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14thgalerie · 11 months ago

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under pressure

• pairing: theodore nott x reader

• now playing: linger by the cranberries

• word count: 2.4k

• genre: angst

— an old piece that i never finished but i just wanted to post something because my account is so dead. i know exams work differently in hogwarts but for this one, let's just pretend that they do a semestral exam also.

“Theo?” You call from behind him, as you enter the common room where he sits in solitude.

He makes no sound to acknowledge that he’s heard you, simply continuing to stare off into space. Long, slender fingers rhythmically tapping on his thighs.

Ignoring this, you make yourself comfortable on the nearest available seat, angling your body to face him. “You would not believe what I got for History of Magic!” You excitedly begin and with much enthusiasm, “But first you have to guess!”

Again, a silence greets you. This sparks concern in you since it was very unusual behaviour from him. But before you could ask, he emits a curious hum, still not looking directly at you. “What did you get?”

“You’re no fun.” You playfully jab at him, trying to lighten up the atmosphere. “Anyways! I got an Outstanding! Can you believe that?”

“It would’ve been hilarious if you hadn’t.” Is all he says in a deadpan, hollow voice. “What do you mean by that?” You prod.

“Imagine taking all of my time just for you to fail once again. I would have actually thrown myself off the pitch. ”

The muted glow of the scattered lamps and candles cast shadows on the walls, creating an ambiance that mirrors the strained emotions between you and Theo. The distant sound of chatter and laughter in the dorm rooms only served to accentuate the silence that ensued.

He sighs, “I am tired. Tired of your complaining, of your whines, of your stupidity over such a simple course. You are so excited over this when it isn’t something to be necessarily proud of. You know…” Theo trails off in an amused manner as if he has realised something funny.

“I find it funny how you are sitting all proud and excited about this one exam when in reality, it was all because of me. You wouldn’t have even gotten half of what you had if it weren't for me or with the help of the others. Leeching off of us like a goddamn parasite who hasn’t a mind of her own.”

Words fail you, unable to conjure up even a whisper in your shock. You stand up slowly, breathing out an unsteady exhale.

The words break on your skin like whips, cracking and splitting open still healing wounds.

“I have never asked you for anything, need I remind you? You were the one who insisted on spending your oh so precious time teaching me. Time and time again, I reassured you that I could do it myself because I didn’t want you to waste it on me. Yet, it was always fine with you and you were adamant on doing it so don’t you dare put this on me now.” You grit out. “I have no idea as to why you are acting like a rabid dog, snapping at me unprovoked, but nothing will ever warrant that kind of behaviour. “ You shake your head sharply, glaring at him from underneath your eyebrow.

You felt yourself becoming dizzy with panic and anxiety, confusion with the whole situation making it worse by the second. It was spreading so quickly and far into the recesses of your soul that you would fall to your knees if not for the support of the couch behind you.

Not willing to have him see you break down from his nonchalant words that were deliberately chosen to attack your deepest insecurities— unable to understand how it so easily came from the last person you expected it from. You quickly move towards the stairs, ignoring the weak call of your name.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Seconds—or was it minutes— slipped away since you have made the decision to lock yourself in your room. Leaving the room before everything gets worse. Surrounding yourself with a number of inked parchments that are filled with hundreds of thousands of words, none of which your brain registers. Despite your earnest desire to find solace with work, it was all futile as they were only mere words on paper that held no significance in comparison to what was brewing in your mind.

Instead, an incessant question pesters you. Was it really something to be so excited over? Lost in a silent deep rumination, accompanied only by the rhythmic flutter of an owl's wings as they flew past your open window and the rustling trees to occupy the silence.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The clock is still there to remind me of the hours that have passed— 3 and a quarter to be precise.

Perhaps you were being too over the top but you hadn’t meant to. The pure, unadulterated exhilaration overwhelmed you after Professor Binns called you aside after your last exam. It had become an accepted knowledge to you that History of Magic wasn’t necessarily your strongest suit. Enough so that it would’ve been perfectly fine for you to receive a less-than-average result.

To hear how exceptional you had done this time, possibly even greater than many of your classmates, your mind instinctively went to share your achievement with Theo. After all, he was the one who patiently dedicated hours guiding you in your review and it took precedence over his own. Assurances, that came off as more of arrogance, of how he would do just fine and that he could ace it even if he wore a blindfold.

Maybe that’s where it all went wrong. Could it have been the lack of sleep before? He does get a bit irritable with a lack of rest. You’ve seen it personally in the weeks that lead up to Quidditch games. The fatigue, in addition to the stress of the final exams before the holidays, must’ve steered him into that state.

Despite feeling upset and somewhat finding fault within yourself, you couldn’t muster up the will to apologise first. While his behaviour tonight could have been explainable, for goodness’ sake, the way that he has gone about it was unwarranted— shouting and hurling the harshest words that he is capable of, at you. The person that rejected every offer, made by him, because you were scared to impose on his studying hours. Now he cannot even be happy at what you had worked so dedicatedly on with him?

After spending hours in the cold and dark room, doing nothing but ruminating on the argument, you realise that you refuse to allow his words to dampen your joy and excitement any more than they have already. Sitting up straight, you stretch your arms wide. Swiftly tidying the scattered papers and dried pens into an acceptable arrangement in your trunk before you settle down beneath your duvet cover. Giving up on the idea of getting any work done when your mind was elsewhere.

The both of you made plans to have a sleepover in your dorm room after your roommates announced that they would be spending the night elsewhere. However, it will be safe to say that the idea had crumbled into non-existence after the heated exchange of words between the two of you.

As you lay there on your side, facing the stone wall with your back to the door, you couldn’t help but reflect on your argument. A hailing storm brewed in the furrows of your mind, unable to piece together what exactly you should do. The only thing you wanted was to hear his beating heart beneath you as you lay on his chest. But you knew that it wouldn’t be right for yourself to concede.

Of all the ways that you’ve imagined for him to react, what had truly occurred did not even appear in your mind. It left you tossing and turning in frustration and confusion, unable to fall asleep in peace. Only the warmth and lasting scent of his cologne on your duvet keep you calm— the realisation that you couldn’t even properly be mad at him makes you huff.

In the silent war within you, you were deaf to the aged door groaning in protest as its rusty hinges emitted a creaking sound that left the person behind it wincing. Nor did you hear the unusually gentle footsteps that followed.

So much so that even the shadows that lurked within the walls would have thought that the footsteps were a figment of their imagination. In the way that the presence hesitated outside of your room as if they were heavily contemplating.

It was only at the weighted dip of the bed behind you and the hesitant arm that crept around your waist that were you pulled from your trance. Yet, you bore no intent of recognition for him even as he had fully suited himself behind you with his chin tucked in the crook of your neck.

As his presence enveloped you, he began with a slight tremor in his voice. “Y/N…I-“

“I could write and speak a thousand sorry’s and reasons for why the words had so easily slipped from my lips, but they will never unspeak them from existence. I promised your mama that I will never let a speck of hurt flash across those eyes, and I will forever apologise to her for breaking that promise.” A shaky exhale lines the last few syllables. “I was so unnecessarily horrible and mean to you without meaning to. So consumed by this- this emotion that flooded me, something that I had lost control over.”

Every syllable was accompanied by a hesitant tone that left the words sounding shaky; nervous. Coupled with the drop of tears that lined your neck right where his head sat.

You listened, listening to his apology, but the wounds were still fresh. The echo of his sharp words runs deep beneath your skin, embedded into your bones, prickling with every second you are reminded of them. The sincerity in his voice clashed with the pain he had caused with his words, leaving you torn between the desire to understand and the reluctance to let go of the hurt.

“You really hurt my feelings, Theo.” If he wasn’t already drowning in misery, hearing his name fall from your lips after he worked many weeks to be called something else had him gasping for breath. “I genuinely want to forgive you, but at this moment, I can’t quite find it in me to do so. You blew up on me for absolutely no reason. I need you to help me understand, to give me a reason behind your outburst, not mere words of guilt. Because even if you say sorry a thousand times, I would never be able to forgive you for clearly attacking me where I would greatly feel it.

His voice, meek in the tense air between the two of you, unfolded with a raw honesty that lays bare his desperation for this to be over.

“The exhaustion from lack of sleep and finding that I barely got a passing grade…It was a bit too much for me. I have no idea why it even bothered me when, for so long, I could hardly give a damn about these stupid exams," he shared, sighing with exasperation.

A pang of guilt and shame flared within your chest at the knowledge. The initial shadow of hesitation and guilt that crept on you the days before came rushing back in. You should’ve known better than to allow him to persuade you. Turning around on the bed to face him. But before you could wallow yourself in these emotions, Theo quickly puts your mind to rest.

“Don’t blame yourself, darling.” He tenderly pushes a thumb against the forming frown on your forehead. “I should have told you that I needed to study also instead of leaving it to luck. I guess I was being a bit of a confident prick that got used to not reviewing for an exam that I fully forgot I missed a few lectures a few weeks ago. I truthfully never had and never will blame you, not when I had been the one, adamant enough, to help you out despite your protests.”

His admission carried a mix of self-awareness and remorse. The vulnerability that was clear in his words began to bridge the hesitance inside of you to relax, the layers of miscommunication slowly peeling away.

You could sense the weight he carried. Despite his casual indifference to his studies, you knew that it was something that he silently prided himself in. To have that be ruined in addition to the cumulative stress that built up over time with his hectic schedule. Being reminded that even if he may seem so perfect on the surface, beneath that, he was still human; flawed, vulnerable, and young. Although the hurt had begun to shift, not fully dissipating yet, it had turned into a sense of empathy that allowed you a clarity of thinking.

A small, understanding hum escaped you. The strain in your voice is gone now, ”We need to work on our communication, then. No longer hiding things from each other for any reason, even if we think it does not matter. Part of our relationship is to work our problems side by side, even if it doesn’t concern the other. We shouldn’t have things fester until it explodes on us.”

He nods, burying his head back into the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.” You gently pull his head back and look at him fondly. “And we need to also address the way you spoke to me earlier. Just because we were in the heat of the moment and lost in our emotions does not mean you have the right to do that, not when my mom raised me without raising her voice.”

“I’m really sorry. Merlin…I can still see the look on your face and I don’t think I would ever forget and forgive myself for being the reason behind it”. “I won’t say I forgive you just yet, that’s a boundary crossed for me. We should’ve had this talk in the beginning but better now than never. Let’s take a pause for now, and resume this conversation with a clear head.” He met your gaze with a blend of appreciation and a sense of resolve.

masterlist

#harry potter #theodore nott #theo nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott angst #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott fanfic #theodore nott fanfiction #slytherin #theodore nott oneshot

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 2 years ago

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title: toyin’ with them older guys

pairing: bartender!joel miller/female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

chapters: 1/1

read on ao3 | masterlist

summary:

Joel Miller is the grumpy bartender and owner of your favorite bar near campus, where you attend trivia every Tuesday night. Thinking there’s no way Joel could return your feelings, your friend suggests trying out Tinder.

But when you bring them to the bar for a date, they keep leaving mid date with no explanation.

Maybe there’s something Joel isn’t telling you after all.

author’s note: thank you to everyone who hyped me up to post this when i wasn’t sure how i felt about it. your comments mean the world 💕

content warnings/additional tags: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), alternate universe - no cordyceps outbreak, no use of y/n, unspecified age gap, alcohol references/consumption, possessive behavior, jealousy, mild violence (in the form of Joel kicking someone out of his bar), brief reference to Sarah’s mom and divorce, tinder dates, bribery, dirty talk, begging, pet names, praise kink, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), spanking. let me know if i’ve missed anything!

There’s a bar near the university that you love to go to for multiple reasons.

For one, they have great drinks. For two, their loaded tater tots are the best drunk food you’ve ever had the pleasure of consuming.

But the number one reason, above all else, is the grumpy bartender and owner, Joel Miller.

The first time you saw him, he was challenging a kid with a fake ID, his arms crossed over his broad chest, emphasizing the strain of his flannel over his biceps. When the kid tried to take a swing at him, he grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back before marching him out of the bar and kicking him to the curb.

Your friend had to remind you to breathe.

He hosts a trivia night at the bar on Tuesday nights, the perfect excuse to see the man weekly. You sit at the bar each time, scribbling your answers on the notepad as you sip on a vodka cranberry and sneak glances at the older man while he works.

One night, you were struggling to answer a question about where the Lord of the Rings trilogy was filmed when Joel leaned across the bar, bringing his lips close to your ear to say, “New Zealand.”

You’d gotten the point, thanks to him. And from that day forward, he’d linger near your corner of the bar, watching to see if you needed help with an answer. Eventually, you started showing up earlier and earlier for trivia night, just for the chance to talk to him.

You told him about your PhD program and the research you were conducting. You wanted to be a psychologist, but for now you’re just a perpetual student. You miss winter weather in Colorado, but appreciate not having to store a giant jacket anywhere in your small apartment. Your favorite season is fall, and your favorite holiday is Halloween.

He tells you about buying the bar a few years ago, after his divorce from Sarah’s mom and ensuing custody battle had been finalized, an investment he made with his brother Tommy. They’d fixed it up themselves and made it a popular local spot. His favorite movie is Indiana Jones and he prefers whiskey over any other drink.

It’s no surprise that along the way you’d fallen in love with the man.

Too bad he’d never feel the same.

————

Joel remembers the first night he saw you. Your rosy cheeks and tipsy smile as you leaned forward to say, “Vodka cranberry, please. With lime .”

“Lime, huh?” He remembers saying. You nodded your head vigorously.

“The lime is the best part,” you insisted. He chuckled.

“Not the vodka?”

“Gross, no.”

He tossed in three lime slices and you shimmied your shoulders with glee.

You come into the bar, alone, for trivia night on Tuesdays now. You’re a fountain of random facts, but every once in a while he’ll feed you an answer to help you out because he likes the smile that you give him in return.

He has no right to be looking at you the way that he finds himself doing every week. Eyes wandering to the way your jeans hug your ass or drifting to your cleavage when you rest your elbows against the bar.

But between the conversations and the trivia and the sweet smiles, he’d gone and fallen in love.

Which is why when you come to trivia night with a man who wraps an arm around your waist, Joel loses his goddamn mind and does the stupidest thing ever.

You get up to go to the bathroom and Joel leans across the bar to address the guy, keeping his eyes on the bathroom.

“I’ll give you $100 if you leave right now,” Joel says.

“What?”

“Hundred bucks if you walk out that door and don’t talk to that girl again,” he says again. He digs his wallet from his pants and pulls a bill out, setting it on the bar top.

Without further question, the man grabs the money and stuffs it in his pocket as he heads out the door. Joel feels a flash of guilt when you return from the bathroom and look around for your missing date.

“Said he had an emergency,” Joel lies. He’s surprised when you look relieved.

“He was kind of boring, anyways,” you shrug, dragging your notepad and pen closer to you. “He probably would have just dragged us down.”

Us, Joel thinks.

He could get used to that.

________

Your friend, Marie, had convinced you to try out Tinder. She was absolutely certain you were missing out on the love of your life by not swiping mindlessly through profiles that held no interest to you.

You weren’t about to confess your unrequited love for the local bartender to get her off your case, so that’s how you ended up on a date with Michael. He was a law student and liked kayaking and hiking.

You liked neither of those things, but he had curly brown hair and you had a type, so why not give it a shot?

You didn’t have it in you to be too upset when you returned from the bathroom only to find out from Joel that Michael had left. Joel slid you another vodka cranberry with lime and your night went as it always did.

When Marie asked you the next morning how the date went and you told her he bailed, she insisted on picking your next one. She chose Scott, a financial analyst at a local bank.

You’re starting to think Marie doesn’t know you very well.

Regardless, you show up at the bar for another trivia night date. Scott is tall and lean, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and he wore a suit to a bar. When you comment on it, he pulls a face and says he came straight from work.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to not have real jobs,” he says. You blink at him, surprised by the hostility.

That hostility continues when Joel approaches the two of you at the bar, lips turned down in a scowl, and Scott decides to order for you.

“She’ll take a vodka water with lemon and I’ll have Bulleit, neat.”

Joel raises his eyebrows at Scott, his eyes flicking to you briefly, before he sets a plastic cup on the bar top. He holds Michael’s gaze as he pours a shot of vodka into your cup, before using the soda gun to dispense cranberry juice. You have to bite back your smile.

“Vodka cranberry with lime,” he says, sliding you your drink. “And your whiskey will be right out.”

“That’s not what I ordered,” Scott replies.

“Yeah, but it’s what she would’ve.”

Scott sputters, face going an alarming shade of red with his indignation.

“I’ll be right back,” you mutter, taking your drink with you as you head to the bathroom.

________

“I’m not paying for that drink,” the blonde asshole says, knocking his knuckles against the bar for emphasis. Joel huffs a laugh.

“I don’t give a shit, kid. I want you out of my bar,” he says, planting both hands on the wood.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get the fuck out of my bar.”

“I’m on a date!”

“Not anymore.” Joel rounds the bar and gets up in the little weasel’s face. “Get. Out.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, like he realizes that maybe Joel isn’t playing around. He scrambles from his barstool, standing to his full height like he’s about to challenge Joel.

“You can’t kick me out, old man,” the blonde snaps.

Joel’s had enough. He fists a hand in the starched white shirt collar, driving him back towards the exit. The other patrons move out of the way, some whistling and cheering Joel on. He shoves the man out the door and looks at the doorman.

“He doesn’t come back inside,” he says. “And you? Don’t ever fuckin’ talk to her again.”

Joel returns to the bar as you’re walking up. For a moment, he worries that you may have seen him acting like a caveman getting rid of his competition, but you look around in confusion.

“Where’s Scott?” You ask.

“He forgot about somethin’ at work,” Joel says. Your brow furrows.

“Kinda weird that’s happened to me twice now,” you comment.

Joel just shrugs.

________

You don’t tell Joel about how you saw him throw Scott out of his bar that night.

You’d just left the bathroom when you saw Joel stomp out from behind the bar, his eyes dark and fixed on your date. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but based on the affronted way Scott was responding, it wasn’t anything good.

You crept closer to the scene, but stayed amongst the crowd. Joel marched Scott backwards with a fist tangled in his collar, shoving him out the door.

“And you? Don’t you ever fuckin’ talk to her again.”

Your mouth went dry at his words and your mind reeled at the implications. Was he doing this from a place of friendship? Or…could he maybe feel the same way you do?

Only one way to find out.

You call up Travis, a good friend from undergrad who still lived in town.

“Trav, I need your help,” you say when he answers the phone.

“Burying a body type of help or financial type of help?” He replies easily.

“Actually, more experimental.”

“I don’t swing that way.”

“No, listen to me, I have a hypothesis,” you insist, explaining the situation to him. How you’ve been on two dates at Joel’s bar but each time, the men have left without another word. And how after what you witnessed, you’re inclined to believe that it’s not a coincidence.

You ask Travis to come with you to the next trivia night. All he needs to do is pretend to be there on a date with you. A bit of hand holding, maybe an arm around the waist. Nothing more.

“But what if he tries to threaten my life?” Travis asks.

“Well…I mean…every experiment has risks,” you reply flippantly. He sputters indignantly down the line. “I’ll buy you your drinks and get you tater tots.”

He’s silent for a moment before responding, “Fine. Extra jalapeños and I’m not getting well liquor.”

“Thank you!”

________

You come into his bar with another man. His arm is draped over your shoulders as you approach the bar and Joel has to set the glass he’s drying down before it shatters in his hands.

“Joel! This is Travis,” you say, gesturing to your date. He forces a smile, reaching a hand across the bar to shake his hand.

“What can I get started for you?” Joel asks. The man, Travis, orders an old-fashioned with top shelf whiskey, while you request your regular.

“I’ll be right back,” you say as Joel is pouring the drinks. You weave through the crowd towards the bathrooms and Joel leans in to address Travis.

“I’ll pay you $100 to leave this date,” Joel says.

Travis smirks. “Make it $200.”

“Are you serious?”

“That depends, are you?”

Joel’s eyes flick towards the back of the bar and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out four fifties, dropping them on the bar.

Travis pockets the money before adding, “You know, there’s cheaper ways to get the girl.”

“Get out,” Joel grunts. The younger man laughs his way to the door, and you appear at the bar a moment later.

“Where’d Travis go?” You ask.

“Oh, he—“

“Can I get an order of the loaded tots?” Travis asks, cutting Joel off from making up an excuse for his absence and sitting back down on the stool beside you with a shit eating grin. “She owes me.”

“Owes you?” Joel asks through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, she lost a bet. I told her I could get the number of that guy over there in less than three minutes and she doubted my charm.”

“Travis and I went to undergrad together,” you explain. “We just wanted to hang out and catch up.”

Shit.

________

Travis decides to leave after two plates of loaded tots and one too many drinks. You help him call an Uber, but you stay behind as the bar starts to clear out.

It’s just Joel behind the bar, wiping down the wood and setting bottles back to their rightful spots as you sip from a cup of water. The kitchen has closed down and the music has been shut off, leaving the two of you in loaded silence.

“So…,” you say, twirling your straw in your near empty cup. “You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

Joel’s shoulders go tense before he releases a deep sigh, turning to face you. The bar separates you, and it feels like miles of distance when all you want to do is get your hands on him now that your hypothesis has been proven.

Joel Miller likes you. And he’s been sabotaging your dates because of it. Perhaps you should be more upset, but all you can feel is an effervescent giddiness bubbling in your veins.

While he struggles to find the words, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You reach across the bar, hooking your fingers into the collar of his t-shirt and tugging him forward. You lean over to meet him halfway, pressing your lips to his.

You pull back and look into his eyes. The coffee colored brown of his irises seems darker, his eyes half lidded as he looks at you.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asks.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

________

Joel’s got one hand on the wheel of the truck and the other resting on your thigh. He has to keep a hand on you because he’s worried that if he doesn’t anchor himself, he’ll wake up from this dream.

You kissed him. You reached across the bar and dragged his lips to yours in a way he’d only dreamed of doing a thousand times since you’d sauntered into his life.

He can’t help the small smile that tilts his lips up at the thought.

“What’s got you smiling over there?” You ask, your voice teasing. He glances at you.

“You do, darlin’,” he says. He relishes in the pink that blooms across your cheeks at the pet name.

Joel drives to his house, parking the truck in the driveway of his little bungalow. His bachelor pad, as Tommy calls it.

Maybe not for much longer.

He circles the truck to open the door for you, helping you down from the cab. He keeps his hand on your low back as he leads you up the porch steps and through the door.

You toe off your shoes in the entryway, letting them join the pair of sneakers Joel left by the door. You’re wearing a pair of socks with tiny cats printed on them, the sight so endearing to him he can’t hold back his laugh.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothin’, just…like the look of you here. In my house,” he says.

“Yeah?” You take a step closer to him, toe to toe as you look up at him through your lashes.

“Yeah,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around your waist, tugging your body against his. The heat of you even through the layers of your clothes sends a shiver down his spine.

You press your hands to his chest, sliding them up and over his shoulders before linking them behind his neck.

“You gonna give me a real kiss?” You whisper back. Your lips are so tantalizingly close that they ghost across his as you speak.

He closes the distance, lips dancing with yours as he kisses you senseless. The feel of you against him, moving with him, sends sparks skittering across his skin. He’s unable to hold still, hands roaming from your back to your waist to your hips as your mouths part and your tongues tangle with increased desperation.

Joel slides his hands to the backs of your thighs, crouching slightly to lift you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. Your core slides against his growing hardness and he groans at the sensation as you let out the neediest whimper.

He wants to hear more.

He walks you both through the empty house until he reaches his bedroom, tossing you on top of sheets still rumpled from last night’s sleep. You scramble to sit up on your knees, moving to the edge of the bed and curling your fingers into the waist of his jeans.

“Can I suck your cock, Joel?” You ask, voice all breathy as you stare up at him with your big doe eyes. “Please?”

Joel’s mouth has gone bone dry. “Yeah? You want my cock in that pretty mouth of yours, sweetheart?”

You nod your head, fingers working on the buckle of his belt. His hands work in tandem with yours to get his fly open, shoving the denim down his thighs until he can step out of them. His cock tents his boxers, a wet spot already apparent on the fabric and he watches as you reach a hand out to stroke him, a groan escaping him at the feel of your warm palm against him.

“Take your clothes off and get on your knees,” Joel commands. He lifts his own shirt over his head as you unbutton and remove your pants, shimmying the tight fabric down your legs. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed as he watches you lift your shirt up and off.

His eyes rove your body hungrily. Your perfect tits and gorgeous curves, the way you flush beneath his gaze.

“Come here, baby,” he says, crooking a finger. You come to stand between his legs and he reaches around your back, unhooking your bra with deft fingers.

“You’re rather skilled at that, Mr. Miller,” you tease.

“I’m old, not dead.” He slips the straps from your shoulders, tugging the last barrier between him and your tits away. “God, baby, these all for me?”

“Mhm,” you him as he wraps his hand around the weight of one breast, thumb teasing your pert nipple.

“Tell me somethin’,” Joel asks, “why’d you bring all those boys around when you knew you needed a man?”

You lick your lips. “Didn’t know if the only man I wanted would want me back.”

Your voice is small and vulnerable as you say it, and that just won’t do. “Don’t just want you, baby. Need you.”

Your face lights up in the brightest grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad,” he tells you, digging his fingers into your hips. “S’why I had to play dirty.”

Your smile turns downright salacious. You drop to your knees, running your hands up his thighs. “Show me how much you need me, Joel.”

________

Joel shoves his boxers down, exposing his cock to your hungry gaze. It’s gorgeously thick, the head a dark red from his arousal, a pearl of precum sitting in the slit. You lean forward and dart your tongue out to gather it.

“Don’t tease, sweetheart,” Joel says through gritted teeth. You keep your eyes fixed to his as you take him in hand, swirling your tongue over the sensitive head before taking him further into your mouth.

His hand is instantly in your hair. Not pressing, but his fingers tangle in the strands and tug deliciously against your scalp. He moans as you take him as far back into your throat as you can manage.

“Fuck, your mouth is better than I ever dreamed,” he says, voice rough.

“You’ve thought about this?” You ask when you draw back for breath, hand pumping his length in place of your mouth.

“‘Course, baby. These pretty lips wrapped around me, beggin’ for me to make them all swollen and used,” he says, standing and bringing a thumb to your lips and swiping it across their spit slick surface. “Open up.”

He uses his thumb to press against your bottom lip, opening your mouth as he takes his cock in hand and feeds it slowly between your lips. The smooth, hot length of him dragging across your tongue makes you moan.

“You like that, baby?” He growls, pumping his hips in shallow thrusts. “Like me usin’ your mouth how I want?”

You try to nod, your movement restricted by the grip of his hand that’s returned to your hair. There’s spit trailing down your chin and tears gathering in the corners of your eyes from the effort of keeping your mouth open for his thick length. You know you must look like a mess but with Joel staring down at you with his lust drunk expression, you feel on top of the world.

“I gotta fuck you, baby, will you let me, huh? Let me feel that pretty little cunt strangle my cock?”

You hum around his length and he withdraws, tugging you up by your hair and pulling you into the dirtiest kiss, all tongue and teeth and blatant desire as he turns your bodies, shoving you down onto the bed.

Joel slips an arm beneath your low back, using it to pull you up the bed as he crawls on to join you. He positions himself between your legs, tearing the soaked fabric of your panties down in a frenzy.

He slides his fingers through your wetness before bringing them to his lips, sucking them into his mouth with a groan.

“Christ, I’m gonna feast on you for hours, baby, but I wanna fuck you so bad,” he says.

“Then fuck me, Joel, please,” you beg, lifting your hips so that his cock slips through your center. “Come on, wanna feel you.”

He lines himself up, pressing into you with a delicious stretch, the slight sting of it making you whine. He shushes you, not stopping until his hips press against the back of your thighs.

“Good fuckin’ girl, takin’ my cock like you were made for it,” he says, leaning forward to kiss you, the shift in angle making him go impossibly deeper. “Tell me when I can move, sweetheart.”

You shift your hips restlessly beneath him. “Please move, Joel, wanna feel it.”

Joel pulls back before slamming forward, the force of it making you slide up the bed as all the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His grin is sharp as he does it again and again to the tune of your desperate cries.

“Joel!” You cry, clawing at his back with each thrust. “Fuck, yes, yes!”

He withdraws abruptly, the loss of him as you clench around nothing making you whine pathetically. With a bruising grip on your hips, he twists your body until you’re on your belly, ass in the air and chest pressed to the mattress.

Joel slides back inside your tight heat, a palm slapping across one cheek then the other as he resumes his powerful thrusts.

“Fuck, darlin’, you’re so goddamn tight,” he growls. A hand presses to the back of your neck for leverage, changing the angle yet again. “Can you cum for me? Can you soak my fuckin’ cock, baby, I bet you can.”

You nod, the movement restricted, but you can’t form words. All you know is the feeling of Joel pounding into your body like he owns it.

The hand on your hips moves to the front of your body, fingers finding and pinching your clit. You sob against the mattress, the sheets wet beneath you from tears and drool.

“Come on, baby, fuckin’ cum for me,” he growls. “Won’t fill ya up until you do.”

That’s the visual that does it. The thought of Joel finishing with you, inside of you, dripping out of you too much for your lust addled brain. With a shout, the thin remnant of your control snaps and you pulse around him.

“Fuck yes, that’s it, sweetheart, good fuckin’ girl,” he praises, his hand leaving your neck as he sits up, his tempo fast and sloppy as he chases his release through yours. “You want me to cum in this tight little cunt, honey.”

“Yes, please,” you manage to slur, muffled by the sheets. With three more harsh thrusts, he does as promised, spilling inside of you with a shout.

He slows before withdrawing, your body collapsing against the mattress without him there to hold you up. He chuckles as he flops beside you, dragging you into the cradle of his body.

“You done playin’ games with those boys?” He asks, smiling smugly against your neck.

“Yeah, think I might be into older guys,” you tease. He pinches your hip, making you laugh.

“See if I ever help you during trivia again.”

________

Joel’s standing in front of you, arms crossed with a scowl on his face as you stare up at him with pleading eyes.

“Come on, baby, help me out,” you ask sweetly, batting your eyelashes.

“Last call for an answer to our final question! What is the only song credited to all five original members of the band Fleetwood Mac?”

Joel sighs, biting back his smile. “The Chain,” he tells you. You scribble the answer, running your paper up to the emcee. When you return to the bar, you lean across the polished surface and tug him towards you, planting a kiss to his lips.

He drags you back for another kiss. And another.

“Anytime, darlin’.”

Joel Miller tag list: @huffle-punk punk @johnwatsn @hopelessromantic727 @whereasport @pedr0swh0r3 @yellingloudly @dragon-of-winterfell @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @mydailyhyperfixations @liati2000 @ghostofjoharvelle @cutesyscreenname @morgaussy @letsgroovetonighttt @endlessthxxghts @fake-bleach @brilliantopposite187 @mattmurdock1021 @str84pedro @justsomeoneovertherainbow

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#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #no use of y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #joel x female reader #joel miller fluff #joel the last of us #ao3 author #read on ao3

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jolalibrary · 7 months ago

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10. cranberry cocktail

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter ten of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3k chapter warnings: SMUT. 18+. jo's bad use and knowledge of DIY. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: this one is called jo made herself horny. see author note at the end.

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It’s difficult not to smile as you approach.

His voice, mid-singing—almost competing with the radio that lingers under his voice—had been travelling out as you walked up to the building. Louder when you pulled open the door, sliding the sunglasses from your face.

A few blinks and your eyes capture his, singing dying out, leaving the original artist blaring around in the background.

Still, you're unable to stifle the smile. Not as you walk closer or as he puts down the tool in hand; least of all when you realise he's looking only half as abashed as you would be if he caught you mid-rendition, watching him dial down the volume on the radio as the door closes behind you.

Frankie had shown you this place once before. Your voice, light, teasing, hand in his: “You’re showing me where the magic happens?”

“I’ve shown you where that happens.”

“Not that magic—or, well, I hope you’re not about to tell me there are even more videos on a different site I need to watch. I’ve been forced to rewatch things lately.”

He’d explained, with a soft smile and a twinkle in his eye, how he’d turned the garage into a workshop. The hours, the pieces he’d started with and the things he’s managed to build, find or bargain for along the way. Even lingered his thumb over the height chart for Luca, the one he told you he began when he first bought the run-down house he made a home.

It was impressive then, but you hadn’t appreciated it as much as you do stepping in today.

You'd been too busy then, watching, studying him. Spotting the way he trailed his thumb across his bottom lip, eyes widening as they tried to smile before his lips as he pointed out highlights he knew you’d have seen from certain videos you’d mentioned.

Now, it's all lit by soft, mid-morning sunlight, looking homely, loved, worn in and appreciated—everything you’d expect from him.

Even if things are out, such as plasterboard and wood leaning against odd edges, everything else has a place. Just like the scent that wanders around and flows as if there’s a constant candle burning, one which includes notes of freshly applied paint, the essence of sawdust and leather. A blended aroma that subtlety clings to his clothes—and then lingers inside your own. A thing which brings comfort, until it seeps in sadness upon the realisation that it's faded from a sweater, bedsheets or your throw after a few days of not seeing him in person.

"Hi, handsome."

He grins, a hello escaping out as his knuckle tips your chin up, your smile back presses to his mouth. Tasting his lips, how they’re tinged with coffee. Frankie planting it more intently as your hands find their way around his waist, heightening it, fingers grasping your cheek.

You swear you could kiss him forever. A thought you know you have continuously, almost every time his mouth finds yours. But you mean it.

Completely. Utterly.

Your palms sliding around, fingers brushing over dry, hard paint specks buried into the soft, beloved cotton of his tee.

“So,” you say when you pull away, teeth biting your lip—finding yourself staring at him, as though his face alone answers everything.

In some ways, you're adamant it does. In others, you know it will.

A feeling that thrums more and more intensely as weeks rack up into months, as your heart flutters in your chest when his eyes hold yours for a second longer than normal.

“What has prompted this little requested visit?”

Grinning, he traces his thumb along your jaw. “Thought you could drill some holes—for your cupboards?”

Smirking, dragging your tongue in a sweeping motion across your lip, you tap your fingers on his waist. “Drill, ay? I didn’t… exactly come dressed to be in your workshop.”

“Wait,” he says, eyes widening, mouth pulled into a line as he brushes his fingers down the fabric of your summer dress that rests along your collarbone. “This isn’t an everyday DIY outfit?”

Grinning, you nudge into him, head shaking—hand grasping a handful of his tee. “No.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice dropping, charm encasing each letter as his hands find a home on your hips, “I’ll make sure you don’t get messy.”

A soft laugh escapes you, feeling the way his thumb continues its gentle circling on your cheekbone.

“You on cleanup duty, then?” you reply, the words muffled against his lips. He hums in response, a sound of agreement that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.

Without pulling away, he gently guides you towards the bench—hands on your side as his chin rests on your shoulder.

One glance at him, and he offers you a comforting smile. Before it comes over him, that voice—the one from the videos. All lightly, but sternly instructing you. Talking you through the steps, before he tells you to pick up the black and orange drill from in front of you.

A lick of warmth slides up your spine, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you press closer to him, your body beginning to buzz from the way he’s pressed against you—his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your waist.

“We’re going to begin with drilling the holes for the handles.”

Rolling your lips, you rest your head against his. “Okay.”

“What you’re gonna do is lightly ease the drill in.”

“Is that so?”

Clearing his throat, you swear you hear your name, it followed quickly by a “Stop.”

“Stop what, Frankie?”

It’s a grunt. A thing buried in his throat before he takes a measured sigh. His hand rises, gripping the top of the power tool before lining the drill bit with the marked wood.

“Being a tease—now, lightly pull the trigger.”

Blanking your face, staring at him with confusion. “So, push it in and out?”

You watch it hit him—slowly. It washes over him in a few blinks, your hips wiggling against his before he groans again. “You’re killing me.”

“I’m very innocent, Morales.”

“Mierda. You’re the opposite of innocent. And no, it’s straight down. Not in and out—we’re not… we’re not fucking it.”

Giggling, you bite the inside of your cheek, adjusting your stance as you swear his groin pushes into your ass on purpose. Finding a way to mumble an okay, you shift your shoulders in preparation. Asking, finger hovering over the trigger of the drill, if you squeeze it lightly as you feel him nod.

Swallowing, you give it a test. A little click. Hearing it, before you see thin crinkles of wood coming away from the pressure.

“Like that?”

Somehow, all beyond you, you manage to keep your voice steady. It all unwilling to tremble—even though his breath is dancing over your neck. Even though his hold on your hip is tightening.

Then there’s the heat pulsating through your dress—the warmth settling into your bones, skin and muscle from his touch. Your body remembering, recalling—able to know just from his presence what he can do, what he has done, how he can unravel you and make you become a mess all from his fingers, mouth and—

“Bit more pressure this time, baby.”

“You can’t say that.”

Snorting, the air dances over your skin as you swear you feel him smirk. “Oh, Rainy. I can.”

You swear his voice drops an octave.

Sweeping the words over you, making your body tense, muscles twisting in on themselves as you try to focus on the drill in your hand. Stare down at the piece of wood he’s set up for you until it’s a blur. Nodding. Finger over the button, knowing you just need to squeeze—

Perfect, he whispers.

And fuck it makes your thighs press together. Makes something rumble inside of you at the same time as the drill fires to life.

The noise is all loud, alarming—deafening. A hole deepening in the wood.

“That's it, just like that. Perfecto, hermosa.”

Even with how loud it is, you can only hear him.

How he layers so much emphasis on the P, the letter is still skating over your skin by the time the rest that follows it has left his tongue.

You can only swallow. Remaining aware, and yet focused in, on how his hand slides down, fingers teasing the end of your dress—a quickly thrown-on thing, an easy option that meant you could arrive here sooner.

“You’re perfect,” he says, kissing it against your neck as his hand slides under your dress, palm flat to your thigh, dragging it up, and up.

Some part of you, all distant, feels him take the drill, hears a click, before it’s out of sight, out of fucking mind.

Then it’s just thick fingers you focus on, how they slide, rub, torture over your underwear—feeling like minutes, hours, days before he manoeuvres. Before he’s forcing elastic to cut into your skin, before you feel him trace along the places you need him desperately.

“Frankie…”

He drags his nose against the side of your face, feeling the exhale flutter against your jaw before he makes you gasp before it grows into a shameless whine.

“This not what you wanted?”

Swallowing, your eyelids quiver. Some part of you, a present part of you that isn’t lost in the way he’s stroking up and down your slick folds, occasionally catching your clit, that he isn’t going to let you come like this.

Even if he's told you he likes the way you sound, has confessed that he likes watching you unravel; his favourite pastime, his favourite movie and soundtrack.

“Need to hear you, Rainy?”

“Want you,” you pant, breathless.

He fans hot breath on your skin. “Want me to fuck you here, baby? On my bench. Hmm?”

You’re fluttering, desperately to squeeze him—fingers or cock, you’re not in a frame of mind to be fussy.

Mind changing, singing, practically bellowing: please, please, fucking, please. Body thrumming, vibrating, legs desperate to shake—if not for the fact they’re keeping you upright. Your fingers find a place on his bench, digging, barely making a mark against the rest on his workbench. But it’s stable, rigid.

“Tell me, baby,” he says, softer, dripping it into your ear like honey—all encased in air that seeps inside of you and makes you forced to chase his lips.

It’s against them you say please. Kissing a y, an e and a s against his mouth, licking past his teeth, hips rocking into his fingers as he circles and circles and circles—

Then, nothing.

Retraction, emptiness. A desperate whine emerges, rising from the back of your throat until it fuses with the air.

An explanation almost demanded, but his belt buckle undoing silences you. His clothed cock presses against you, feeling how hard he is, the size of him making you clench your thighs as cool air kisses the back of your legs when he grabs a fist full of your dress.

“Gonna get rid of these.”

It’s deft, his finger—hooking in the band of your panties as he drags the soaked fabric down your thighs, letting it fall the rest of the way as the fabric finds a home around your ankles. For a moment they just remain there, not entirely confident you can step out of them until he holds you steady, talks you through it:

One foot, then the other. That's it, baby.

Because your body is on auto-pilot, doing things for you, for him. Like parting your thighs as his hand rests on your back as he softly urges you down. Your forearms find the bench, hingeing at the waist, lying your chest flat on his bench, sawdust filling your nose and stitching itself into the upper part of your dress as you turn your head, flakes sticking to your cheek.

And for a moment, an expanse of time, you forget how to breathe, how to be, where you are as you stare at him.

This man, this person who one day you didn’t know and the next you did—is now yours, all yours. Mine, he’d said in bedsheets after the conversation in the kitchen. Like that you’re mine, Rainy. A man you trust, like, lov—

Frankie, who is all handsome, broad and fucking kind, is now looking at you as if you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to devour in his life. Do it, you silently plead, beg, metaphorically getting on your knees as he washes you in almond-brown eyes.

He’s a sight you couldn’t have ever made up, least of all this one. Fingers, thick—one wrapped in a bandaid—pulling down on the brim of his hat, hiding his eyes, casting half of him in a shadow that makes you almost moan. There’s just the tip of his nose, just his mouth on show, lips spread and curled into a smirk as he lines his cock at your entrance.

You sure? He asks, fingers brushing over your hip, keeping the fabric back, as you smile, nod, and whisper for him to make you feel good before he eases the head of his cock in. It's then your mouth parts around a silent cry of his name, pussy welcoming each inch of him, opening, as you let him slide all he wants to give.

“Know you can take me,” he hushes, “I’m good at measurements, calculations—“

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, you like that.”

Whining his name, he smirks. Because both the feel of him and the act is something you couldn’t have ever concocted. Fuck, a year ago you wouldn’t believe the person you are either. Not this confident being almost laid down on his workbench, feeling this good, this attractive, all bold—asking for this, for what you want. No flicker of shyness or nervousness.

Then there’s him. A sight your mind is struggling to process. Frankie with his teeth glistening with spit as he stares down at you, as he sweeps that burning gaze over you and grunts at the feel of you. One hand, large, slightly calloused, finding meaning on your waist, the other holding your dress up your spine, pressing down, light, but firm—don’t move, baby, stay still.

As if you ever would.

The stretch is welcomed, a dull ache answered, all buried to the hilt. Remaining there, still.

“Move, please—fuck, Frankie, I beg of you.”

He chuckles. A low laugh.

But he does, pulling out before driving back in, making your vision swim, blur. It all overwhelming. Both the sensation and everything else—scents, sounds and touch. His hips slowly moving, his belt buckle clanging and it’s easier to find yourself draped over the bench, cheeks on the wood, inhaling it—the scent that lives in his clothes, in his fingers and aura.

Frankie, just Frankie. Your Frankie—

“So g—fuck—good for me.”

Your fingers dig, grasp—his cock kissing that spot inside of you that forces your toes to curl in your shoes, your mouth managing half of his name before it fades to a moan. All breathy, doused in whimpers and yes’s falling in a verse that leads to a chorus.

“Feel so—oh, good, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

“Perfect. Feel perfect.”

He moans—low, tinged in a grunt, a hiss, your name etched somewhere in the sound—as he pulls almost all the way out, drawn out, an emptiness beginning to register before he thrusts in. Somehow deeper, somehow filling you more perfectly as you squeeze your grip on the bench.

And you’re close, all light and boneless—but heavy and alive, so alive you feel like fire courses in your veins and you could become more flame than a person.

“Come for me, baby. Right on my bench—fuck, you feel good, so tight—need y’to come. Right here.”

And it crashes against you, all of it. Suddenly unable to smell a thing, hear a thing—you just feel. Feel the sensation of just him and the tip of him hitting that spot which makes you arch as pleasure, all blinding and molten lava rushes through your blood, and flows into your muscles.

All numb and yet tingly.

It takes a moment, but your senses come back one by one, panting, breathless—muscles tired and depleted—as you feel his hips stuttering, the strained noises from behind forcing your eyes open.

He’s a picture, a work of art—a statue that should be carved by someone with talent. Sun streaks in and basks him in a golden hue, illuminating that heart patch on his jaw—the way his tongue is pinned between pearly white teeth, and the vein in his neck throbs angrily as he reaches his own climax.

You clench, aware of it, ogling and admiring pushing him over the edge as he curses, tensing, rigid, pace lost as he spills inside of you, happily taking it all, wishing to wring him dry and ensure he’s empty. Greedy, desperate and fucking needy.

Before his body finds refuge on top of yours, heart hammering against your spine—hat falling, tumbling off onto the floor as the two of you catch your breaths. His hand finds your cheek, stroking his thumb against it.

“Never… I’ve never done that before.”

Smiling, you gaze at him as best as you can. “I like how you drill,” you say, playfully, feeling his laugh rumble through him before he kisses your hairline.

It’s light—perfect.

Feeling the laugh bounce from bone to bone inside of you before he turns and eases you up, chest to chest, murmuring against your lips about a shower, about cleaning you up. And you keep smiling, even more so when he checks your chin and cheek, the pad of his thumb tracing over and over.

“You promised me I wouldn’t get messy.”

Thumb pausing on your cheek, he smirks. “I can clean you up, baby?”

Smirking, you shake your head, heat flooding your cheeks. “How are you planning on doing that?”

He tilts his head, before slowly grasping the bench, descending to his knees. Your mouth unable to stop itself from falling open, all wide, surprised as he presses a kiss to your knee.

“Might want to hold onto something, baby,” he says, writing it against your inner thigh. “Might take me a minute to make sure you’re all cleaned up.”

NEXT CHAPTER ->

an: while we still have some more chapters of these two, I've been experimenting with a few things and while it won't have any bearing on the main series, there will be some smutty-one-shots that can be read as and when, and if so people wish. they won't require reading of the series, but rather allow anyone to enjoy two people who are becoming comfortable with one another, exploring a few different things. i'm not sure on when the first will be out, but it won't replace normal uploads for them. but rather just be small little things i'd love to include but would feel shoe-horned into my plan. also if there's anything you'd love a bit more of, whether it's a bit more on rainy/frankie or their relationship, my inbox is always open. thank you for letting these pair into your heart.

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales smut #francisco morales smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories #jo: dmy #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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samwinchesterswifu · 6 months ago

Text

Linger (Sam Winchester x Reader) Angst

Season 4 x Episode 21 - When The Levee Breaks

Song Inspo: "Linger" by The Cranberries

Warnings: Sam being an asshole & Demon blood drinkin

MINORS DNI

A/N: this one is shit but i had to get something out there. *italics are flashbacks

Word Count: 1360

Summary: Locking Sammy up in the panic room was something she didnt want to do, but she needed to protect the boy she loved, even if he seemingly didnt love her.

“What do you mean Sammy has demon blood in him?” She seethes towards Dean as she tries to understand the conversation unfolding in hushed tones.

“Look, that’s all I know from what Dad told me. I couldn’t keep this a secret anymore.” Dean states, hand in his hair in frustration.

“And you decided to me? Of all people?” She asks bewildered.

“Yes, because we both know that you’re his only hope.” Dean sighs.

“Your brother doesn’t love me, he’s made that very clear.” She scoffs.

“He does, he does deep down and he’s terrified.” Dean grunted. She shakes her head at his comment.

“Okay, so what do we need to do?” She asks.

The memory played loudly in her head as she sits on the stairwell of Bobby’s basement. Sam had gotten to far with the demon blood consumption and she was forced to lock him in the panic room to help him detox. But her heart ached at the wretched sounds of his screams. Tears softly fell upon her cheeks as she cried listening to his pain. She was so in love with this man, this boy that had no idea what he was getting himself into. But she was so angry with him choosing a demon over her.

Trying to juggle her keys, phone, and drink in hand, she managed to successfully unlock the motel door of the room they were sharing. Only to look up and to see Sam feeding on Ruby. Dropping her drink catches Sam’s attention, making him jerk away and poof, Ruby was gone. She couldn’t have believed what she had witnessed. It was like some sick sex act the two had engaged in with their clothes on.

“Y/N, I can-uh I can explain,” Sam says rising to his feet. Wiping away the red off his lips.

Without saying a word to him, she pushes past him and grabs her duffle. Preparing to leave him, and Dean for good. Too fed up with the situation. But as she turns to leave, Sam catches her arm in a tight grip.

“You can’t,” Sam whispers through choked tears.

“Not you too.” Sam had let a few tears stain his cheeks. Making her own throat become rock solid at the sight of the boy she loved crying.

“Then it has to stop Sammy,” she whispers to him. Barely meeting his eyes.

“You know I can’t,” he responds.

“I can’t keep doing this Sammy, play this mind games of yours. You’ve known that I love you yet you play me like a damn dog,” she replies. Her own tears brimming at all the turmoil she’s experienced.

Sammy sighs, dropping his head low.

“I know,” he whispers. His voice seemingly sounding broken.

“But you know that I’ve stayed away to protect you, that’s all I’m doing Y/N. I cant let you get consumed with me.” Sam’s voice was stern but warm.

“I would rather be consumed by you, or with you, then be away from you,” she responded, grabbing his chin to have him look towards her. Caressing his cheek, and whipping away the tears.

Sammy’s screams pull her out of her thoughts. Grabbing on to her left flannel pocket, squeezing. God, it truly hurt her heart to hear him.

“Y/N?” Sam calls out to her.

“Y/N!” Sam yells again. Pounding on the door of the panic room.

As she rose to try to comfort him somehow, the door to upstairs opens with Dean standing at the top of the stairs. Sam calls out to her again, and Dean shakes his head. Offering his hand to her.

“Dean, I-I can’t,” she says through choked tears.

“You need a break, Bobby has a bed made for you, please, I got this for a while.” Dean replies still holding out his hand.

She sighs, and begins to make her way upstairs, grabbing onto Dean’s hand as he helps her up. Bobby instructs her way to go, that it was safe. Nodding, she makes her way upstairs to take a short nap. That’s all she told herself, a short nap.

Closing her eyes, she opens them again.

Only to find herself sitting on a park bench. A head of her, was a younger version of herself. She remembered this day. She had snuck away from her father to meet Sam. She must’ve been 15 here. She watches herself closely. Smiling at the necklace her younger self was toying with. It was a simple single pearl necklace that Sam had managed to get to her.

But there was a sudden gust of wind, making her jump she realized that Castiel was next to her now.

“Really Cas?” She asked. This was a habit of the angel to check up on her sometimes when dreaming.

“I just wanted to see if you were alright.” Cas stated bluntly.

“Where are we?” He asks, looking around and then his eyes settling on her younger self siting on the play set steps.

“Shh, just watch.” She replies. Castiel nods in agreement.

“Hi angel,” Sam’s voice comes from behind her younger self, making her jump from her seat.

Turning around, she notices Sam holding a few picked road-side flowers in a make shift bouquet.

“Oh Sammy, they’re beautiful,” she gushes, grabbing them and giving them a sniff.

Sam sheepishly smiles at her, digging his hands deep in his pocket.

“I didn’t know Sam was like this.” Castiel states. Looking at her curiously. She sighs.

“He wasn’t always,” she replies. A twinkle of fondness rested on her voice.

The two of them watched as the younger Sam and her return to steps of the play set. The two younger versions chatting and getting caught up on their lives. At some point, Sam had made a bold move, and captured her hand in his, making younger her blush deeply.

She goes to turn to say something to Cas, only to see that he had left her dream without realizing. Shrugging her shoulders, she turns to see younger Sam in front of her.

“Y/N!” He screams.

Suddenly she sits up in the bed she was sleeping in. Movement down stairs makes her suspicious, prompting her to grab her gun from the bed side table, and she makes her way down. She hears commotion outside and opens the door to see Sammy had escaped and Bobby laying unconscious. Sammy holding on to the barrel of a shot gun that presumably Bobby had held.

“Sammy, come on, we just need to get you downstairs,” she tells him, gun still drawn.

“Are you kidding?” He scoffs, eyes wild and stricken.

“Sammy, please. I don’t want to hurt you,” she responds hoarsely. Tears threating to escape again.

A sickening laugh leaves Sam’s lips. The sound causing a rift in her stomach that made her feel like she was going to be sick.

“You’re not gunna hurt me?” Sam walks up to her.

Hesitantly, she closes her eyes and shoots towards his direction. Sam’s laugh echoes through the salvage yard as he grabs on to her gun. She begins to wrestle with him for control before the gun awkwardly slips from her grasp. Sam points the gun at her. Making her swallow the lump that had formed in her throat.

“Do it.” She states harshly.

Sam cocks his head in confusion.

“You’d be totally fine with me doing this right now? Killing you?” He asks, and she nods in response.

“If you let me go, I will hunt you down Samuel.” She states harshly while starring into his eyes.

“Fine, come find me then.” Sam replies. Before she could respond, Sam’s fist comes flying towards her. Closing her eyes, she loses consciousness on impact.

The sound of a rusted car engine sputtering to life jolts her awake. Realizing she was on the graveled ground outside, she begins to push herself up. Just as a car comes flying by her. Confused, she looks to see Sam in the driver’s seat as he turns out of the drive way and booking it down the road. Gritting her teeth, she hobbles her way towards Bobby, hoping that the old man was still alive.

#sam winchester #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader angst #sam winchester x reader fan fiction #sam winchester season 4

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cherry-romper · 6 months ago

Text

Loving You Sounds Like a Song

Playlist

+ Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Marco, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Levi, Erwin, Hange, Reiner, Bertholdt, Annie, Porco, Pieck, Zeke

Eren; Radio - Lana Del Rey

Not even they can stop me now

Their heavy words can't bring me down

No one even knows how hard life was

Lick me up and take me like a vitamin, 'Cause my body's sweet like sugar venom

How do you like me now?

Mikasa; All I Wanted - Paramore

Think of me when you're out, when you're out there

I could follow you to the beginning, Just to relive the start

And maybe then we'd remember to slow down, At all out favourite parts

All I wanted was you

Armin; Ocean eye - Billie Eilish

Cant stop staring at those ocean eyes

You really know how to make me cry

I've never fallen from quite this high

I've been walking through a world gone blind

Careful creature made friends with time

Marco; Heart To Heart - Mac DeMarco

To all the days we were together, To all the time we were apart

So, we never saw the start, Of each other's lives

Sentimentally assumed, Walking parallels

Heart to heart

Jean; FOR YOUR LOVE - Maneskin

I wanna be the first man you look at tonight

I wanna be a good man and see you smile

I wanna hold you in my arms tonight

For your love, I'll do whatever you want

I've got so much to give to you

Connie; Nothing Breaks Like a Heart - Mark Ronson, Miley Cyrus

This world can hurt you, It cuts you deep and leaves a scar

And nothing breaks like a heart

We live and die by pretty lies

We got all night to fall in love

nothing gon' save us now

Sasha; BIRDS OF A FEATHER - Billie Eilish

I want you to stay

Nothing left to lose without my baby

Can't change the weather, might not be forever, But if it's forever, it's even better

And I don't know what I'm crying for

I'll love you till the day that I die

Levi; Cinnamon Girl - Lana Del Rey

You try to push me out, But i just find my way back in

There's things I wanna say to you, But i'll just let you love

Like if you hold me without hurting me, You'll be the first that ever did

Hold me, love me, touch me, honey, Be the first who ever did

Hange; i wanna be your girlfriend - girl in red

I don't wanna be your friend, I wanna kiss your lips

I wanna kiss you until I lose my breath

Although my lips are blue and I'm cold

I don't wanna be your friend, I wanna be your bitch

Erwin; Twilight - Boa

It's a necessary evil

You give me an inner sanctity

Your feelings and mine are all lonely

And dawn comes, you're there lying with me

And you reach out to touch me, But I am in the twilight

Reiner; i love you - Billie Eilish

Its not true, Tell me I've been lied to, Crying isn't like you

What the hell did I do?

You didn't mean to say "I love you"

I love you, And I don't want too

I can't escape the way I love you

Bertholdt; Strangers - Ethel Cain

"Don't talk to strangers or you might fall in love"

How funny, I never considered myself tough

I tried to be good, an I no good?

I just wanted to be yours, can I be yours?

Am I making you feel sick?

Annie; We cant be friends (wait for you love) - Ariana Grande

I didn't think you'd understand me

Just wanna let this story die, And I'll be alright

We can't be friends, But id like to just pretend

Wait for you love

Me and my truth, we sit in silence

Porco; Never Let Me Go - Florence + The Machine

Reflections still look the same to me

No need to pray, no need to speak

Found the place to rest my head, Never let me go

And all this devotion was rushing out of me, And the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me

But the arms of the ocean delivered me

Pieck; Linger - The Cranberries

I'm sure, I'm not being rude, But its just your attitude

I swore I would be true

Why are you lying all the time? Was it just a game to you?

But I'm in so deep, You know, I'm such a fool for you

You got me wrapped around your finger

Did you have to let it linger?

Zeke; When We Were Young - Adele

Everybody loves the things you do

Everybody here is watching you, 'Cause you feel like home, You're a dream come true

Can I have a moment? Before I go?

Hoping you're someone I used to know

You look like a movie, You sound like a song, My god this reminds me, of when we were young

We were scared of getting old, It made us restless

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gothamite-rambler · 3 days ago

Text

Graham Cracker Moment

A cute little moment when Jason at 12 and Bruce having a snack together after a mission well done.

Jason (12 yo): Hm, you’re back feeling better?

Bruce rested his head on the countertop, maintaining composure even with the shooting pain in his back. He sat up straight, grunting slightly as he did.

Bruce: A little. Enough that I'm ready for this snack combination you keep raving about.

Jason nodded and slid a second plate with a graham cracker in front of Bruce. In the center of the table was a jar of peanut butter accompanied by two butter knives. Two glasses of milk sat beside them, one beside Bruce's plate and the other next to Jason.

Jason (breaking the cracker in half): You break the cracker in half to start, then spread the peanut butter on both halves.

He grabbed one of the butter knives and smeared peanut butter onto one of the pieces, demonstrating for Bruce, who watched closely to ensure he got it right.

Bruce (following the step): All right, got it.

Jason placed the two graham cracker pieces together.

Jason: Okay, now you stick the two pieces together, peanut butter side down. Like a sandwich.

Bruce (jokingly as he placed the crackers together): This is intense—more than a hostage situation. What’s next?

Jason: Eat it!

Jason took a bite, savoring the graham cracker sandwich with a smile. Bruce reluctantly took a bite himself. Although he wasn't a big fan of graham crackers, he found he actually enjoyed the mashup.

Bruce: I don’t... hate this.

Jason: It’s got a good crunch, right? Much better than bread and peanut butter.

Bruce shrugged, a half-smile forming on his face. He wasn’t in love with the concoction, but seeing Jason happy made it worthwhile, even with his sore back.

Bruce: I’m not asking this to offend you, but why exactly do you eat this?

Jason (gentle): I was raised in a pretty rough household. This was the closest thing I had to a snack. My parents tried, but food stamps would get canceled a lot.

Bruce: Oh... What are food stamps?

Jason giggled, covering his mouth while chewing on another bite of his graham cracker sandwich.

Jason (lighthearted): You really are rich. It's money the government gives families to buy food, but my parents didn’t like using it for what I really needed. I got used to it.

He shrugged, a faint smile lingering as if the memory were bittersweet. He looked at Bruce earnestly, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Bruce (thoughtful): Hm… I can only hope to provide you with whatever snacks you want. We could even come up with some more creative ideas together. I like this one!

Jason (hiding his excitement): Aww, thanks! You ready for the milk part?

Bruce: Yep. Let me guess: we dip the graham cracker sandwich in the milk?

Jason (nodding): Exactly! But remember—dip, don’t drop it in like with Oreos.

Jason chuckled as he dipped his sandwich in the milk. Bruce smiled, chuckling softly as he followed suit.

-----------------------------

Bruce (finishing the story): And that was a good night with Jason... I always liked his food combos.

He mixed his cranberry sauce and pie together, mirroring Jason's earlier creation.

Jason (smiling): Wait... you liked my combo that night? I thought you were just humoring me. Thanks, Bruce.

Jason chuckled, his head lowered in modesty as he took another bite.

Dick (covering his smile): Oh my god... that was adorable.

Stephanie (perplexed, but finding the story wholesome): Strange food combos do lead to sweet bonding moments. Also, I need to see Jason giggling at least once.

Jason: You won’t ever see that, but I did enjoy that night too. I’m thankful for that—and only that.

Bruce nodded as he sipped his wine, sharing a wholesome moment with Talia. Meanwhile, Ra's al Ghul nearly spat out his wine in disgust.

Ra's: I am eating. No time for mushy drivel like this.

Bruce: You can leave, you know.

Ra's: Nah, I refuse. Not because I like this food, mind you.

Bruce (raising an eyebrow): Really? You'd stick around just for the chance to criticize us?

Ra's: Exactly. You are all insufferable, but sometimes, insufferable makes for interesting entertainment.

The group shared an amused glance, the tension lightening as they returned to their plates.

Dick (grinning): Well, you know what they say, misery loves company.

Ra's (denying): I don’t want company with you weak people. Talia dragged me here and—Talia, stop babying the young man!

Talia ignored her father’s protests as she tried to feed Damian butternut squash casserole like he was a toddler.

Damian (weaving left to right): Mother, stop it! I’m not a baby!

Talia: I’m just doing my motherly duty! If your father can enjoy a snack with Jason, then I deserve my moment too. Here comes the airplane!

Damian (whining and flailing his arms): Father, help!

Bruce: That’s the nicest she’s been. I'm going to let her have this.

Damian: She never did this when I was a baby—

Talia swiftly shoved the spoon into his mouth, patting him on the head as he shook with indignation. Damian’s gaze shifted to a snickering Jason, who was thoroughly enjoying the embarrassing scene.

Damian (pulling the spoon out of his mouth): Utter a word, and I’ll scoop your eye out with this spoon.

Ra's: This is exactly what I mean! she’s undoing all the training and upbringing I provided for him, and then she drags me here when I had… important things to do.

Talia (speaking up as shoved a spoonful of green beans in her son's mouth): Honestly, he was just lonely and wanted to be around someone who didn’t completely hate him. Whoops, that just slipped out.

Talia smirked as her father shot her a glare, clearly annoyed by the comment. With a huff, Ra's stood up, taking his plate and walking outside to eat alone. Talia, unfazed, remained at the table, content to savor the meal and enjoy the thanksgiving meal with her son.

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trashmouth-richie · 1 year ago

Text

master list

Eddie x fem! reader

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNINGS ⚠️

Absolutely no minors, gtfo. Hopefully everyone has read the warning post from earlier this week regarding this chapter. it is extremely dark themed.

Heavy violence

References to past rape/ assault

Blood, gore

Domestic violence

Somnaphilia

Character death etc

A/N: please know your limits. I love you and let’s get into this chapter so we can move on.

The brown popcorn bag spun lazily in the microwave like an oily inflating balloon. The steady hum of the appliance kept you company as the countdown to the sad supper ticked to an end. The cheerful ding springing you from the staring contest you were having with the counter top.

The small radio you had purchased was sitting on the counter, the soft belt of Linger by The Cranberries was playing for what seemed like the tenth time today and you couldn’t help but feel the lyrics in your blood.

Unaware of anything out of the ordinary. A typical night after working at the bar. Showering and throwing on a pair of pajama shorts, tucked next to the pair of Eddie’s boxer briefs you had found last week.

After investigating why the washer banged all to hell when even the smallest of loads were in it, wedged tight under the plastic agitator were his underwear.

And you’d be a fool to say you hadn’t broken down and sobbed in the basement on the discovery.

You dried them and folded them neatly next to your delicates. The same drawer that held the worn and tarnished pig ring he gave you as a Christmas gift, and the envelope full of cash.

The water works started again.

Hot tears flooding your eyes, the simple act made you feel like he was home with you. But the nightmare always continued.

You missed him so much.

“But you always really knew

I just want to be with you

If you were a tiny bit more awake you might have caught that the door to the garage was locked even though you had no memory of locking it yourself.

..And I'm in so deep

You know I'm such a fool for you

You got me wrapped around your finger

Rustling the steaming bag from the microwave with burnt finger tips, you toss it on the counter hastily. Sucking your fingers into your mouth to dull the stinging redness away.

Do you have to let it linger?

And maybe it was then that if you weren’t busy nursing the premature burns, you would have noticed the odd set of keys on the counter next to the mail, pushed to the side by the buttery bag of popcorn.

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?

Bending at the waist to the lower cabinet you reach around for the smooth plastic of the yellow popcorn bowl. Upon standing you feel dizzy. You hear it before you feel it, the loud thwap of something heavy against the back of your head. The pain is searing and turns your vision to black. You’re passed out before your head even hits the floor.

(1987)

The November air whipped into reddened skin, striking out any heat you had left in the confinements of the peach sweater you borrowed from Nancy on your frozen walk to Forest Hills Trailer Park.

It happened again.

And this time it wasn’t an accident, no matter how much he begged, no matter how many times he said he was sorry.

He hit you with a closed fist.

You weren’t flirting with Dustin. He was your friend. Way before Chad had taken any interest in you. Most of your friends were guys, besides El and Max, and even though Nancy Wheeler was older and more popular— you considered her a friend too.

When she left for college this past fall, she insisted on making her room more stylish to your liking. And she never once minded the twin beds you both slept in, a night stand between them.

But when Mike sat next to you at lunch and was going over notes from Kensington’s class, Chad’s mind twisted it into Mike hitting on you. Which led to Chad hitting on you, but instead of compliments and doting behavior— he drug you out to his car, a bony grip on the back of your neck.

He screamed at you with every vein protruding from his tan skin. Voice hoarse and throat stretched tight.

Apparently you were fucking people behind his back. Even though you were a virgin. The town whore! He had yelled loud for even some of the teachers to hear, all turning a blind eye to the obvious domestic abuse happening on school grounds.

Explaining yourself only made it worse.

He slapped your face hard when you opened your mouth to interrupt him. And when you stood your ground and raised your chin to him, calm and steadily telling him to go fuck himself, he swung a fist into your eye.

And that’s when you left.

His apologies trailing behind you and caught in the gut of wind to travel far away from your ears. He wouldn’t follow you, he had appearances at school to keep up.

Much easier to tell Aaron and Sean that you got your period and were being crazy then explain why he had left school.

The gravel crunched beneath your feet, frozen from the last winter storm and holding pockets of ice amongst the rocks.

Pale blue and still holding the old television lawn ornament, you sighed audible when Eddie’s van was parked outside of the aluminum sided trailer.

You hadn’t seen him since graduation last May. The night Chrissy’s extra curricular activities with Rick finally came out when they were caught fucking in the shower upstairs, at Steve’s house. Both sporting pricked arms with needle marks.

A broken hearted Eddie drank all night long and puked into the hot tub.

Your quickened steps up to the concrete stairs and a shaky broken knock on the screen door have you stepping back waiting for the door to open, awaiting Eddie’s stupid grin waiting on the other side.

Living with Eddie you had no reason to be afraid. Many nights the front door was left unlocked. And maybe it was out of habit. Maybe you had left it unlatched tonight too.

It would explain how he was there now.

Hovering over you, his blond hair coined perfectly slicked to the side, slightly feathered back with thick styling gel. A Ralph Lauren polo with the logo on the left chest. His cologne reeked of some designer brand, making your stomach queasy.

The only difference between those years ago and now was that he had a small dusting of a flesh colored mustache wiggled on his sweaty lip. Same maniacal inky blacks to his blown pupils, laced with the piercing blue.

The realization ices your veins and stings your eyes with angry tears.

Chad Cunningham was in your home, his body over yours as you're pinned beneath him, the smell of iron invading your nose. Looking around with wild eyes you see the crimson streaks from the linoleum in the kitchen to the carpet where you are laying. Your head thumping with the rhythm of bloody drops against the fibers of the worm carpet.

“Been a long time hasn’t it, honey bun?”

An eternity wouldn’t have been enough.

Pressing his body into yours, you can feel the stiffness of his starched shirt as you try to will your arms to fight him away. He chuckles at your feeble attempts to push him off.

His weight presses deeper into you as he lowers his mouth to your lips, squeezing your face he almost sings, “Told you I’d see you soon.”

His lips are harshly planted into yours, feeling like jagged rocks against your soft waters.

“Fuck,” he groans, hard against your thigh. “just like I remember. I’ve missed you.”

The clink of his belt unthreading from the loops of his khakis finally renders your senses. But you wait with calculated timing.

Leaning back, he stares into your face with a quizzical expression burrowed deep on his brow. “What’s the frown for? Don’t you miss me? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Evident that his delusions still ran deep, it’s showtime. You would survive this. One good hit, that's all it would take.

Pushing yourself up gently, your head is swimming with nausea and the steady dripping tick of blood down the back of your neck.

Placing a shaky hand to his cheek he moves into your hand, the same way Eddie had that night, your stomach somersaults at the memory.

When his eyes shut, you turn your fingers into a clawed position, and scrape the flesh from the corner of his eye down to his lip.

It happens quickly and with your blurred vision and pounding head it feels like it’s all in slow motion. He wasn’t expecting it.

A kick to his ribs hurt your bare feet probably more than it injured him but you needed the extra time to escape into your room.

The phone feels cool against your cheek, and weighs heavy on your shoulder when you realize it’s dead. The plan of you running in here, dialing 9-1-1 and holding him off until they came was foiled.

“BITCH! You can’t hide from me!”

Knowing you only have seconds before he finds you, you

frantically look around for something to defend yourself with. Searching eyes land on the window.

Just need to get out and run to Mr. Griffin’s house.

Fingers on the frame you yank upwards, palms digging into the wired screen, pushing it out.

Throwing your leg out into the darkness of the night, you’re one step closer to being safe. One step closer to ending this night of horrors before it could begin.

The noise of splintering wood and the crack of a door being snapped from its hinges join your erratic breath and piercing screams— a monstrous reel of symphonic sound.

Chad twists a thick fist into your scalp, freeing the hair from its follicles in a sickening pop as you scratch your nails into the window sill, trying to hold on.

He’s stronger than you, no different than years before. And when your body crumbles onto the floor with a squelching thud, splinters of lacquered wood and nails that once held the door in place, pierce into your exposed skin.

But that is minor league compared to the shattering pain delivered from his fist into your face as he straddles you.

“Think you can hide away with that freak from me?!” He rocks his closed hand into your other cheek, this time clipping your eye with a gold wedding band.

Your cries fall on deaf ears. Tears stinging and trying to drip from your swelling eyelids.

“Honey bun,” he purrs into your ear, “don’t tell me you’re that fucking stupid to think I wouldn’t find you.”

His fingers move to brush your hair from your face, and he holds your head in place when you try to bite at his fingers.

His wicked smile could make the devil’s scaly skin crawl.

“Such a dumb whore, forgetting I have eyes and ears all over this town.” Placing his grabby fingers on his breasts, he continues, “Aaron and Sean may not be the brightest candles on the cake but they are loyal.”

Aaron…Sean.

You rack your brain for any recollection of those names. and it finally clicks. Chad’s friends in high school, following him around like he was the King. A snap of his fingers and they’d move like henchmen. Fighting anyone who got in his way, putting themselves at risk just to say they had a friend from a rich family.

The realization swims in your eyes and scares your tears dry.

“No.”

“Pieced it together huh?” Chad laughs wildly. “They work..” he grunts, hips rutting against you, pinching your perked nipples in his tight grasp, his fingernails digging through your shirt around the delicate skin, making you squeal, “..with the freak!”

His deranged cackle doubles when you yell out in pain.

“Small town bosses don’t lock their offices, and it was too easy for Aaron to find your address, even easier to find out that Eddie had left your ass here, unguarded, alone, waiting for someone to save you, and honey bun here I am!”

His sick twisted smile oozes fear further into your gut, brooding and feeding on any small amount of joy you had left.

“You need a fucking psychiatrist.”

“Such harsh words for that sweet mouth, but don’t worry!” he reassures, eyes wide with delight and a psychotic expression on his face as he brings his voice low and secret-like, “I won’t kill you yet, the boys are looking for Munson and when they find him…” he lowers himself to kiss your lips, sliding his tongue against the split flesh.

“Fuck!” He bellows, licking his lips savoring your taste on his tongue, “when they find him they’re gonna bring him here, and it’ll be arranged to look like the freak killed you and then himself.. a lover’s quarrel gone bad.”

He rubs his face and grunts again at the warbled wails you let out, squeezing your breasts and bucking into your clothed crotch. “Goddamn,” he groans, his eyes rolling into his head at the sound of your cries, getting off on your distorted face, “I just couldn’t help myself, had to come here and do this first. One last goodbye.”

You’d rather be dead at this point. You wish he’d kill you now and get it over with. But the thought of Eddie seeing your lifeless body haunted you. And you stop crying when his hands close around the hollow of your throat.

“Gonna be mine, one last time honeybun?”

“Fuck you,” you croak beneath his hands on your throat.

You’re weak and running out of time. Rolling your tongue against your teeth and cheeks, harboring a mixture of saliva and blood you wait until Chad is leaning over you, and when he’s close enough you spit the concoction into his face.

Chad bellers out, letting go of your throat and standing abruptly to wipe his face. The split second he’s distracted you try to crawl away, but he kicks you down.

Delivering several soccer styled strikes into your stomach, his voice spewing insults with every jab of his white Nikes into your body.

A raging shock of fury paints his face.

“What did I tell you hmm? If I can’t have you— no one can!” You scream loud when his shoe propels into your crotch, shocking your pelvis with burning heat.

All noise is void when he rolls you over and crashes down on your beaten body, clobbering your tear and blood streaked face, blow after blow. Your eyes are swelling shut and you’re surprised when you see Eddie’s face, before your eyes shut.

It feels like home.

-1987-

The warm smile you missed so much was not there to greet you. A cold calloused “what?” finds you instead.

“Eddie?” you ask with a scratchy throat, clearing it once, twice, to answer him against the wind.

Grumbling and stomping in the trailer is heard. Along with two separate giggles.

The door is yanked hard inward revealing a version of Eddie Munson you’d never seen before. His skin was sunken in on his cheeks, dark circles rimmed his eyes. His once soft features were sharp and lackluster, brooding with ashy shadows and skin that looked like it hadn’t seen sunlight in months.

He looked gaunt and hallowed out, his ribs poking against the cindery color of his skin. The warm whiskey eyes that once danced when he laughed were now gaping blacked marbled, polar and dull.

He speaks but you are too busy holding your breath from the stench of rotting clothes and unwashed bodies.

Stumbling over an apology for not hearing him, you are startled when he barks back, “I said, what the fuck are you doing here, Tooty?”

You look to the floor and notice he’s wearing a heavily stained sock with a hole in the toe, the other foot bare, next to a pair of work boots are three pairs of women’s shoes:, heels, keds, and pink reeboks. Your toes wiggle in your worn converse.

“I’m.. I uh..”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “oh for fucks sake spit it out! You selling raffle tickets or something for school? Pep team need new Pom-poms? Or maybe the chess club is looking for a new board?”

Shock stealing your speech you stand on frigid feet digging your fingers into the yarn on the Nancy’s sweater. Tears bite your lashes and fall on cold cheeks.

Eddie! Where’s your lighter? A sultry voice coos, padding feet getting closer to the threshold.

“Listen kid, I’m fucking busy, I don’t have time to haul you around because twiddle dick and dum forgot you at the gas station again.”

He has barely looked at you since you got there. The guy who held more merit to you than your own brother was gone.

When you wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your sweater he lets out an exaggerated groan.

He thrusts dirty fingers into his sweatpants pockets. Pulling out a perfectly rolled twenty dollar bill, he flattens it smooth. He smears his finger along the length of the bill, collecting remnants of a fine white powder, which is quickly shoved into his greedy mouth and rubbed on his gums like he’s brushing his teeth.

“Here,” he grunts, shoving the drugged money into your pocket, avoiding your eyes at all cost, “now get lost.”

The blinds on the door are still swinging as you stand there dumbstruck and watery eyed. Low voices are murmured through the thin walls as a lighter flicks and sizzles.

Who was that baby?

Nobody.

And that’s exactly who you were to everyone you knew, nobody.

And ironically enough— that’s exactly who you could rely on.

One thing was for certain: Eddie Munson was a stranger to you.

The tears fell harder on the shameful walk back to Chad. But you weren’t sure if you were crying harder because of the sudden loss you felt from an old friend or because of the pain in your eye.

Heart hammering in his chest, Eddie jiggles the door handle, it’s locked and he panics and realizes he still has his key. Fumbling with the key ring, Eddie finds the short brass one and unlocks the door.

The sight of the mostly empty house is jarring, causing his stomach to drop , a small recliner rests in the living room where his couch once sat. Wine is spilled from the kitchen to the living room, smeared like it was swept poorly with a mop.

You never drank wine.

Maybe you started drinking heavily after he left. He did. It only made sense.

But a second glance at the claret colored stain embedded into the carpet and his worst fear was realized.

Blood.

The sound of something wet and thwacking settles into his bones and shakes his spine. Someone was hurting you.

Heavy docs lead him to the corner of the house, your room and his old room. Where his door was intact, yours was shattered. Like Jack Torrance took his ax to it in The Shining. Stepping on cracked wood, Eddie sees the most horrific thing he’s ever been a witness too.

And suddenly he’s six years old again, helpless. Watching a woman he loved lose a battle she didn’t even know she was in. But instead of his mother’s lifeless body crumbled by his father’s feet, instead of her dark curly hair matted with pooling blood and a gaping bullet hole— It’s you underneath a guy he doesn’t recognize.

Your face is battered and covered in blood, the once plush lips he held so warmly between his own were split and slack. Your eyes were swollen, lacking any shine to them they normally held.

His eyes connect with yours for a brief second, and when they close he doesn’t know if they will open again.

Fury radiates through his entire body, masking the pain of heartache at the sight of you slipping from him.

Before he can acknowledge the thought of you being gone, he lunges at the catalog Dad dressed asshole. Knocking him off your body and landing on top of him, colliding into your dresser. The tangle of body parts wrestling for purchase tumble into the hall. Ringed fists land home on every surface of this guy's face, and when he stops to take a breath— he realizes the face he is hitting is Chad Cunningham’s.

How did he find you? Had he been stalking you both since that day at the grocery store?

Didn’t matter all that he cared about was throwing this mother fucker the biggest ass kicking of his life, and he wouldn’t stop until either Chad or himself was dead.

“I’ve waited years for this day,” Chad spit, after getting a punch in when Eddie was in his own head, knocking Eddie’s jaw to bite down on his tongue, filling his mouth with blood immediately. “Trailer trash Munson finally came to play.”

Taken by surprise, Chad shoves Eddie from him and stands up, looking through the doorway at your limp body.

Eddie stands slow, using the bathroom doorknob to help, he reaches for the knife kept in his back pocket.

Chad spins to face Eddie, his hair sweaty and face ballooning out from Eddie’s rings. “You should have left my girl alone Munson, would have saved your uncle the heartache.”

Eddie flicks the blade open on the knife, grip tight around it, he breathes through his nose his throat tight and stretching around his words, his leather jacket creaking when he moves his neck around in a stretch, confident in his delivery, “she’s not yours.”

The hysterical laugh that leaves Chad’s lungs could resemble bats screeching in the night, he’d make a great clown in a haunted house.

“Dead or alive whether I’m married or not— she’ll always be mine.”

Like alley cats, they stare each other down, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

Chad licks his lips and looks your way again, “listen, I get it, she’s hot. And that tight little pussy..” he licks his lips and grabs himself over his denim jeans, stained with your blood.

Eddie’s blood is boiling, he’s seconds away from snapping but trying to hold it together long enough to make a perfect attack.

Chad leans forward, gesturing a mockery secret with his hand held around his mouth, “It’s even better when she’s fighting you,” he inhales deep, like he’s wishing he was in a past memory, “screaming really tightens her right up.”

Knife out, Eddie charges forward. And is struck dumb when the knife is kicked from his hand. Another kick this time to the chest that he wasn’t expecting sends him stumbling into the living room, air gone from his lungs. Chad follows and swings into his diaphragm making Eddie choke out on nothing, gasping for air.

“Oh come on, Munson,” Chad taunted, leaning down to kiss Eddie’s cheek, “Thought you would have some trailer park moves to throw at me.”

Raising a heavy boot, Eddie stomps on Chad’s toes, and mule kicks his kneecaps. A ringed fist meets his cheek, adding another forming bruise to his winter tan skin. Shoving him backwards into the counter in the kitchen, the cabinet doors bust on the impact.

The punches Eddie is landing have his knuckles bloody and swelling but he doesn’t care. Each punch is a testament for the years you held yourself together, acted like nothing bad was going on, when in reality you were experiencing hell on Earth and he never knew.

This was his payback. His way of righting a wrong. A wrong that should have never even began.

He doesn’t know what he was hit with just that he was stumbling backwards again. Temple throbbing and without reaching up he knows he’s bleeding. His back hitting the corner of the fridge he slides down onto the linoleum.

His head is heavy and his vision blinded with hazy clouds of black and white. He hears Chad but doesn’t see him, just feels his head being slammed in the fridge and a grip in his hair.

“Could have saved your uncle funeral costs you stupid bastard… clearly you don’t care about him, or Tooty for that matter, leaving her all alone like that,” Chad sucks through his teeth, splitting blood onto Eddie’s shirt, “thought the raccoons usually stuck together.”

He chuckles low and slams Eddie’s head one more time with such force it leaves a dent in the fridge. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says, straightening his shirt, walking towards your room , “my girl is waiting.”

“Don’t touch her!” Eddie roars, pushing himself up to stand with all his might. Pounding head and nausea thick in his mouth. Raising his head he looks at Chad with blurry sight, trying to see clearly. His voice is low, catching his breath and taking all of his strength to utter out the words. Balancing around the mark of deranged, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Chad swivels on his heels, head cocked at Eddie, he grabs under his chin holding it firmly in place. His breath fanning over Eddie’s cheeks and he smiles maniacally, blood painting his teeth.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” A heavy fist to the gut has Eddie doubled over. Gripping the counter with white knuckles and wet blood smeared fingertips.

He had failed again. He wasn’t able to stop his own father from killing his mother. And now Chad was on his way to desecrate your lifeless body. He’s a fuck up and a failure.

Always.

A low guttural choking sound breeches Eddie’s ears. And he turns to see you covered in your own blood, barely standing and wielding a bat with nails protruding from every which way.

The nails are claret colored and dripping thick drops onto the carpet, fibers of Chad’s jeans hang in shreds from the sharp edges. A scant look towards Eddie and your eyes swim with relief and mourning.

He’s here. Blood is smeared down his lips and his hands look tight and swollen.

But he’s alive. And so are you.

Eddie’s vision is doubled and he blinks rapidly unaware if he is seeing you or not. He swallows hard and almost chokes on tears.

But that is short lived.

And it happens fast.

The yelling rage from Chad’s lungs over power your screams. His hands are tight around your throat before you can blink, your spine snapping into the nearest wall, feet dangling off the ground.

Haziness bleeds into your eyes and your breath is expelled from screaming— now gone when your windpipe is crushing like a pixie stick under Chad’s grip.

Desperate to fight back you jam your thumbs into his eyes. Victor Creel style like the Urban Legends passed down that you were told as kids.

If you were going to die, at least he would be blind, a forever reminder of this day etched, literally, into his face.

You prayed Eddie would know how much you loved him.

Should have’s taking over the last puffs of oxygen in your brain, popping like bubbles.

Should have told him sooner.

Should have said it every day.

Should have kissed him more.

Should have let him love you.

The guilt wraps around your mind as the cold hands of death welcome you. But you’re not afraid. Knowing Chad always kept good on his word, Eddie would join you in the afterlife.

Hand in hand.

Strolling along the pinked cotton candy clouds and the pearly gates.

You are his and he is yours.

Lovers together finally at last.

The last breath on your lips is a silent devotion to him.

I love you, Eddie.

a/n: my asks are always open ♥️

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #fic recs #eddie munson angst #stranger things

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chrissturniolosbitch · 9 months ago

Text

LINGER

a/n- i loveee linger by the cranberries! but this is nawt anything like that song...!

warnings- sub!matt, smut, language, thats ab it for all my fics😭

summary- matt has been rly clingy so you dom him🤰🏼

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all week matt has been extra clingy.

hanging his head in the crook of my neck while im cooking, holding my hand more than usual, kissing me more, spooning me more in bed, and things like that.

its not that i had a problem with it, but i knew what matt wanted after all this.

its the end of the week. Matt and i are laying on the couch watching a movie, "babyyy" matt says dragging the Y, "yes?" i said grabbing the remote to pause the movie, looking in his direction.

"i need you mama." He said lifting his head from my lap, "what do you mean?" i said knowing exactly what he wanted. He layed up, grabbed me by my waist, and made me straddle him.

He pulled me into a harsh kiss, i grabbed his neck pulling him closer than ever to deepen the kiss.

"please" he managed to squeak out, "please what baby, speak up" i said as i started slowly grinding onto his lap, "fuck.. please do something baby" he said gripping harder onto my hips.

my clothed clit was rubbing perfectly onto his clothed tip helping me reach my climax, "im gonna dry hump you matt, you cant cum without my permission okay?" i said panting as i stood up to pull down his pants, leaving his boxers covering his dick.

"yes ma'am" he said grabbing my hand helping me pull my shorts off leaving my laced panties on, "fuck." he muttered under his breath as i straddled back onto his lap. I started off by slowly grinding on his dick slight wimpers leaving both our mouths.

"You like this huh? you like when im on top of you dry humping you like a dog?" i said knowing how bad matt loves dirty talk.

"fuck. fuck. fuck. im so close baby" he said squeezing his eyes shut tightly, "not yet baby, im close to" i said as i started grinding faster onto his lap.

his thin boxers made it very easy for me to feel pleased, and pleasured.

I started hunping at a fast pace on a certain spot that made the knot in my stomach ready to snap, "fuck matt cum with me" i said wrapping my arms around his neck.

i felt his dick twitch under me signaling that he was close, "right there mama, fuck" he said his dick twitching once more when suddenly he busted a load in his boxers.

since both of our underwear were thin i could feel everything which made me cum right there.

i started to slowly stop causing matt to whimper at the feeling, "thank you ma" he said pulling me into another kiss.

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i never know how to end these🫡

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #Spotify

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shadowtriovibes · 2 years ago

Note

Hi, could we get some slightly suggestive fluff where Ominis can’t help but think “what a terrible day to be blind” regarding being told MC looks good? Maybe teasing from Sebastian! Thank you! Love your writing!

hello lovely anon!! i will confess, as much as i adore writing ominis, sometimes i get nervous when it comes to writing about his blindness because i don’t have experience being blind and i would never want to write something offensive or insensitive.

but i truly don’t think this drabble is that! this word dump is just to say that if i ever come at being blind from an inappropriate place, i hope someone does me the favor of letting me know 💕 anyway here’s your fic! thank you for the request and your kind words!!

(also this turned into shadow trio because i couldn’t resist 😇)

only bought this dress so you could take it off

Ominis smirks and mumbles, “You must look lovely if even Sebastian has no words." "Oh, I have plenty," Sebastian counters. "'Ravishing' is a start." "Stop, you menace," you mumble, gently smacking his shoulder with an appreciative smile. "What a terrible day to be blind," Ominis jokes, but Sebastian notices the way he self-consciously rubs the back of his neck and wonders if maybe he isn't truly joking.

“Remind me again how you convinced your parents to let you stay for the holidays?” Sebastian asks, nudging his shoulder against Ominis as the two boys lingered outside the Ravenclaw common room.

Ominis sighs. “Truthfully, I think they’re more pleased about the arrangement than I am.”

Sebastian snorts – he’s probably right.

“They’ve invited a cadre of Ministry officials to Christmas Eve,” he continues. “It’s probably best if I’m not there to argue against their lobbying efforts.”

“What is it this time, ‘we should be able to torture Muggles’ or ‘Muggle-borns shouldn’t be at Hogwarts?’” Sebastian drawls.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Ominis sniffs. “Though I’m sure Marvolo will have an entire treatise to present.”

“Ah, the golden child,” Sebastian laughs darkly.

“In any case, I suppose the two of you will have to endure me gatecrashing your holidays,” Ominis says, grinning ruefully. “Thank you, really.”

“Are you joking? You’re always welcome,” Sebastian insists. “Though I suppose if she doesn’t come downstairs soon, it might just be you and me at the feast.”

“Merlin, I’m only five minutes late,” you call out from the top of the stairs, and Sebastian first sees your feet and then the skirts of your dress as you start to climb down.

Ominis had readily agreed to wait with Sebastian to walk you to Hogwarts’ Christmas Eve feast, figuring that it was the chivalrous thing to do – not to mention that he had grown to sincerely enjoy your company. You were as much his best friend as Sebastian was by your seventh year, and even though you and Sebastian had made things official shortly after the school year began, he had never felt excluded.

That is, until this very moment.

Sebastian falls silent, which is a rare instance in itself. Ominis hears you as you make your way down the stairs, coming to a stop in front of the both of you.

“Well?” you ask brightly. “How do I look?”

The Christmas Eve feast is more formal than a regular meal in the Great Hall, so both Sebastian and Ominis had donned finer suits and dress robes for the occasion.

You had taken a trip to Hogsmeade with Natty a few days prior to pick up a new dress from Gladrags – a deep cranberry red, with long tapered sleeves to ward off the chill of the castle and a waist so tight that Deek had fetched Feenky to help you pull the laces of your corset closed.

Sebastian wordlessly makes a circle with his index finger and you giggle, blushing while you spin and let your skirts fan out.

He whistles under his breath, and you do a little bow.

Ominis smirks and mumbles, “You must look lovely if even Sebastian has no words.”

“Oh, I have plenty,” Sebastian counters. “‘Ravishing’ is a start.”

“Stop, you menace,” you mumble, gently smacking his shoulder with an appreciative smile.

“What a terrible day to be blind,” Ominis jokes, but Sebastian notices the way he self-consciously rubs the back of his neck and wonders if maybe he isn’t truly joking.

He reaches out to take Ominis’ hand, glancing briefly at your face to get your permission before taking the surprised boy’s palm and placing it on your sleeve.

“She’s wearing a red dress,” Sebastian starts, squeezing Ominis’ hand so he’ll actually feel. “It’s a darker color – the kind of red everyone likes around the holidays.”

“Not switching over to Gryffindor, are you?” Ominis asks, the anxious twitching of his fingertips on your arm belying his nerves.

“It suits her skin tone,” Sebastian offers, dragging Ominis’ hand upwards so he can feel the ruched top of your sleeve, which Mister Hill had told you is quite fashionable.

“Tell him about my hair,” you murmur, meeting Sebastian’s gaze and answering the question in his eyes that he hadn’t asked aloud.

“Her hair?” Ominis asks. “It’s long, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sebastian agrees. “But tonight she has it in a braid, and she’s charmed some wrapping paper into a bow at the end.”

“I’ll have you know I folded that bow myself,” you say with a smirk. “No magic necessary.”

“Very clever,” Ominis says softly, and Sebastian lifts his hand so he can trace his fingertips over the silky bow.

“Anything else you’d like to know, Ominis?” Sebastian asks suggestively, and Ominis wonders whether he’s imagining the sudden tension thrumming between the three of you.

“N-no, I’m quite convinced,” he says, letting his hand drop. “‘Ravishing’ is quite apt.”

“Ominis,” you say softly, taking his hand in yours while Sebastian claims the other. “Perhaps after the feast, you’ll join Sebastian and me for a nightcap in the Room of Requirement?”

The blond boy swallows audibly, and Sebastian is thrilled at this development.

“We’ve got some presents to exchange, don’t we love?” he adds, somehow making it sound lewd.

“Y-yes, of course,” Ominis stutters. “I would love to.”

You then let each boy take one of your arms to walk you toward the Great Hall for the feast, wondering just how long you’ll have to wear this corset after all.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fic #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x ominis gaunt x mc #sebastian x ominis x mc #shadow trio #my fic #requests

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urcursebreaker · 10 months ago

Text

burning body waiting (ellie williams x fem!reader)

read chapters one and two here

warnings for this chapter— graphic blood/gore, alcohol, overall adult content | word count: 8.8k

chapter 3: animal instinct

WINTER

2 years ago

Burgundy and pink wax dripped poignantly down the slender candles, pattering on the grimy, unfinished wood floor. The winter wind howled ominously, whistling through the cracks of the deteriorating shack, the battered, peeling Hole poster you half-heartedly pinned up fluttering with it.

Hot tears trailed down your cheeks, warming your wind-numbed face. You adjusted your mother's lavender cardigan over your shoulders, her lingering scent growing fainter alongside the memories of her voice as the days without her pressed on, ceaselessly. The Cranberries blared disjointedly through your staticky headphones, your shaky fingers drumming to the beat against your walkman.

Do you know you made me cry?

Do you know you made me die?

It is the lovely thing

The animal, the animal instinct

You squeezed your damp eyes shut and craned your head back, resting it against your mounted wall of sketches, humming softly to yourself. The cold had raked phantom talons through your spine, chilling you to the core.

The dim candlelight flickered as the shack door abruptly, forcefully swept open. You deliberately disregarded the pulsing presence occupying the threshold, the snow billowing in fiercely around his broad, heaving frame.

Zander hollered something incoherent over your boisterous music, the shack walls vibrating at the intensity of his voice.

You swiveled away sulkily, somberly tucking your knees to your chest, staring out the splintered window. Snow fell gracefully like an all-white hour glass, plodding and dense. Snow that you spent hours fumbling through in search of him.

He grabbed you, shaking your shoulders rapturously, your teeth clattering at the violent judder, panic contorting his features. You shredded off your headphones and shot him a withering glower, swatting him away. "What?" You sniped heartily, lip curled.

Your brother's mutilated, gauged eyes were concealed by a strand of fabric you'd cut from your sheets, enveloped around his head in a makeshift blindfold. Recovery was torturously slow. The wounds were open and gaping for weeks, baring soulless, fleshy caverns to the world. The memory of those black pits penetrating through you blankly sent a shudder of repulsion trickling up your spine.

Blood still oozed from the punctures in the delicate, healing flesh. It'd been months.

Then again, it had been months, and you were still waiting to wake up from the nightmare; to burst out of your tucked sheets, your mothers tender smile illuminated by the morning sun, as she smoothed back the hairs from your forehead and murmured a reassuring, "Just a dream, baby. It was all just a dream."

Your dad would be planted on the porch, sipping his scalding black coffee. Zander would be in one piece, zig-zagging through the fields of corn, chasing you with a laugh.

"Don't do that!" Zander bellowed in outrage, his severe, deep voice extracting you from the depths of your memories and reverberating through your shack, one of the candles winking out from the gust of his harsh breath. "Don't what me, fuck ass! I couldn't fucking find you!"

His hands vehemently patted your features, before pinching each of your numb cheeks. "Ow! Asshole!" You exclaimed, thrashing your head out of his unyielding grip, slapping his hands.

"I thought something happened to you. I know you're pissed off at me, but you cannot do that!" His voice had magically escalated, spit lurching through his barred teeth.

"Where else would I go, Zan?" You drawled acidly, rolling your eyes, heedlessly flicking off your walkman and popping out the cassette tape you found crammed under your parents bed, labeled in fraying marker: "OUR MIX."

"I can't see you," Zander breathed raggedly, dismay lancing through his tone, as he braced both hands on your shoulders. The pain in his voice gave you pause. "I can't see. I had no idea where you went..."

Guilt bloomed and sprouted in your chest, bubbling up your throat. You uncomfortably gulped down the apology simmering at the tip of your tongue, steeling your resolve. The thought of him flailing absently, desperately through the snow, screaming for you in terror, blind to the treacherous scenery and any potential harm.

All because he'd left without telling you.

Fresh tears surfaced in your eyes— not from the paralyzing remorse that mental image ignites, but from the reminder that he had left.

You seethed out a trembling breath, belligerently shoving him off of you. "And who's fault is that." You speared accusingly, glaring at him, a pit of dread yawning open in your stomach.

All you wanted was your brother. He was all you had left. All your friends had left you. Your parents were dead. He was the only remaining scrap of your untethered family.

And you thought he'd left you.

It'd been a cruel, unforgiving winter, snow knee-high, wind glacial and penetrating. Every day a cutting, bone-chilling cold. The furious flurries of snow so dense and strenuous, only the few feet ahead of you were visible if you dared trek the winter plains. You and Zander promised one another to never, ever leave the house without notifying the other, for safety reasons. Made an effort not to leave alone at all.

Yet you awoke that morning to a creeping silence. The wind rattling the bones of the hollow houses vacant carcass, the beams groaning emptily.

And a note. Tucked into the dry-rotting pages of your leather-bound notebook in a nearly unintelligible scrawl, reading vaguely:

Don't look for me.

You'd spent hours enduring the vicious blizzard, feet and hands plump and swollen and pulsating with frostbite, in search of him. Rummaging through all the snow-sunken debris within a three mile radius of the old house you were squatting at.

Thinking the worse. Thinking he'd took it a step further from impairing himself to deflect the harrowing scene he'd been bestowed. His eyes may be gone, however, the haunting memories did not die with his sight.

They plagued his slumber every night. He screamed and thrashed and begged the God's for peace.

Unfortunately for him, God abandoned them a long, long time ago.

Zander's hands fell dejectedly to his sides, wind-chapped fists clenching stiffly. He was silent, his lips pursed, chest heaving. Knuckles white. He composed himself before muttering regretfully, "You didn't see what I saw," he mused your name grimly, "and I am so thankful for that."

His fists unfurled, then closed. Wound back into taut balls. Opened, flexed. Closed. Sweat glistened on his calloused palms despite winters unapologetic chill. "If I had to go back, I'd see them and lose my eyes all over again, just so you don't have to see what I saw."

A deep frown transformed your face, a furrow stippling between your brows. You staggered toward him, planting an anchoring hand on his shoulder. The physical contact, the palpable confirmation that you were there, hearing him, seemed to alleviate his trepidation, a deep breath dispersing from his peeling lips.

"Zander..." you began cautiously, surveying the flakes of melting snow clinging to the front of his corduroy jacket in a shameful attempt to avoid the blindfold that ominously concealed the evidence of the terrors he'd witnessed, and the horrific truth that coincides with it. That they're gone. It's just you and him now. "I need you. I... I don't know how to do this on my own," your voice broke on a hideous, gurgling sob at the admission.

Zander's face crumpled. He leaned in to scoop you into an embrace, which you stealthily side-stepped, sniffling in disdain at the audacity. "Don't touch me. Were you really going to leave me without a fucking word?"

He swallowed ruefully, staying silent. You prompted him with an exasperated, biting, "Zander."

"I left a note," he muttered sheepishly in response, cheeks a chagrined flush. You scoffed bitterly as he crammed his hands into his pockets and continued, "It wasn't meant to happen that way. I- I wasn't leaving you. I would never, ever leave you. Ever." He swore faithfully and with enough conviction to ease your apprehension.

You would have never believed he'd leave you, before he did. It seemed reasonable he'd decide having a little sister to protect was a gamble with survival; no logical person wanted an extra mouth to feed, let alone a snarky, combative teenager to provide for.

"Really?" You blurted dumbly, tearily, voice hoarse with misuse, earlier's frantic screaming and sobs straining your vocal cords. Feeling smaller under the weight of all the uproaring emotions than you would've liked to. "Why did you go?" You croaked, using the sleeve of your sweater to smudge off the snot accumulating at the tip of your nose, mustering an ounce of dignity.

He didn't respond. He fumbled for you and enveloped your shivering frame with his big arms, crushing you to his chest; this time, you didn't protest, sinking into the damp, familiar fabric of his coat and hiccuping body-wracking sobs into him, letting him whisper false, ferocious promises.

Later, you come to find out, where he was heading to so cryptically. For a month prior to his sudden departure, he'd been sneaking off in the night to convene with a band of soldiers based on the outskirts of the deserted neighborhood you were residing in.

They told him they were part of an even larger organized group. They told him they had space for two more, plenty of supplies to spare.

And they told him they call themselves the Washington Liberation Front.

• • •

MID-SPRING

NOW

Rain patters down fiercely, thunderously, the heavens spewing an angry, roaring down pour. You grimace at the enormous crater splitting through the earth, a rigid canyon dividing the road, a public transit half-submerged in the mucky water. Obstructing your path.

"Fucking Washington," you mutter vexedly to yourself, craning your head back to examine the encompassing, collapsed buildings, squinting against the harsh rainfall.

You spot a rope dangling from the edge of a shattered window, mumbling reproachfully as you mount a concrete barrier and leap for it. Grunts flea from your pursed lips as you hoist yourself up to the dilapidated second-floor of an old commerce building.

Breathing labored, you plant yourself in one of the rusted office chairs, spinning around with a breathy chuckle. You rotate the chair back around to survey the shadow-shrouded view from the gaping hole in the wall, everything desolate and soggy.

This morning, the sun had blazed bright and true, gleaming through the window, illuminating the warm room you and Ellie had refurbished.

Now it seems the weather went to shit shortly after you noticed her absence, because now, you're drenched head to toe in glacial rain water, teeth clattering, nose tingling— and cripplingly alone.

You ignore the pain clanging through your chest at the passing thought, jarred by the solitude, the supposition of her abandonment. Is abandonment not a common practice? One shared despite religion or ones unspoken personal devotion? Something we all unite in? Snakes shed skin. People move on.

Will you keep pushing and pushing, begging to be worth fighting for? Will you keep proving yourself to people who've already decided you are nothing? It seems your life is an unabashed, consistent cycle of disappointing people. Over and over. Until they leave.

Ellie is no exception. You spent the morning over-analyzing every interaction you had with her, reflecting on every word you uttered, every ghost of a touch against her skin, down to every expression you donned, trying to pinpoint precisely where you went wrong. What you did to scare her off.

You chalked it up to her deeming you helpless. She had to save you numerous times. Had to haul your unconscious body across an active battlefield. Did sweeps of the building while you languished. Did most of the killing where infected were involved. Maybe she tired of your incapability, your inefficiency.

Maybe she got the relief she needed, and now you were useless to her, a worn toy casted aside.

You suppress the doleful thought. Force the notion that you're only insulted because she left you after sex; when in actuality, you'd be hurt either way. It feels like no matter what you do— the joy you sacrifice, the strength you wield, the precious parts of you that you bare without reluctance— it's never enough to make anyone stay.

Your mother taught you that kindness was a weapon in itself. If you wield it against your enemies, they'll falter at a glimpse of tenderness.

But you understand now that she was spoon feeding you morality; there's no home for altruism in this world. Violence is the true conqueror. The only way to survive, is to instill fear in those who cross your path.

Being soft in the face of brutality, honest in a web of lies, and tender-hearted at the end of a vengeful bullet has gotten you nowhere. You've been met with nothing but heartbreak and wrath. Snarls and gunfire. Skepticism and punishment.

One good beating heart is not enough to mend the fragility of this corrupted world.

Ellie had shown glimpses of herself, where the good festered underneath the thick layers of indestructibility she'd built around herself. You had a lick of it and now you wanted to rid her of it all, peel the sharp edges and rough plains from her one by one, learn the hurt that made a monster. Nestle yourself beneath her skin, coil around her bones, live in the casing of her ribcage.

The disturbing thought infiltrates your mind, looming like a dark, depraved shadow. You grit your teeth, massaging your temples, trying to banish the deranged image out of your head. It's always been either absolute disinterest or full blown, disabling obsession for you.

You're teetering toward the ladder.

Her brutality had captivated you. And that tongue...

You rapidly shake your head to banish the obscene thoughts. "Focus." You drawl to yourself slowly, examining the view. The forward operating base was around five miles onward. The only way left to go was back. Back to your brother. Back to the WLF.

You sigh heavily and study the jilted office, in search of anything that could be useful in getting you across your barricaded path. When you find nothing, you bravely measure up the distance between you and the neighboring building.

Close enough.

You wind up, hefting a placating breath, before leaping for the building. You narrowly make it. Your brain rattles with the force of the collision as your stomach slams into the crumbling ledge, soot and rubble clattering to the battered concrete below. "Fuck," you breathe hoarsely, weakly lifting your body up, wrists wobbling feebly.

You allow yourself to lay there for a moment, eyes closed, rain misting your face.

When you open your eyes, your body lurches in terror at the veiny spattering of spores curving up the wall and over the ceiling.

And the distinctive blood-chilling clacking of a clicker.

• • •

The waning evening sun peaks shyly through the overcast clouds, dimly illuminating the sprawling field before you. Wildflowers sway clemently with the breeze, soggy moss cushioning your hitched steps from earlier's relentless rain. Small, white butterflies flutter along the long, wisping coils of grass, their presence a promising sight.

But the dewy meadows damp, whimsical beauty could not outweigh the ugliness you felt rotting inside.

You try not to think about the excruciating pain lancing up your side. Disregard the blood gushing rapidly from your abdomen, the deep, dire crimson seeping through multiple layers of clothing.

Your fingers are drenched a thick, dooming red where you apply significant pressure to the oozing wound, limping aimlessly for the ivy-swathed, overgrown watchtower, sitting dilapidated at the edge of the clearing. Hoping you can preserve enough energy to make it to the top, where you can rest and get an adequate view of where you need to head at dawn.

You're nearing the splintered ladder when a whispered crunch sends you whirling in alarm. Your gun is nimbly drawn from it's holster, stance broad, the hairs raising stiffly on the back of your neck.

The drumming of your heart slows, blood roaring tumultuously in your ears at the freckled face staring back at you.

Ellie is frozen in place, arms up defensively, battered features contorted in authentic shock. Her muddy blue eyes are bright with consternation, flickering over you uncertainly.

Surprise, surprise, you think gratingly.

She startles when her gaze lands on the harrowing blood stain exuding from your jacket. "What happened—"

She cuts herself off when you flip the safety switch.

"You scared the shit out of me, you know. I thought you were one of those creepy fuckers," she quips breathily, her arms still raised, a hesitant smirk tugging on her mouth.

You don't smile back. You drag your gaze over her analytically, blankly, rage simmering low in your gut.

That untamable anger must bubble to the surface, glimmer darkly in your eyes, for Ellie's expression changes— you watch the light-hearted but uneasy amusement dwindle and leech from her face, a veil of vigilance draping over her.

"Easy, now," she murmurs cooly, warningly, carefully dropping her hands.

"Don't move!" You demand viciously, lurching forward, the gun a hazardous few inches from her face.

Her throat bobs with a swallow, hands half-lowered. "Hey," she whispers softly, though the warning in her tone was withstanding.

The gentle delicacy in her tone only ignites the already festering fury. "Stop talking." Your voice disperses from your lips with cold, lethal calm. Unfamiliar, that quiet violence rolling off your tongue.

It tastes good.

Her eyes dart between yours dubiously; regret tinges her cheeks a faint flush. She utters your name gently, taking a reluctant step forward. You let her, the gun trained on her forehead.

"It's just me," she says feather-lightly. As if one wrong breath would blow you off the edge, send you plunging to the deep end.

Maybe she was right to heed you like a rabid animal, uncaged. You feel like a dog downed, sick and trembling with want, deserted by its owner. Tail tucked and ears perked, belly down on the porch, waiting for the screech of tires on gravelly tarmac.

It takes you back to the day Zander disappeared. The memory so potent, so painful, you can presently feel the bite of winters bitter cold carving into your bones.

As your thoughts drifted, a hollowness creeping into your eyes, Ellie had inched closer without you realizing. She hovers only a couple precarious feet away, her fingers grazing the barrel of your gun. Your grip shakes violently, lip quivering.

"It's me." She repeats firmly, urging you to lower the gun. Your muscles naturally comply to the movement, until the gun is hanging limply at your side.

"I know," you respond dully, words ringing hollow, even to yourself. "I know."

She stares at you contemplatively for a moment, before her gaze droops to the gleaning wound. "Need some help with that?"

"I need to get going," you mumble absently in reply, pivoting away from her, her honed attention spearing through your back. Exhaustion was gradually, heavily weighing on you from the blood loss. The emotional turmoil from the memory of your brother, who's absence is growing palpable and leaden, like a boulder smothering your lungs, was making pressing on increasingly difficult.

You need to get back.

"Let me look at that first." She nods toward the blooming, shapeless stain.

You glance down at the wound indifferently. The blood is pouring out of you in heaps, flim and clots dribbling down your pant leg. "What the fuck," you gasp out, staggering, blood-blemished hand cradling the pools of crimson. Dots speckle your vision, and you plummet unsteadily to your ass, inching back as Ellie approaches, concern etched across her face. The tall grass engulfs you, it's embrace crisp and prickling.

"Fuck, am I gonna die?" You blurt, eyebrows furrowed, as you lift your faltering fingers and examine the near-black blood coating them.

Ellie is a looming shadow as the setting sun descends tranquilly behind her, rays radiating off her fraying ridges, the light off-setting the grim lines of her face. You squint up at her, and she crouches at your side, throwing off her backpack, fervently rummaging through it.

She fishes out a roll of gauze and a near empty bottle of alcohol. "Lay back for me," she directs in earnest, a hand on your shoulder carefully leaning you back, your body bolstered by plush, uncut grass.

You watch her silently, heavy-lidded, disorientation a dull drumming throughout your skull. The grizzly flesh around the wound is numb to the prodding of her insistent fingers.

She abruptly freezes, blood coating her calloused hands.

"What?" You rasp, fright gripping your heart and seizing at the look of dismay tainting her face.

She's silent for an imperative moment. Time ticks tediously, a shadow of fear contouring her expression.

"What?" You repeat breathlessly.

"Are you infected?" She asks after a long, apprehensive pause, attentively studying your injury. Blind to the scratch marring your shoulder.

Her composure bewilders you. If she truly believed you were infected, wouldn't she be scrambling away? Terrified you'd turn at any moment and take her down with you?

"No," you whisper, shaking your head, eyelashes fluttering in extortion. The hidden wound on your shoulder throbs perniciously at the lie. Your hand fumbles for hers, both grimed and caked in thick coats of drying blood, working in tandem to apply pressure to the wound. "I-I fell."

Her expectant stare roams over your paling face, urging you on. You swear her grip tightens imperceptibly on your hand— maybe in comfort— though it was likely just the excessive blood loss and trauma of the brutal injury warping your senses.

It hurt to speak, breaths leaving you in sharp, uncontrolled spurts. "I- there was a- a clicker," the words wheeze out of you. Instead of fleeing at the mention of your implied encounter, Ellie positions herself closer, draping over you almost protectively, holding a hand to the wound while the other cradled the back of your neck, propping you upward. "I tried t- to run. Jumped to another building but I- I missed, landed on a pipe."

That part is true. You left out the part where the clicker's talon-like hand scraped down your shoulder, grazing the flesh— enough to leave a scar. Enough to potentially inject venom.

She nods curtly, jaw set in determination, the warmth of her hand momentarily abandoning you as she picked up the alcohol and popped the cork.

She soaks a grimy cloth with it, casting you a fleeting, nearly apologetic glance before urging your hand aside and bunching it against the wound. You seethe, burning agony searing through your side, but you don't look away. You watch your blood soak the fabric, the alcohol tainted red, dribbling down.

"Why did you leave?" You ask deliriously, head lulling, words slurring. The pain almost doesn't register anymore. Neither does the shame the pathetic question should've brought.

She says nothing, not a flicker of emotion passing through her face, as she holds the wet cloth to your skin and stridently tears the medical tape with her teeth. She sloppily patches the cloth to you, hands swift and brutal, expression bleak and thoughtless.

"Alright. Lift your arms for me," she murmurs gravelly, a thick husk in her tone, fingers edging the bloodied hem of your camisole. You comply, a shudder wracking through you at that low voice, the one that had talked you through your shared obscene acts. Ordered you to ride her thigh, praised your dripping pussy...

"Good," Ellie drawls, leisurely, deliberately hiking your shirt up to avoid disturbing the wound. Her pale eyes probe yours, dissecting the rage and hurt that froths there in tumultuous waves, crashing against the surface, pooling there even with your effort to hide it.

She slips the shirt off of you, tossing it aside. Her eyes drag to your heaving breasts, as if an anchor of temptation was towing her gaze down. Her nostrils flare with her stuttered breath, mouth parting, as if in memory of how it felt to seal her lips around your budding nipples.

You arch your back under her attentive stare, your breasts grazing her front. Her eyes close briefly at the sensation, a breath stealing out of her. Her hand slithers up your waist, pausing before it reaches your tit, thumb smoothing over your hot skin.

"Don't move," she directs hoarsely, the bristle of the surrounding grass reducing her tight voice to a faint whisper.

She tilts you back further to examine the wound, and you whimper at the movement. "I know. I know," she murmurs distractedly, securely wrapping the bandage around your waist, the rough pads of her fingers dancing across your exposed skin, igniting a distant wave of pleasure in the pit of your stomach.

The wind escalates, whipping your hair out of your face, unveiling the pulsating mark on your shoulder. You forgot that you were supposed to be concealing it when she was looking at you like that; like you were a tempting meal and she was a person emaciated. Something delectable to be devoured.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck—

Your stomach roils with dread at the very moment she sees it. The ravaged, torn flesh is upturned and caked with blood, a golden, poisonous liquid seeping from the scratch, glimmering under the sun.

She's shell-shocked, unmoving.

"Ellie," you start hesitantly, fear creeping into your tone, as you rigidly sit up using your uninjured arm.

To your surprise, she doesn't stagger off. She slumps back defeatedly, studying you.

"It was just a scratch. I didn't think..."

She leans in, inspecting it. Solemnity twinkles in her eyes.

They dart back to your face, and the sadness there scares you for the first time since the encounter, the thought of your fragile mortality a lurking, creeping presence, clouding your mind.

You could die.

You open your mouth, tears brimming your own eyelashes, when Ellie forcefully cradles your neck and jerks your head to the side, baring the fizzing mark. "Stay still," she demands coldly, and you do, stiff with terror under her harsh hands. Half expecting her to put you out of your misery right then and there.

Her mouth unexpectedly connects with the wound, lapping up the blood, a startled moan squealing out of you at the intrusion of her tongue upon the tingling claw mark. "W-what are you doing—" the words tumble out of you in abject horror and confusion, your shaking hands planting on her shoulders, attempting to wrestle her away.

She suckles on the tenderized flesh, another moan hiccuping out of you, as she slides her fingers into your tousled hair and cranes your head further, licking ferociously.

"What the fuck!" You exclaim boisterously, mustering all your might to shove her away. She stumbles back, raking in a deep breath, crimson staining her lips, dribbling down her chin, venom glistening.

She flinches as she spits it out, her face rigid with determination. "I need to suck the venom out," she breathes, blood dotting her nose, smeared gruesomely around her mouth.

Understanding dawns on you, infiltrating the fear coursing through you. You nod reluctantly, permissibly, and she smiles, blood brimming the crevices of her teeth. She tucks a tendril of hair behind your ear, leaning in, her lips hovering a breath away from yours, watching the way they twitch at her nearness.

Earlier's resolve and resentment fade away as she peppers slow, ghoulish kisses down your jaw, your throat, the seam where your neck meets your shoulder. Her hot breaths skate across the injury, and you cup her head, shifting your shoulder to allow her better access. Her lips graze the wound, the brush of them nearly intimate, as they rove it over before latching onto a spool of gold-laced blood, suckling it in greedily.

"Shit," you whisper shakily, fighting the desire out of your voice, pain and pleasure coinciding at the warm sensation.

"Mm. Almost done," she mumbles into your skin dully, hand languidly slithering out of your hair and down your chest. You mewl, squirming when her thumb tweaks your aching nipple on its descent to your waist, holding you in place.

She shouldn't be doing this.

You know, by not only touching the venom but drinking it in, she's risking her own life to potentially save yours.

Which is so at odds with the way she left you without word just that morning.

She pulls away, spitting a thick wad of spit to the side, slowly running her sleeve across her tainted mouth. Blood blemishes the fabric, but she doesn't look at it, her eyes trained on yours.

You stare back, navally breaths spurting out of you, your cheeks buzzing at her attention, nipples hardened at the chill. It was nearly dark, dusk swathing the sky in subdued, swirling purples, the sun an amber pin-needle stabbing through the shadow-shrouded treeline. The darkness paints the blood marring her lips a near black, her breaths equally as heavy, unmeasured.

Crickets begin to chirp, the weeds undulating with nights restless creatures. Everything is quiet. Tranquil.

But not the storm brewing in Ellie's watchful eyes. Staring into them is turbulent and enrapturing; they beckon like a sea at night, moonlit and inviting, the air thick with electricity, waves battering a mean cliffside.

You tentatively extend your hand, thumb delicately plodding her bottom lip, ridding the blood there. She observes you closely, a smirk on her lips, and you scoot forward, hand dropping to her jaw.

"Ellie..." her name comes out a fragile whisper; concerned. "What if... what if you're... infected too, now?"

Her jaw clenched, the tendons flexing under your hand. Her eyebrows furrow, and she lightly shakes her head. "That's not possible," she whispers stoically back.

When you say nothing, confusion contorting your face, she scrunches up the sleeve of her jacket and leisurely lifts her tattooed arm between you, the winding moth design dark and elaborate.

The dense layer of ink did not conceal what lie underneath. The raised, marred skin expanding across her forearm, frail and wrinkled. You don't know how you never noticed before.

"What happened?" You mumble plaintively, caressing a gentle finger down the length of the rigid scar, speaking soft and cautious, afraid one wrong move would send her bolting, like a feeble, knobby-legged fawn caught in headlights.

She gulps audibly, breaking eye contact, eyes falling to your mercifully stroking hand. "I got bit. When I was 14," she informs callously, with a lack of emotion that did not equate her dismal words.

She traces a pensive finger over the scar, your hands brushing, an electric current hissing to life at the incidental contact. "So did my best friend," she continues bleakly, heartlessly, "Except she turned. And I never did."

You store the sacred information in a pocket of your brain; taking the tenuous piece of herself she willfully offered and handling it preciously, like an artifact to be glassed and admired, acknowledged from afar and with reverence. Knowing it's monumental and a rare, fortunate token in your treasure trove.

Grief for a little, less-scathed Ellie shades your heart. The thought of her harboring such a ghastly, horrific past; witnessing her friend transform into a beast she could not fathom.

You choose your next words carefully, not wanting to bestow a worthless apology. Sorry won't bring her friend back; won't mend the fractured pieces losing her had shattered. "You are very strong," you comment meaningfully, inching your hand off her pulsing wrist, splaying it upon her racketing heart. "Such a strong girl."

She swallows again, effortfully, as if forcing down the lump that had gathered there. "It's nothing," she says tightly, clearing her throat, stroking a thumb across your hand, where it rests gingerly on her chest. She remains silent for awhile, and you let her; whether the silence be to mull over her thoughts and meticulously craft her next words, or just as a space to exist in the quiet, in the now.

A loan bird soars overhead, the shadow of its feathery, nimble body spanning across the grass. It caws distantly, as if responding to the singing insects, the night breeze.

"I forget about it sometimes." She mutters suddenly, scratching the scar sheepishly. You see it now, the solemnity that her tone was void of— the despair kindled in her eyes, faint but flickering, like dying embers in the snow. As if she was just now remembering, the pain born anew, unsheathed from a hidden holster.

"I forget the worst things, too," you share benignly, honestly, removing your hand from her and tucking it under your chin timidly. It doesn't scare you to admit this to her; even though usually, there's a nagging voice, a phantom at your side, tittering that it's all going to be used against you, your own dull truths sharpened into blades aimed for your back.

"Until they spring up unexpectedly and ruin that moment. I can never fully escape it," you continue, shrugging.

Ellie stares at you a moment, that foundation of grief crumbling, reconstructed with hardened fury. One old and bone-deep. One that had resided in her, fed off her for some time. A slash of silver vengeance strikes through her eyes.

"It wasn't one of the worst things. Not even close," she declares without the malice you expected. Stated purely as a tragic wrong she had every intention of correcting.

She possesses an air of anger, even when she's placid, calm. You sensed it when you met her. When she was nothing but an eclipsed figure, disguised by the blood of her victims and the roaring of the flame she tamed. There was a darkness that leered over her shoulder, a honed presence waiting to strike, something hungry for violence. An itching lodged beneath her skin, only sated by bloodshed.

You can feel it now, the violence a living, breathing part of her. Even if it's tucked soundly into sleep, in the caverns of her soul. Even if right now she's looking at you like you hung the moon, like you are a temple to be honored, there's still that kill-switch, an inclination to snap and destroy. People ruin beautiful things all the time.

"Stop looking at me like that," Ellie insists softly, brushing a loose lock of hair out of your face.

"Like what?" you mumble absentmindedly, watching her bloodied lips quirk into a half-smirk. She leans in close, close enough you can count the freckles spattering her cheeks, her response a breath ghosting your lips.

"Like you fucking want me."

Your lips crash together in a symphony of need, your body awake and alive with desire, regardless of the wounds. You bask in the soft groan that grumbles out of her and into you, patiently, gingerly drawing your lips together. The metallic tang of your own blood violates your tastebuds as your tongues move ardently in tandem, slow and savoring, deep and searching.

Her arm envelops your waist, steering you nearer, and you melt into her firm embrace, chests constricted, hips aligned, the kiss long and languid, mouths leeching and hands claiming.

It feels right in the wrongest way. Like home, where the household is neglectful and thrumming with darkness under its floorboards, evil thriving behind closed doors; but still home. Where you're meant to be, where you feel you belong, even when you're petrified.

You straddle her hips and maneuver her backward, until she's laying on her back. The tall, coiling grass tickles your arms as you plant your hands on either side of her head, lips foraging. You roll your hips and she hisses a muffled curse when you grind your pelvis against hers, her hands roaming up your waist, masterfully avoiding your sealed wound.

It was instinct to move your body in time with hers. To get lost in the plush warmth of her mouth, that addictive, kindling pleasure between your legs.

But there was another instinct, humming to life in your core, slinking through your bones; one that came with living in this world, where danger lurks in every shadow.

That instinct must flare to life in Ellie, too, for her lips detach from yours, head canting. A faint crunch rings from the towering grass, and both of you are up in a minute, her gun drawn. You hurriedly tug your top back on, grimacing as you incidentally chafe your injury.

Stars speckle your vision, a migraine splitting your skull at the sudden shift of position.

"We should get inside," Ellie states breathily, sweeping a cautionary gaze over the dark meadow, before lowering her gun and pivoting to face you.

Dried patches of blood smirch her face as she scans you. "You good?"

You nod wearily, exhaustion ricocheting through your body. She must see your ailing face, for she hoists your unblemished arm over her shoulder and drawls, "I got you," partially alleviating the straining of your abdominal wound.

"Thanks," you grumble, slumping your weight into her. Allowing her to aid you across the lumpy field, toward a rusting twist of warped, wired fence, a hole yawning open in the center.

You're about to cross it when a dim orb shimmers before you. It twinkles, off and on, drifting by.

"A firefly," you whisper tenderly, smiling at the sight, despite the creaking of your bones, the misery lugging on your limbs.

Ellie starts to smile, too.

But she's not smiling at the firefly.

• • •

You stare into the steely face of the Bull, it's gold-encrusting fading. Vines dangle in snared tendrils from its protruding horns, the eroding, bleached bronze Bull overlooking the once country-themed bar. It was preserved due to being welded out of pure iron, withstanding the worlds fatalities, surviving the bombs and disease.

It's hollow slits for eyes leer right back at you, a cold, inhospitable welcome.

You waltz inside, disregarding it's looming heed, giddy at the indication of alcohol. You could knock back a few shots right now. To numb the now mellowing pain ambushing your body, and to calm your swarming mind.

You couldn't stop thinking about what Ellie told you. That she was bit— and lived. At the cost of carrying a heavy, harrowing memory through life with her.

Your mind wanders to Zander. Images of the now sealed over craters of his missing eyes flashing through your head. The way the blood had poured from him in alarming, unbelievable heaps that day, his eyes dangling from cords of tissue, hanging against his cheeks.

How could a person bleed out their body weight and miraculously survive?

How could a person get bitten and never turn?

You glance at Ellie uncertainly from over your impaired shoulder. She creeps into the bar with less enthusiasm, hand instinctively relaxing on her holster, thoughtfully scanning the place.

Tattered, dirt-blemished Texan flags hang from the low ceiling, dancing with the breeze whistling through the glassless windows. The walls are paneled with polished, dark oak, dusty black and white portraits either lining the walls or cracked on the unfinished wood floor. Depicting an array of Southern-America scenes, ranging from bull-riders to mane-flowing horses to western movie posters, pistols blazing, hats high.

You smile subconsciously, running your fingers over a painting of a girl about your age, wedged onto a stool, gloved hands milking a cow, a long, golden braid sloping down her back, her mischievous face craned toward the viewer. Her bell-bottom jeans hang low on her hips, gleaming red cowboy boots toeing the dirt.

You wriggle your toes in your own boots, the cowboy boots wearing and scuffed— a pair that belonged to your mother. "This place is in really good condition," you state aloud, eyes sweeping over the floor-to-ceiling bar, where bottles tipped and half-full and some broken, edged the shelves.

A lone cowboy hat, caked in grime, sits on the debris littered counter.

You gasp, swiftly shaking it off, wood chips clattering to the floor. You secure it on your head, the brim minutely misshapen. You adjust it and exclaim, "How do I look?" Sweeping your arms in an inelegant flourish, grinning crookedly at Ellie, who shakes her head in light amusement.

It reminds you of when Zander and you were little. He would force you to play a game where he was the deputy and you were the zombie that violated the Western town. He'd tackle you to the ground and bind your wrists with tethering thread, until you screamed and pouted to your dad, who scolded him for being rough.

"That's our baby, son," he'd tell Zander, always gentle in his authority, patting his shoulder paternally. Pointing to where you crouched in the grass, hopping in chase of a frantic butterfly, grinning ear to ear, the game forgotten— your cheeks still glistening with tears.

Zander would turn away at night in your shared bed, grumpy, furious that you ratted him out. Until you'd scoot closer and whisper into the balmy room, "Bubby, what's wrong?"

He would always ignore you. And you always scooched even closer, unruffled by his anger, sucking on Blue Bear's ear, resting your head on Zander's arm. You'd fall asleep there, chewing noisily on his bear, tiny body draped across him.

And you'd wake up back on your side of the bed, his face smashed into the pillow near your head, arm slung across you, as if naturally protecting you in his sleep.

The fond memory blooms and withers as soon as it sprouts. Zander always took care of you; even blinded, he put you above all else. You can't even stomach the thought of his worry at the news you were missing.

Glass crunches poignantly under your boot as you round the bar and pick up the nearest bottle of Vodka; nearly full. "Well, shit," you snort, popping the cap, taking a brisk swig straight from the bottle, wincing as it burns your throat on the way down. You spin around to Ellie, who was leaning against an intricately-carved wood pillar, watching you. "Want some?"

She contemplates your offer, before snatching it brazenly out of your hands, taking a controlled sip. Her head tilts as she surveys you. "You almost died today, and you're here, smiling like an idiot."

You shrug half-heartedly, stealing the bottle back, gulping down greedily. You smile uneasily at the repulsive, stinging taste overwhelming your tastebuds. "Happy to be alive, I guess."

"It's not a life worth living," she teases plainly, gesturing wide, emphatically to the sickened world.

You eye her diligently, tracking the sharp edges and soft planes of her face. "I disagree," you say quietly, crooking a knowing smile, sauntering off, swaying your hips.

The entrance gives way to an expansive saloon, a second, broader bar lining the back wall, tables dotting the spacious room. Fraying murals of rolling, sweeping mountains of Montana paint the perishing walls. In the center of the space is a mechanical bull, buffered by a barred platform.

"Oh my god!" You blurt animatedly, flailing for the bull, vodka splattering out of the bottle as you run with little consideration of your injuries.

You leap over the encompassing ring and size up the off-kilter bull before hoisting yourself onto it, flinching at the shooting pain careening up your side. "Zander always wanted to ride one of these! He was obsessed with the whole cowboy thing when we were kids."

You turn to face Ellie only to find her gone, a swirl of dust lingering where she once stood. "Ellie?" You holler, concern lacing your tone, tongue dry.

As if in response, the string lights overhead flicker and buzz raucously, illuminating the dark, decimated space. It's only a second later when the bull beneath you whirs to life, jerking suddenly, a clamorous sound emitting from you as you lurch for the handle on the synthetic saddle, gripping your hat to steady it in place.

Ellie emerges from a half-door leading to a dim back room, her face gleaming under the warm-hued lights. "I didn't think it would actually work," she admits, strolling over and leaning her hands on the railing, watching with a smirk as you struggle to maintain balance.

The bull is choppy and delayed due to age and unuse, yet it's belligerent movements are still sharp and undulating, the lag not enough to anchor you down without exploit. You shift your hips and bare your weight down, encasing your legs around the sides, wires and metal protruding from the matted, faux fur.

"That's it. Look at you," Ellie chuckles huskily, clapping, the praise in her tone awakening a string of tingles up your curved spine. Those sparks erupt into a raging hot flame when she drawls just loud enough for you to hear, "Ride it just like that."

Your head tips back on a dramatic groan, hips grinding into the jilting bull. "Fuck, what are you trying to do to me?" You giggle jubilantly, coyly, one hand planted on your hat, her unwavering attention spearing through you.

The bull screeches to a halt, it's rusted mechanics boisterous, the abrupt motion sending you careening off its back. You collapse to the matted floor with a thump, seething at the agony rocketing up your stomach, a faint dollop of crimson blooming through the bandage. "Ouch," you sulk, rubbing it half-hazardously, propping yourself on your elbows. Vodka still in hand.

The brim of your new hat obscures Ellie's impending figure as she heaves herself over the railing and stands over you. Her smirk is roguish, a formless dimple surfacing on her cheek. She rinsed earlier's blood away, but a nearly unintelligible crimson stain discolored the skin adjoining her mouth.

"Come here," you instruct softly. She's undeniable under the waning, golden lights, her mussed brown hair gleaming an auburn red, her eyes as blue and incandescent as you'd ever seen them, like ocean spray on a desolate beach.

She lowers herself just enough to suspend over your reclined frame, one knee planted between your spread legs, arms pinned on either side of your hips, caging you in her company. The imprisonment of her arms was a desirable iniquity; a preferred confine.

"Kiss me," you purr airily, as she crawls across you, descending her wanting lips onto yours on the cusp of your request.

You writhe beneath her, canting your chin to meet the divine ferocity of her desperate, animalistic kiss, your delighted moan muffled into her mouth.

Her lips detach from you just as swiftly as they had met yours. "Does that need re-bandaged?" She nods to the blood leaking through your top, a flush rising to her cheeks, as if fevered by the taste of your spit saturating her lips.

You snort. If you didn't know any better, you'd think she was flustered, your unabashed need for her making her shy. "No. I hardly feel it," you assure with a wispy laugh, wiping the dampness from her mouth.

She lingers there a moment, seemingly relishing in your nearness, before she ascends to her feet and extends a hand.

"Come on," she clasps your forearm and hauls you strongly to your feet, her hot breath reeking of liquor and something promised as it fanned your alcohol-warmed face.

You hover close, smiling mindlessly, looking at those damn lips. Imagining them snaking down your body, kissing you in forbidden places, eliciting unspeakable, ballooning pleasure within you.

That faint scar twitches upward under your amorous observation. "What?" She rasps, hand still encasing your wrist, the veins in her forearm fluttering.

You press a pliant, affectionate kiss to her lips and snake your arm out of her lenient grasp. "Nothin'," you muse blissfully, cheeks taut and sore from the strength of your grin, as you slither out of her residence.

She watches you slink away, rooted in place, as if frozen in disbelief by your easy display of endearment.

You hoist yourself onto the bar, all loose-limbed and unflappable, swinging your legs. "So what's our next move, then?"

She trails after you pensively, positioning herself between your legs. She sizes you up, from the shape of your thighs filling out your soiled Levi's, to the cleavage heaving at her from the brim of your dirty, lace-embellished top.

"What is it you think you want from me," she husks, craning her head with predatory calculation. "You want me to play with this pussy again?" Her hand slithers up between your legs and cups your clenching cunt through your jeans, sending you arching back in surprise. "Or is there more?"

Your heart drums mercilessly. Of course it's more. It's beyond her conception; the animal instinct that claws ravenously up your body and demands control whenever she's near, voracious for a sinking of teeth, a swallowing of her whole.

Of course you cannot tell her that when she's around, there's an incurable hunger, festering in the depths of your belly, chanting, I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry, for a taste of your darkness, a glimpse of its creator.

Of course you cannot say she is the catalyst and the maker of the peace you fabricated falsely for yourself. And that you want her to keep ruining all the ruined things you've built yourself upon.

So all you can you say, voice shaky with resolve, is, "I want you."

A grim understanding overtakes her face, varnished by varying shades of disappointment. Like you just asked her for the one thing she could never give you.

She takes a telling step back, distancing herself not only physically— imperishable walls of iron erect around her mind, barricading you, powerless and wailing on the other side.

"We should find somewhere to rest for the night."

She's gone before you're even off the counter, her shift in demeanor churning the alcohol sizzling in your gut.

That night, in the shadows of a grass-swept 7-Eleven, she sleeps with her back to you, her silence a skewering condemnation, prying open the scab of the wound her abandonment from that morning had opened.

Leaving you confused and, once again, wondering where you went wrong this time.

Maybe it's better this way.

You have to get back to Zander. Back to the base.

You don't have time to mull over what you said wrong.

You're in your own sleeping bag a few feet from her, watching her back inflate with unconscious, frantic breaths— like she's drowning in her sleep. You extend your arm across the space separating you, toying with a tendril of grass, circling it around your finger until the tip purples.

Sleep never graces you with its presence. You lay like that for hours, the tall crass whispering outside the broken window, the buildings groaning, Ellie's breathing labored but soft, the only noise the occasional bristle of her sleeping bag as she twitched and squirmed.

Until, with a suddenness that dropped your heart, she lurched up with a painful gasp, wretched, snotty sobs hiccuping out of her. She fumbles for the oversized, creased leather jacket she had draped over her as she slept, cradling it to her chest, unleashing ghastly cries into the fabric, covering her tear-slicked face.

Her back heaves with the force of her weeps as she bends over the jacket, rasping out hideous, wounded-animal like noises. You stare in horror, pain twinging in your heart at her palpable grief— wanting to comfort her, but being too coward to disrupt her unchained emotions.

She's nearly smothering herself with the jacket at that point, and you're about to intervene, jump up and rip it from her reddened face, when she comes up for air, gulping down hitched breaths.

You close your eyes in alarm, not wanting her to know you were awake, witnessing her meltdown.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers shakily, the hopelessness in her tone saved for the solitude of night, the unjudging eyes of the moon.

For a moment, you fear she's apologizing to you for the punishing silent treatment, so you crack open a heavy-lidded eye to peak at her.

She's thumbing the collar of the jacket, whispering into the flannel-liner inside, inhaling deeply. "I am so sorry. I am so sorry," she tips her forehead against the tag, rocking back and forth, muttering an indiscernible name, like a forgotten prayer.

She bows over it for so long, her tears muffled by the fabric, you wonder if she fell asleep while sitting up.

Just as the thought passes through your mind, she lays back down, cuddling the jacket to her chest, breathing harshly, appearing smaller than you'd ever seen her.

This time, instead of letting exhaustion cast you under its spell, you lay awake in the night, ready to face whatever dawn may bring— an empty bed, a lost companion; or a kinder tomorrow.

One that didn't tear you apart the way Ellie seemed to be torn as of now, her broken pieces discarded on the floor, unsalvageable— forged into an anger blazing like a loaded pistol.

Ready to load off at any given moment.

#ellie williams #the last of us #ellie tlou #joel miller #playstation #ps4 #the last of us 2 #tlou2 #tlou #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x reader #ellie x y/n #ellie x fem reader #ellie the last of us #ellie smut #wlw #hungry #Spotify #burningbodywaiting

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lost-my-sanity · 6 months ago

Text

Linger

Inspired by Linger from the Cranberries

Trafalgar D. Water Law imagine

If you, if you could return

Don't let it burn

Don't let it fade

I'm sure I might be rude

But it's just your attitude

It's tearing me apart

It's ruining everything

Law and I have been dating for several years. We’re both very damaged and hurt people, having gone through terrible things in our childhood and we bonded over that pain. Lately we’ve been arguing a whole lot. Rude comments, snarky remarks and faces thrown at each other like knives.

I love him with everything in me. I just want things to change, I want to be happy again, just the two of us, but he’s one of the most prolific new pirates of the era with a big future ahead of him and I’m afraid we’re going to drift apart and he’s going to leave me behind.

And I swore, I swore I would be true

And honey, so did you

So why were you holding her hand?

Is that the way we stand?

Were you lying all the time?

Was it just a game to you?

My heart was breaking. Law was talking to Nico Robin and her hand brushed over his and he didn’t stop her. Does he like her? Does he love her? Does he love her more than me?

So many thoughts are swirling around my head and I feel like I’m going to be sick. My heart is beating out of my chest and I feel like my world is crashing down on me. Was I just a place filler to him? Was this all some sort of sick game where I give him my heart and he crushes it in front of me?

But I'm in so deep

You know I'm such a fool for you

You've got me wrapped around your finger

Do you have to let it linger?

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?

Later that night while we were in our shared bedroom my thoughts were overwhelming me once again and I had to say something.

“Trafalgar, I need you to be honest to me, are you still in love with me?”

I questioned my palms, sweating and my body shaking as I waited for his response.”

“Of course I do y/n-ya why would you ask something like that?” He said with a look of shock written on his face.

“All we do is fight lately and hurt each other's feelings… and I saw you With Nico Robin earlier, how you were practically holding hands… Please be honest with me, do you like her?” I tell him, the question finally spilling out of my lips as tears begin to roll down my cheeks.

“Oh love, I don’t like her, she’s just a nakama, you are the love of my life, the one I want to spend my end of days with, create a family with. I know I’ve been cruel lately because of stress but I didn't realize it was this bad if you're doubting my love for you” as Law spoke his fingers brushed away the tears from my eyes.

Oh, I thought the world of you

I thought nothing could go wrong

But I was wrong, I was wrong

If you, if you could get by

Trying not to lie

Things wouldn't be so confused

And I wouldn't feel so used

But you always really knew

I just want to be with you

“All I want to do is be with you” I state putting my heart out on the line.

Law brings his lips to mine in a bruise kiss as he tries to show me just how sorry he is that he’s made me feel this way, knowing that no matter what he says he won’t be able to properly convey his feelings.

“You know I’m such a fool for you. I thought no matter what I said or did, you’d still be in my corner, I’m a grumpy asshole with a lot of baggage and I know I need to work on myself better. I know I need to not work so much and dedicate time to just me and you. I’m sorry my love.

I will change, for both of us. You’ll never have to worry about whether or not I love you because I’ll shout it from the rooftops every day if I need to” Law stared me deep in my eyes as he said this, gripping my face gently but firmly in his hands.

Things wouldn’t be easy, hell I know we’ve been through it before but for the first time in a long time I held a hope I thought long forgotten.

#one piece imagine #one piece x reader #one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgar one piece #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar d law x reader #angst with a happy ending

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toxicmalysh · 5 days ago

Text

The link we share

Chapter 16: Go fuck yourself

Word count: 2,626

Summary: You and Wanda get into a heated argument after dinner

Warnings: angst, use of profanity, mentions of restricted eating

⋆✧✦✧⋆

“Hey sleepy head! Bout time you joined us!”

Natasha called out from her seat at the dining table, watching concerningly as Wanda strolled in. It had been a few days now and it was obvious to the rest of the team Wanda was struggling with something.

She had rarely been seen outside of training and meal times. It seemed like she was only out of her room to do what she had to do and then she was gone again. It wasn't odd for her to be alone, but seeing over the last few weeks how she had progressed socially with the team, for her to retreat so often was slightly off putting.

Wanda took a seat next to Natasha at the table smiling at her in response lazily, her eyes fixated on her bowl as she took a serving of stew. She broke apart a bread roll, dipping it into the broth generously.

“I was thinking we could all watch a movie tonight? We haven't had an evening together in a while?”

Natasha announced her proposal to the room, watching for everyone's reactions. Everyone agreed happily, though Wanda stayed quiet, hoping she would go unnoticed.

Natasha nudged Wanda slightly, and she sighed mentally before answering quietly,

“I think I'm going to get an early night, busy day training today you know?”

Natasha nodded slowly, not convinced by the brunette's excuse. She took a mental note to check up on her later, not wanting to draw attention to her.

“y/n it's your turn to choose the movie this week, anything you wanna watch?”

Natasha turned her head to face you, you were leaning against the kitchen island with a cup of cranberry juice in your hand. She noticed the way your eyes lingered on Wanda as you brought your attention to the redhead.

“Oh,” you thought for a moment, tearing your eyes from Wanda. “what about pulp fiction, that's a classic.”

Clint spoke up over his dumpling, laughing slightly at himself,

“Does he look like a bitch.”

Natasha then joined in both finishing the quote,

“Then why are you fucking him like one.”

Their little display of knowledge of the movie was rewarded with a few laughs. Steve raised an eyebrow not understanding why everyone was laughing,

“I don't get it.”

Natasha shook her head, smiling to herself as she placed her spoon down,

“You know I gave you a list of movies to watch for a reason.”

Tony scoffed over his bowl, wiping his mouth,

“The guys so old he probably forgot what toilet paper was and wiped his ass with it already.”

The group laughed but Steve spoke up in a serious tone in protest,

“I'm not even that old, at least tonight will give me a chance to tick another movie off the list.”

Natasha smiled appreciatively, placing her napkin down onto the table as she rose from her seat.

You finished your juice, your eyes falling to Wanda again, watching intently as she ate her meal.

A whirlwind of emotions flickering through you. Neither of you had spoken since the outburst, and as much as you wanted to talk to her, you simply couldn't bring yourself to do it.

Every second you spent near Wanda in front of the team was painful. You wanted to scream to her how much you wanted her both emotionally and physically but you just couldn't do it.

You felt guilty, and angry. Guilty that you had been so cold with Wanda, angry that she had yelled at you the way she did, and the things she said. It made you frustrated that she didn't understand how difficult it was to be vulnerable, to be open about your emotions.

Everyone around you had either left you or died, you simply couldn't afford to lose anyone else. Going into whatever it was you felt about Wanda, jeprojised that and you weren't willing to take the risk yet.

“So we'll call it seven? I don't want to be in bed too late so we better start the movie earlier rather than later, but it gives you guys an hour to let your food go down?”

Natasha spoke softly, enjoying her authority in the room. Everyone began clearing up their plates, some remained seated whilst others fled quickly.

Wanda remained in her seat, moving her spoon around the food. Her eyes travelled to you watching you with your juice. She felt concern wash over her as she noticed you once again hadn't eaten anything, she wanted to bring attention to it but after your last fight she wasn't in a position where she had any confidence to do so.

She felt humiliated by your response to her confession, but also disappointed. Wanda knew for a fact you felt the same way, she could tell by small things in your behaviour, and whenever she read your emotions they were always so strong around her. So why were you pushing her away like this?

She couldn't cope with the constant pulling from you, only to be pushed away when they were finally making progress. It wasn't fair on her to waste her time with someone who didn’t want her full attention when she could give it to someone else.

She stared mindlessly into her bowl. Replaying scene after scene of moments with you. It made her frustrated, causing her to lift her hand to her temples, rubbing them strongly.

“I do believe you're in distress Wanda.” Vision placed a shoulder softly on Wanda, causing her to jump. He was speaking with her telepathically, not wanting anyone left in the kitchen to hear. Wanda let out a sigh, her accent thick,

“You scared me.”

She put her hand to her chest, catching her breath. Vision rubbed her shoulder softly.

“My apologies I didn't mean to startle you, I simply wanted to see if I could be of some reassurance.”

His tone was soft, filling her head, but still monotone. Wanda could feel the concern. She brought her hand up to her left shoulder placing it over Vision’s hand, holding onto it softly as she rubbed her thumb.

“Your company is good enough Vision, thank you.”

Vision took a seat next to Wanda, seated sideways so he could face her, his hand began rubbing circles on her back, watching intently as she ate her food.

“I can tell the last few days have been difficult for you Wanda. Is there anything particular on your mind?”

Wanda put a mouthful of stew into her mouth, lightly chewing on a carrot, she nodded widening her eyes in irony,

“I told y/n I wanted more from her.”

Her tone was light, as if she thought it was a joke. Vision's expression lightened, his tone full of positivity,

“Well this is good, no?”

Wanda laughed into her bowl, clearly hiding her pain in humour.

“Oh it was great.. especially the part where she yelled at me that she didn't want me.”

She took another spoon of stew, chewing a particular larger part of beef. Vision took his hand from Wanda's back surprised by her statement,

“y/n rejected you? I am… surprised…”

His eyes fell to the table, trying to process what Wanda had just admitted.

“Believe me… I am too.”

Wanda sat back slightly, placing her spoon to the side. You looked up to the noise, making your way round the table to take Wanda’s bowl, as you reached your hand out Wanda pinned it to the table.

“I'm not done with that.”

Her voice was bitter, and her stare was stern, her eyes narrowed. You wiggled your hand a little, breaking free from Wanda’s grasp, you stood back shaking it from the force she had brought it down.

“Sorry I just assu-”

You spoke softly and apologetically, but Wanda cut you off suddenly picking her spoon back up,

“Yeah well don't.”

She took a spoonful of the stew, ignoring the fact it was the woman who she had just swatted, that made it. You swallowed hard, furrowing your eyebrows,

“Just let me know when you're done, then I'll clear it up.”

Your tone was filled with affection as you went back to the counter, pouring another juice, it was just the three of you in the room.

“I'm more than capable, thank you.”

Her tone switched from stern to soft as she spoke with Vision,

“Vision, can you give us a minute?”

Vision nodded, getting up slowly, he took Wanda's hand into a firm kiss, before leaving giving the pair some space.

“Aren't you eating?”

Wanda watched as you hesitated slightly, pouring more juice into your glass, she knew you hadn't eaten in days, and as angry as she was with you, she cared.

“Oh I ate earlier,”

You laughed nervously, still facing away from Wanda as you took a sip from your glass. Wanda got up from her seat, taking her bowl to the sink, watching your face.

“You're a terrible liar.”

You shrugged, watching as Wanda placed her bowl into the sink, running the warm water, she poured half of the meal away, scrubbing it clean.

As she moved her arms, Wanda felt her anger rise quicker than usual, the nonchalant attitude from you never failed to make her blood boil.

“y/n you can't just skip meals like this, it's stupid you know that.”

You snapped immediately, something about being called stupid triggered you immensely, you raised your voice.

“I'm not stupid Wanda stop pretending like you know what's going on in my head because you don't.”

Wanda nodded sarcastically, turning to face you, smirking with nothing short of cockyness.

“Oh okay sorry I didn't realise there was anything other than a circus going on in there.”

She pointed to her own forehead, before dropping her arms, shaking her head as if to say ‘are you a fucking idiot’.

“I'm just saying, stop assuming you know everything about me…”

You spoke calmly, a hurt tone in your voice. Wanda took a moment to breathe, her head pounding with anger from the contradictory,

“y/n I don't know these things about you because you won't talk to me!”

Wanda took a step forward towards the island, watching you as you stood on the opposite side.

“Wanda you're so pushy I can not breathe! Do you ever think that maybe no one wants to spend time with you because all you do is bitch and whine!”

Your tone was like a knife, slicing Wanda’s chest, releasing more tiny knives into her organs. Her breath caught in her throat.

“What..”

Her pupils became small, full of confusion and hurt. You kept your voice loud, shaking your right arm in her direction.

“Have you ever thought that no one can put up with your needy bullshit because it's your way or no way! They see the way you are with me! “y/n talk to me” “no I'm not ready” “Oh you're such an asshole!”, “y/n can you clear up your mess I want to bake.” “Yeah once I've finished I'll do it” “No you have to do it now I don't have time!” “y/n do this” “y/n do that” its like you think I'm your child or something?? Even worse it's like I'm this machine for you to order around!”

Your voice echoed through the room. Wanda’s eyes filled to the brim with tears, was that really how you viewed her? Was that really what she was like? She took a breath, her lip quivering unsure what to say.

“And you know what. I tell you I don't want you back and you mope around like it's the end of the world in self pity, rather than actually self-reflecting what the reasoning behind my answer might actually be, and then you decide to start questioning me about my eating as if you actually care.”

You took the last sip of your juice slamming the glass down on the table. You raised your finger pointing at Wanda as you swallowed,

“Go fuck yourself.”

Wanda stood in disbelief. She couldn't begin to process the words that you had just said. Was she really just a control freak? She’d never had anyone she'd cared about like this before and she wasn't sure how to express that affection.

She made her way out of the kitchen, retreating to her room for the evening.

You had stormed out of the kitchen, making your way quickly to your room. You turned your speakers on full, not caring if you were disturbing Wanda. Right now your anger was all you could think about.

Wanda had no right to shout and yell at you for weeks for things you were doing wrong, only to throw the fact she wanted more from you into the open. That wasn't fair, and she had no idea what you were going through.

Of course you couldn't blame her too much, you understood she was right, you didn't open up about much. But Wanda was pushy. How could you? You felt like you were being forced at gunpoint just to open up.

“y/n/n, I'm coming in okay?”

Your head turned to the door, watching as Natasha walked in, a soft smile on her face.

“What's going on kiddo?”

She turned the music down, taking a seat on the edge of your bed, gesturing her arm for you to sit with her. You sat, leaning your body into her shoulder.

“I heard some of what you said in the kitchen, that was really harsh y/n/n.”

You took a breath, you knew Natasha was right.

“I know I just… it scares me, Natasha it scares me so much.”

Your voice broke as you cried, a wave of emotions washing over you. Regret, guilt, self hatred, frustration, disappointment, all flooded your head.

Natasha hummed, holding you tighter,

“I know, I know.” She took your head softly in her hand against her shoulder, “y/n/n, I know you're scared, I know it's intimidating being open with someone, and I know it's even scarier knowing she wants romantic company from you, especially after Jenny.” She paused, kissing your forehead whilst wiping your tears,

“You deserve to be happy, and Wanda, well all she wants is for you to be happy. I know in your head, it's unfair Wanda doesn't understand your reasoning, and in Wanda's head she doesn't understand why you keep pushing her away.” She held your face firm, lowering her head to look you deeply in the eyes,

“But Wanda hasn't got anyone else, she's never had to express her concern or compassion for anybody before, she's as new to this as you are. And y/n/n I love you but you don't make it easy, and she's still here trying… I think you should apologise to her, and talk it through.”

You nodded slowly sitting up, wiping your eyes,

“You two clearly have physical chemistry, I see the way she touches you and how you relax with her, and even though you can be a right ass-hat with this nonchalant attitude, I know you two can learn to have some really solid communication.”

You smiled softly, your eyes slightly puffy from tears as you sniffed.

“What do I even say?”

Natasha smiled in understanding, holding the base of your neck.

“Don't rush yourself, but apologise. And you might find you two don't even need words. I can tell she would be willing to forgive you, you both deserve something good, so be something good for each other.”

After a moment of silence between you, you decided to walk with Natasha to the common room. Finding comfort in the corner seat of the sofa as the team watched the movie together.

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