaged bandage. He unrolled it and wrapped it around his arm and hand tightly, over and over until he could tuck it in somewhere.

He didn’t get up until the sun was going down, because the temperature had dropped a solid ten degrees and he was starting to go numb. 

He forced himself off the floor — freezing up and freaking out wouldn’t serve him well anyways. He couldn’t afford it, not in this world. Not anymore.

 Stepping carefully around the glass and debris, he went further into the store. The whole place was run down, and sort of looked like someone had picked out of it before. 

The first aisle, the one closest to the door, had household items. Bentley scanned the shelves, stepping lightly, and settled on grabbing a packaged toothbrush, a pair of large metal scissors, and a can opener, should he ever get his hands on any canned goods. There wasn’t any toothpaste, but he’d survive without it. 

And then he spotted a package on the top shelf — a set of four plastic jars, probably double the radius of a normal jar, with screw-on tops.

There were so many things he could use those for. The only problem was…

They were about four shelves above his head.

He reached up with one arm, pushing up onto his tippy toes, but was still about two shelves off.

With a muted huff, he glanced around the store. There were some baskets up near the ruined door, thick and red. There was also an office chair behind the counter, but he didn’t think that would be safe — it had wheels, and if it rolled out from under him, he was as good as dead.

So, he tip-toed over to the baskets and picked one up silently, shuffling back over to the shelves. He put it on the floor upside-down, then ever-so-slowly put one foot on it. The plastic dipped dangerously, but it didn’t crack or pop, so he went about putting his other foot on it.

When it didn’t break, he carefully lifted his hands up toward the little package of jars. He could barely skim the cardboard they were sitting on with his fingertips. 

He did that a few times, softly nudging the pack until it was almost halfway off the top shelf. The next time he did it, it tipped sideways toward his head, and he was able to carefully slide it off the shelf and into his hands.

He carried it all back over to his bag and tucked the loose things neatly inside. He used his scissors to cut the jars out and prepare to fill them with stuff. All that was in the bottom of his bag currently was a flashlight, a journal and pack of pens, one schoolbook, ammunition for his shotgun, and a fourth jacket, weaved and folded around all the other things so they didn’t make any noise. 

One by one, he took to searching the aisles. He came out with a small first aid kit, two bottles of honey, four full water bottles, and seven cans of food that he was rather proud of already locating the can opener for. Three corn, two peas, and two peaches. There were a lot of chips left, but rightfully so — as appetizing as they sounded, the bags and contents were both so loud they were likely to get him killed on the spot. He did manage to find about a dozen slim jim’s and several bags of lifesaver gummies, which he cut open carefully with his newly acquired scissors and emptied into one of the four plastic jars he’d found. The other three jars ended up holding a bunch of energy bars, two bags of beef jerky, and several packs of those weird orange peanut butter crackers. He cut everything carefully out of its packaging and organized them quietly, shoving all the cans and jars into his bag and weaving the jacket between them so they didn’t knock around, going as far as to take off one of his own to use when the other ran out of slack. He had to dig his flashlight out in the middle of packing up, because the sun was setting more and more.

His bag was much heavier when he slung it on, but he didn’t mind — it was all stuff that would keep him alive, right? He grabbed his shotgun out of the floor and rolled his shoulders back, getting used to holding the weight against his injured hand because he had no other choice.

On the way out of the corner store, he stopped at the checkout and grabbed a bundle of candy bars — the only ones left in the small candy rack, careful not to rustle the packaging. There were also a couple small travel books with crosswords and word searches, three lighters left in a small container, and a mini fridge that was empty besides two plastic bottled electrolyte drinks. He grabbed it all.

He shoved the small books, lighters, and candy in his jacket and pants pockets, and the drinks in the side pockets of his backpack, and then stepped out onto the street, where the vague positivity provided by finding supplies died instantly.

It was now pitch dark outside, the only beam of visible light being the one from his own flashlight. A breeze that chilled him to the bone came and went. How was it that much colder after removing one jacket? He was still wearing two, and a sweater!

Nonetheless, he shivered harshly, watching his breath plume up like smoke in the beam of his flashlight. If there was something he was grateful for, it was that the monsters were blind. He’d be far too afraid to venture into a dark city if they weren’t. Actually, he’d be dead if they weren’t.

He walked for a little bit longer. He debated on heading back to the Whittaker Estate, but walking so far at night wouldn’t be easy, plus the heightened risk of making noise because he couldn’t see anything. And he was just kind of sleepy — he had been walking all day, after all.

He glanced at the buildings as he walked, trying to find a suitable one to sleep in. Most of them were all decrepit and torn to bits, and he didn’t think he could really survive being that cold all night.

He’d walked another entire block before something peaked his interest. A sign, big and yellow, planted on the side of an absolutely massive library: FALLOUT SHELTER, it said, with a nuclear warning sign and arrows pointing into the library.

A bomb shelter? It might not be warm, but it could definitely get him out of the wind. And bomb shelters were super strong, so maybe the monsters wouldn’t be able to get inside…

With a nod of satisfaction, carrying his shotgun in one hand and the flashlight in the other, he pushed toward the library. 

The outside of the building was dusty and worn, and the doors were blown off, but the frames were still intact. There were a few cracks creeping up the walls but nothing serious. Even the sign was still up above the door, and it was supposed to say WHITEHOUSE LIBRARY, he thought, but the letters T, E, and R were missing and lying on the road next to the front door, so it actually said WHIHOUSE LIBARY.

With a soft exhale, he stepped up the three steps toward the doors. Another gust of freezing wind came, urging him through the doorway and into the building.

He stood in the entry and panned the flashlight around, his eyes following the beam of light as he took in the building around him. The whole thing was dusty and lined with cobwebs. Most of the shelves were upright, but there were a few sets near the doors that had fallen over and sprayed their books everywhere. There were a few dead bodies near the doors, but he promptly chose to ignore them, instead, stepping carefully over books and things on the floor toward the back of the massive room.

He paused for a few minutes and perused some of the aisles, coming across a couple survival tip books and one about cooking. He put them in his bag. Who knows, maybe they’d come in handy one day.

After a few minutes of that, he wandered around until he found the sign for the fallout shelter — with arrows pointing at a basement door that was torn off its hinges and laying uselessly on the floor. There was a walkie talkie duct taped to the wall right above the sign, and the little green light that indicated it was on was glowing.

Bentley found it odd… but the prospect of shelter overshadowed that.

Bentley swallowed quietly, shining his flashlight down the stairs. They were wood, and a few of them had red duct tape stretched across the entire expanse, and in big, black marker, the words DO NOT STEP! were written across it.

Bentley, with an inhale, stepped on the first step gently, applying his weight in very, very slow succession so it didn’t creak. He skipped the steps with red tape, creeping down into the basement. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he could breathe again at the bottom.

He glanced around, cautiously flicking the flashlight around. It seemed sort of damp, and kind of creepy and spidery down there, but alright. On the far left wall, there was a big metal door with a huge spinning handle like a boat. Next to it was the fallout shelter sign.

With a quiet exhale, he moved forward.

There was more red duct tape splayed across the door, this one had the words: LUBRICATE BEFORE OPENING! on it, as though someone had written it on there to remind themselves. At the base of the door sat a can of WD-40, cut in half with a paint brush handle sticking out of the top.

With the furrow of his brows, Bentley grabbed the brush and coated the hinges and handle of the door before he slowly turned the huge circular handle. He waited for it to squeak terribly, but it never did.

He stepped into the bomb shelter, quietly closed the door behind him, and glanced around with his flashlight. It was oddly… warm, inside.

It was rectangular, and larger than he’d expected, with a barrel ceiling lined with metal beams. There were a bunch of army green cots lined against the walls, probably eight of them. A room divider stood at the back of the rectangle, probably closing off a bathroom space or something, and ahead of it were shelves piled with cans and pouches of government-issued rations… but also different things, like the gas station food that Bentley carried around. There was a small fire stove thing that vented up through the ceiling, too, back on the other end of the room.

All of the beds were devoid of bedding besides two — right next to each other in the back corner of the room. They both had pillows and blankets, but the farthest had a stuffed cow, too. There were a couple of large backpacks sitting between those two beds, and a large, long sniper rifle, laying under the one without the stuffed animal. There was a walkie talkie — probably the partner of the one from upstairs -- taped on the wall right at the pillow of that bed.

Bentley crouched, shining his flashlight to get a closer look at the gun. There was ammunition under the bed, too — tons, probably thousands of rounds.

He stood back up with an exhale, glancing around the room again. There was nobody inside, not a soul, so it should be safe for him to crash there for the night, right? Whoever had been staying there was probably dead, anyhow… 

Bentley softly padded to the nearest cot. He shrugged off his bag and sat it carefully on the floor, and then did the same with his shotgun, propping up his flashlight against the wall so it illuminated the room. He sat down on the cot gingerly and, pleased when it didn’t creak or squeak, pushed himself up on it and reached down to unpin his bag.

He fished out a few of the things he’d gotten from the corner store — the jar of beef jerky and some water, the first aid kit, and the journal and pen he’d brought from his home.

The first order of business he went about was opening the first aid kit and checking what was inside. Not much; just the basics, really — bandage, antibiotic ointment, butterfly stitches, gauze, alcohol wipes, cotton balls, that sort of thing. 

With a breath, he began to unwrap his arm. The bandage was already soaking through with blood and sort of sticking to the wound, drawing a soft, pained inhale out of him that he put his injured hand over his mouth to silence. After a few moments of picking the fabric out of the gash, he grimaced and dropped the bloody bandage on the floor.

Silently as he could, he drew the scissors from his bag and cut open the products he needed, wiping his arm down with an alcohol wipe, synching it together with butterfly stitches (which really hurt, by the way.) putting some ointment on it and then wrapping it again, circling his arm and hand in several layers like a mummy. He wasn’t quite sure if that was the right way to do it, because he’d once heard about letting wounds breathe or something like that, a long time ago, but he didn’t care. He’d rather it suffocate and be clean than breathe and get dirty. 

Once he finished that, he took some motrin for the pain and packed all of his first aid stuff back up. He settled in the center of the cot with his beef jerky and the journal. It was a calendar journal that his father had started filling out on the new year to keep up with the dates, since no one really did anymore -- each day had a little square he had to check off, and a space for him to write comments. It was a five-year-journal, but, luckily, only the first two months were filled so far. There were also a few dozen pages of simple lined paper at the back of it that he doodled on sometimes.

With an exhale, he turned to February, checking off Friday, the thirteenth, munching on some jerky. He remembered the rumors of fear that used to surround that day, but now, fear surrounded every day, ruled every moment, counted every second. He missed when Friday the thirteenth was supposed to be scarier than the rest of the days.

His hand hovered blankly over the comments section, swirling his pen around before he started to write. Just the basics.

Third day out of the estate. Colder than before. Made it to central Gotham. Stomach growled and a monster almost killed me in the corner store. Now i’m sitting in an abandoned bomb shelter, and it looks like a nice-

A light on the other end of the shelter flicked on suddenly, and Bentley very nearly fell off the cot.

There was a person over there -- had they come from behind the room dividers? -- holding a bright lantern in their hand. They were tall, and lanky. A man.

Part of Bentley wanted to cry at the sudden discovery of another human being (he hadn’t seen one in so long! The first besides his father in the last seven months!) The other part of him, the sad, rational part, realized that this person was probably going to kill him.

Bentley wasted no time leaning over the bed and swiping his shotgun off the floor, aiming it at them warningly. He’d never pull the trigger. Gunshots were loud. The man probably knew he wouldn’t kill him, too, but it was nice to pretend he had the upper hand.

The man set the lantern down on the floor, lifting his empty hands up near his head to show Bentley he had nothing in them, and was harmless. He looked young, maybe twenties? With this pitch black hair and these crystalline blue eyes that were almost kind of enchanting. Deep, with a glisten of something Bentley couldn’t place swirling in them. He was wearing black sweatpants and a big blue hoodie, covered with two jackets much like Bentley had. He even had on tennis shoes, too. Blue, but not wrapped in cloth like Bentley’s.

Bentley continued to aim his shotgun directly at his face as he drew slightly closer, keeping his hands up and visible. He slowly knelt down to be more Bentley’s height, his eyes flicking to the book Bentley had been writing in. 

He moved one of his hands in a subtle writing motion, pointing at the journal for a moment, then at himself. Bentley had no idea what he meant, and was so focused on not killing this guy but looking like he would that it took a few moments for it to click.

He wanted to write to him, instead of talk.

With his shotgun propped on his leg and still poised for a trigger pull, Bentley turned to one of the lined pages in the back of the journal and held it out to him, along with the pen. The guy took it gently, his eyes scouring Bentley’s face as he began to scribble on it.

Bentley didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t what he got.

Get out. You’re not welcome here.

He glanced at the page, then at the man, who showed little to no emotion regarding shoving an injured ten year old outside in twenty degree weather to die via superhearing aliens. A stab of something like fear, like dread settled in his chest, and he scribbled, handing the book back over a few moments later.

I didn’t know you were here. I just need somewhere to sleep. It’s really cold tonight and there's monsters in the area.

The guy looked at it for a second, before writing back.

No. We’re safer alone. Leave. Now.

Bentley read it and a stubborn burn surfaced behind his eyes. With a faint inhale, he scribbled.

Please. I won’t bother you, and I’m really quiet.

When he got the book back, the message on the page was: No. I’m not a babysitter. You have ten minutes to eat and pack up.

Please, I’m lonely and tired. I won’t bother you. I can give you supplies! was the message he handed back.

No. Leave. Was what he got in return.

Bentley began to scribble the word please again, but the man reached out and touched his hand (much to his horror), stopping the writing in its tracks and closing the book so he couldn’t write anymore. Bentley looked up at him, and he shook his head, a stone cold expression on his face. He pointed roughly at the door and mouthed the words: Get out.

Bentley inhaled lightly, glancing down at his fingers. The first human he’d seen besides his father, the best shelter he’d come across the entire apocalypse, and he was being forced out of it by some guy who very obviously had no soul.

He was lonely. And he was tired. And he was so, so scared. He didn’t want to go back outside… to find somewhere to sleep in the dark and the cold where, if he survived the monsters, he might die in the freezing temperatures instead.

Bentley drew in a shuddery breath, glancing up at the man with tears in his eyes that he couldn’t force away. He mouthed the word: Please.

The man shook his head, pointed at the door, and then walked off, toward the cots on the other end of the room. 

Shit. 

With a few silent, hopeless sobs, Bentley shoved more jerky in his mouth and packed everything up again. The man just sort of sat on the bed that had the sniper rifle under it and watched him, not a hint of regret crossing his features even at the child’s tears.

Once Bentley was all packed up, shotgun and flashlight in hand, he dried his tears and took one last glance at the man, who concluded their short-lived interaction by pointing again at the door.

Bentley wiped his face and turned, heading back to the door and turning the handle, pushing it open. He took one last weary glance at the perfect shelter, and then closed the door, pushed himself back up the stairs silently, and stepped into the library.

It was much colder up there. Like, a solid thirty degrees colder, and Bentley began to shiver vigorously as soon as he made it to the top of the stairs. It was pitch black outside, and silent.

He moved slowly to the back of the library, where he’d spotted a makeshift reading area earlier. It was a conglomerate of old couches and chairs, but he didn’t dare sit on them. Instead, he put his stuff down and settled on the ugly green carpet, curling up to defend against the cold.

And that’s where he laid for the next eleven hours. Freezing his absolute ass off, drifting in and out of light sleep interrupted by unsettling dreams and the terrible cold. By the time the night was over, he could hardly feel his extremities anymore.

But alas, the sun rose, and the temperature went up just enough to give him a little will to live.

He ate some jerky, drank some water, wrote: some guy kicked me out of the bomb shelter to finish off his calendar day from last night, and set off again.

He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he wanted to hunker down somewhere not too far from central Gotham. It had a lot of good stores and places to get supplies. Maybe there was another bomb shelter… not too far from here? How far apart did the government build them?

With a silent exhale, Bentley padded down the three stairs of the library and into the street. He should check out the next street over, see what shops were on it. His bag was really heavy, but he could probably swing carrying a few more supplies.

Bentley stepped down the road slowly, keeping his footfalls quiet, turning into the alleyway next to the library and heading to the next street over. He had to round a big yellow fire hydrant on the way. The street  looked much like the other — the library had entrances there, too, but the shops were different. He spun to get a look at them, glimpsing a pharmacy and a clothing store that might be handy, as well as a hardware store that could have some useful items inside.

So Bentley went to work, silently, starting at the hardware store, where he took more pens and loads of batteries for his flashlight. The building was mostly intact, so he didn’t have to worry about stepping on glass or stuff like that — the only thing wrong with it was that the door was blown off, nowhere in sight. He managed to find some matches, too, and two extra flashlights.

Next, he went to the clothing store, where he found two more soft but thick jackets that he put on, and one blanket that he was able to roll and strap to his backpack via scissor holes and two belts that had also been in the store. This building had the front wall blown out, too. He thought about grabbing another outfit, but it seemed unnecessary to carry if he was going to settle somewhere nearby. He’d get it later.

And last but not least, the pharmacy.

He stepped quietly up to the front stoop. There was one step up to the entry, and the front door and windows had been reduced to mere holes in the walls, the brick on the front buckling and separating in a way that looked like the whole thing might fall soon.

He crept through the front door, careful to keep his feet away from debris. A pharmacy was basically a gold mine for staying alive. He wished he could just take everything inside with him — because what if he needed it?

Slowly, he crept down the aisles. He ended up grabbing a few more over the counter medicines — liquid only, pills were too loud — for generic colds and flus and stomach bugs. He grabbed a couple things of melatonin gummies, too, and he found a myriad of bandages, which he took a lot of because they were light and relatively small. And some bandaids!

He left feeling good about his haul, heading back out onto the silent street, and-

Crack.

Bentley glanced backwards at the pharmacy building, hoping and praying he’d just imagined that noise…

But he hadn’t.

Suddenly, after being disturbed for apparently its final time, the entire front wall of the pharmacy came down with a deafening crash, sending plumes of dust into the air and all over Bentley, bricks crashing across the road and near his feet.

And he just stood there.

A mangled screech came from somewhere down the road… and then another, a response, and loud hiss from somewhere else, and Bentley…

He ran.

He tried to do so as quietly as he could, but his footfalls were still audible as he shot down the road and back into the alley next to the library. The sound of the monsters thumping down from above and galloping on the road like horses reached his ears and made his heart slam around in his chest. They’d heard him running. They had to have. 

He pushed himself against the brick wall of the alley and put one hand over his mouth, muffling his panicked breathing, holding tightly to his gun with the other. The loud, fast footsteps of the monsters were drawing nearer.

Three of them ran by the alley and were to him nothing more than black splotches in his vision, there one second and gone the next.

But one paused.

He stayed pressed tight against the wall when the monster turned and took a few steps into the alley, hissing lowly. It walked further, and the plates on its head opened up to listen, probably three feet from Bentley’s face, and he was freaking out too much and breathing too loud, and his heart was absolutely pounding, and-

With a terrible screech, the thing lunged for him, and Bentley lifted the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

BANG! went his gun in the middle of the silent city. 

The monster’s body fell limp into him, and he couldn’t help but stumble over due to the weight. Suddenly, his left leg exploded into a terrible, searing pain, the worst he’d ever felt in his life, and he… 

Screamed.

He clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as he realized. The body of the alien he’d shot — blown half of its head off, actually — was looming just above him, it's blood pouring out in droves that coated his clothes and skin. A whole handful of it's claws, it's gigantic, horror story worthy, long, scary claws, had sank into Bentley’s left thigh when it fell on him. He tried to push himself out from under it, but the thing was so heavy, and his leg was hurting so bad, and he couldn’t see because he was crying and he tried to be quiet but he choked out agonized sobs anyways that sounded so deafening in the silent city-

Another one of the monsters blitzed into the mouth of the alley at breakneck speeds, his head wide open to listen for his sounds, and Bentley grabbed onto the fire hydrant at the end of the alley, trying to pull himself out from under the alien, but it wasn’t working, and-

BANG!

The alien's head exploded into a mist of red from a shot he hadn’t taken, and it fell.

Bentley lifted his shotgun up toward his face, turning it to the side and aiming it the best he could at the fire hydrant valve-

BANG! 

Gallons and gallons of water started spraying from side of the hydrant with a vengeance, creating a roar of white noise loud enough to cover all of the minute sounds Bentley could make, like crying, which he was definitely currently doing. It was perhaps the hardest he’d let himself cry since this all started, since he had the cover of the water to silence it.

Suddenly, two arms grabbed him under the armpits and yanked him out from under the monster’s body, and its claws that had been buried in his leg dragged, tearing open more skin as they went before he finally pulled free. Bentley screamed again at the agony, but one of the hands left his armpit and came to slap over his mouth. A hand that wasn’t his. The other arm left his armpit, too, and looped around his torso, and he was slowly dragged out of the alley and right behind the fire hydrant. Close to the loud noise.

Bentley reached up in an attempt to pull the arms away, but a voice came, a whisper that wouldn’t be audible over the raging water: “Don’t fight me.”

Suddenly, four monsters all skidded out of the alley, screeching and hissing at each other, stumbling like a stampede and climbing over one another to get to the fire hydrant.

Bentley watched in horror, the mysterious hands still around him, pinning him in place and keeping his mouth closed as the monsters clicked gutturally at each other. The plates on their heads opened up and they skittered around, listening intently, circling the fire hydrant as though they were deciding what it was. They were so close to them… four feet at absolute max. And there were four of them. And they were so close…

Whoever was sitting behind Bentley slowly released his mouth, and he kept his breaths quiet, forced himself not to cry audibly. The person's hand slipped under his knees and slowly lifted him off the ground, bridal style, causing a flare of terrible pain to explode up his leg. He bit his tongue until a metallic taste blossomed in his mouth so he didn’t make any noise.

He turned his head away from the monsters, toward the person who was holding him. The sniper rifle sling and shiny blue eyes told him it was the same man from earlier — from the storm shelter.

The guy began to slowly back away, carrying Bentley as he went. He ventured around the back of the library, his footsteps drowned out by the rushing water. He moved slowly, smoothly until he was able to go through the library door and down into the basement, skipping the red stairs and heading into the fallout shelter, closing them in, all in a practiced, silent precision.

The guy carried Bentley over to the same cot he’d sat on earlier and put him down on top of it, removing his bag from his shoulders and shotgun from his hands, putting them on the floor near the bed. Then he immediately walked away to the other end of the room, digging softly in one of his own packs.

Bentley layed back on the cot and put his hands over his mouth. The pain in his leg was absolutely incapacitating, and kind of made him wish the whole thing would’ve just been chopped off. His left pant leg was solid red, and he sucked in deep, quick, panicked breaths instead of scream-crying like a toddler throwing a tantrum, which is what he actually wanted to do. He could feel the hot tears streaming down either side of his face quicker than he could even think about wiping them off, but he kept his hands dutifully clamped over his mouth like his life depended on it. Because it did.

The guy came back over with a few things gathered in his arms that he laid out carefully on the floor at the foot of the bed. He stood up and made sure he was in Bentley’s field of vision, holding up a glass bottle of vodka.

Shit.

Bentley shook his head lightly, internally begging him not to pour it on the wound, but the guy was already moving. He rolled up what looked like a washcloth into a thin cylinder and held it up toward Bentley’s face. To put in his mouth. To bite on.

When Bentley didn’t move, the guy manually put it between his teeth, and then knelt down and cut Bentley’s pant leg clean off halfway up his thigh with a knife.

Agony. 

Bentley writhed when he poured the alcohol into the wound. He kept from screaming by biting down on the washcloth so hard he probably cracked a few teeth, his entire body thrashing so hard he nearly kicked the guy in the face with his other leg. The only noise that managed to escape him was a soft whine mixed strangely with a few sobs that sounded kind of like he was choking on blood.

The guy’s hand came to rest on his other leg, maybe trying to comfort him, or maybe warning him to shut up. Bentley wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter. After a few minutes of blazing agony, he spotted the small sewing kit the guy had placed on the bed, and passed flat out.

—

When Bentley woke up, he was really warm.

He peeled his eyes open, blinking a few times until the slightly illuminated metal ceiling of the bomb shelter faded into his vision. It was dead silent, apart from a quiet, extremely soft crackling sound that was coming from across the room.

He blinked a few times, pushing himself up until he was upright. There was a blanket over him — the blanket he’d gotten from the store.

His leg, instead of feeling like it was going to fall off, was throbbing with a pulsing ache that was ten times better than it had been earlier. He lifted the blanket to glance at it. Nearly his entire pant leg was cut off, and the giant gnash from the top of his thigh to just above his knee had been covered with bandages that looked like they’d been wrapped with a practiced precision. He was really glad he couldn’t see the stitches, because he’d probably just pass out again if he could.

With a grimace, Bentley glanced over the edge of the cot at his bag. It was still pinned closed, and his shotgun was laying just where they’d left it, so he safely assumed it hadn’t been tampered with.

He finally glanced across the room at the other two cots. The little fireplace was on now, but the fire was barely lit, to be quiet, he guessed. There was a bucket of water directly beside it that he guessed was to put it out quickly. The guy was sitting on his cot, the one without the stuffed animal, and his gaze seemed to land on Bentley at the exact same time Bentley’s landed on him.

The guy immediately rose and strode across the room toward him. Bentley found himself shrinking away, absentmindedly reaching for his shotgun.

The man knelt down and held up his hands, just like he had earlier, doing the same writing motion as before. He looked less… cold, than last time? Like, nicer, maybe?

Keeping one eye on him, Bentley fished the calendar journal out of his bag and turned to the pages they’d written on before, quickly scribbling and handing it over

Thanks for saving me. I’ll leave now.

With a brief glance up at the child, the guy wrote and handed it back quickly.

No. Stay. I was wrong before.

Wrong? Bentley wrote. About what?

We’re safer together. Was the man’s reply. I saved you with the sniper shot. You saved both of us with the fire hydrant. Safer together. You can stay with me.

Bentley looked down at the page for a few quiet moments, the sudden urge to cry returning, but he pushed it away and wrote.

My name is Bentley Whittaker.

The guy read over it carefully, tracing it with his eyes a few times before writing and handing it back.

Hi Bentley. I’m Dick Grayson.

Bentley nodded to himself, glancing back up at him, connecting the name to the face. Dick Grayson. He looked like a Dick Grayson. 

A second later, Dick Grayson took the book back and wrote:

Alone, or lost?

Alone. My father died protecting me eleven days ago. Bentley wrote. Are you? Alone? 

Dick stared at the question for a moment, before writing what seemed like a long reply.

My family tried to fight against the invasion. Only me and my youngest brother survived the first month. He got sick about a week ago and I went to the pharmacy to get some meds, I didn’t know he followed me. He sneezed on the street. I wasn’t close enough. Now it’s just me. He wrote. Sorry about your dad.

Bentley read through it carefully, pity streaking through his chest as he glanced up at the other cot, the one with the stuffed cow laying on it.

I’m sorry about your brother. And the rest of your family, Bentley wrote back. How old was he?

11, Dick replied. I’m 26. What about you?

Bentley wrote back: 10.

A moment of quiet passed, and Dick twirled the pen in his hands before glancing at a watch that was sitting on his right wrist. You were out for probably 6 hours. I’d recommend pain meds if you have them. I’m out, he wrote.

Bentley nodded lightly, pulling his bag up on the bed and digging out one of the motrin bottles he’d taken from the pharmacy. In silence, he dosed himself out as much as he needed based on the weights provided on the bottle, then a little more, and took it all in one gulp.

Once he put it all back away, he wrote on the page again. Why change your mind? I thought you wanted me gone?

Dick looked at Bentley, then studied the page for a moment too long, his eyes growing very vaguely misty for a few odd moments. Then he wrote, slowly, and handed it back.

I couldn’t save anyone in my family. But I could save you.

Bentley blinked at the words, that sudden urge to cry rising in him again. Instead, he exhaled in a calculated way, writing: How did you know I was still here?

I didn’t know it was you, Dick wrote, but I heard this morning’s chaos on my walkie. He pointed at the walkie talkie taped on the wall above his bed. I figured you were smart enough not to move in the dark…

Bentley nodded, tapping the pen on the paper as he tried to come up with more to say. He glanced at his bag for a few moments.

I got crosswords and stuff from the store if you’re bored, he wrote. I need to do my school from yesterday and today. I forgot yesterday because I was walking.

Dick furrowed his brow, writing again: School? You just, like, almost died?

Bentley nodded, shuffling in his bag before he pulled out the single schoolbook he’d brought from home. It was a cheap one, because his father hadn’t cared very much about it, a sort of all-four-subjects-in-one textbook that gave him a daily dose of math, english, history, and science. He put it on the cot near to Dick so he could see it, and wrote in the journal: I don’t want to end up stupid.

He could’ve swore Dick smirked at that, his eyes shining like he was reliving a fond memory. You’re very smart already. Wrapping your shoes, cutting the zipper out of your bag, shooting the fire hydrant. It's impressive. Doing school while the world is ending -- You remind me of my brother Tim. 

Bentley read through it and smiled faintly. He wondered how many siblings Dick Grayson had, but he was too afraid to ask in case it upset him.

You can stay over here if you want, but it's just boring old school, Bentley wrote. He pulled out the crosswords and other pens, too. Everythings kinda boring if you can’t make any noise. But I promise not to bother you.

Dick never wrote back.

For a while, they just sat in the quiet. Bentley went through his hour-a-day school lesson, and Dick Grayson moved to the cot next to him, doing some of the little puzzles in the book he’d found.

It was a while later when Dick finally rose. Bentley tried not to stare at him, but he did see him shuffle around in one of the two bags for a moment. He looked away, finishing up the last of his math problems.

Dick stopped ahead of him a few moments later, holding out a bundle of clothes in his direction. 

Bentley promptly realized they’d have to be his brother’s clothes if they were going to fit.

Glancing down at himself, he realized he didn’t have much of a choice but to wear them. He didn't have any more clothes of his own, and his current pants were missing a leg, and his shirt was absolutely drenched in monster blood.

He took them from his hands slowly, giving him a opportunity to snatch them back, but he never did.

Dick pointed back at the area with the room dividers, and Bentley went about forcing himself over there. His leg throbbed with a pain so harsh he nearly fell over when he first put his weight on it, and Dick hovered close by for support, but eventually he managed -- even if it did take almost ten minutes for him to walk the mere distance from one end of the shelter to the other.

He changed quickly, right next to the toilet. It was a strange combination of soft sweatpants and a button up shirt, and he briefly wondered why until he realized it was probably quieter to slide a shirt on that way than over their heads. The only issue was that… his left hand was wrapped, and he couldn’t actually do the buttons.

He managed to get the bottom three done and called that good enough, making his way back out into the larger part of the room. The clothes were a little big for him, but he’d manage, since the sweatpants had elastic at the waistline.

Dick turned to him when he came out, scanning his outfit with a sad, nostalgic look in his eyes. Bentley wondered if he regretted giving him his brother’s clothes. Once Dick spotted the undone buttons, he approached Bentley slowly and knelt down ahead of him, finishing them off from the middle of the shirt up to his neckline.

When Bentley glanced up from the article of clothing, Dick had tears running down his face.

It caught Bentley off guard, and he immediately felt terrible, almost offering to change back into his old stuff, but he didn’t have the time.

Because Dick Grayson hugged him.

It was strange. Bentley couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged, if he ever had. His father wasn’t exactly the hugging type… he was kind of… the opposite of hugging type.

It was… really warm. And comfy. And kind of great.

He brought his arms up and around Dick’s neck in return, and much to the relief of Bentley’s leg, he stood, picking him up off the floor as he did so. For a while, Dick carried him around and paced the shelter, in a bid to calm himself down, maybe, Bentley didn’t know. What he did know was that he was getting pretty sleepy because of it.

He felt sort of bad, because he just woke up, but also not really, because he’d just fought for his life and felt at peace for, like, the first time in ten years.

So he put his head on Dick Grayson’s shoulder, and he tightened his arms around his neck, and he fell asleep feeling kind of safe for the first time in a long, long time.

--

tag list that KINDA works lmao

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun

@xiaonothere

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy @bookwarm0-0