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sanatomis · 8 months ago

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⋆.ೃ࿔* ── 𝐃𝐈𝐘-𝐃𝐀𝐃!

it’s career day, and megumi has to bring his dad to school so he can tell the class about his job. the problem? he only has a 20-year-old sorcerer-guardian who has the brain capacity of a walnut.

content. canon divergence (suguru’s alive and studying to be a kindergarten teacher), possible ooc characters, female!reader.

notes. guys i’m a sucker for satoru who really, really tries and isn’t just a goofy man-child ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১ also ! thank you all for your patience, it took me a while to finish this piece bc of uni, so i'm vv happy it's finally done <3

taglist. | masterlist.

“I don’t have a dad.”

As cruel as it may be, a part of Megumi hopes that the sentence makes his teacher greatly uncomfortable. Demanding for a father to attend a Career Day at school simply isn’t fair to children without one—or, well, to the child without one. It’s not his fault his father hauled ass and left, so why is she making this so difficult for him?

“Oh,” she mumbles. It seems his arrow hit the target, as her eyebrows pull together in a frown and she shifts her weight between her feet. “Well, you, uh, have a male guardian, don’t you?”

Megumi grimaces. Instantly, he thinks back to last week. Satoru Gojo, self-proclaimed strongest, had hit his head on a kitchen cabinet. With a dramatic pout and an overexaggerated wobble to his lips, he clung to you for hours. Some affection will make it all better!

Of course, when Megumi criticised his skills surrounding his infinity technique—because, really, how couldn’t it block a simple cabinet—the sorcerer opted to ignore him. He suspects there was some foul play at hand.

“Barely,” he mutters, as the memory resurfaces.

His teacher lets out a startled hum. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing,” Megumi says quickly. He watches as she starts typing on her computer, and the realisation that she’s probably currently taking a look at his file isn’t a particularly welcome one. “What about my other guardian? Can I bring her, instead?”

“This event is geared towards fathers,” she explains. It’s obvious she forgot her reading glasses today, Megumi thinks, as she needs to narrow her eyes to read the screen in front of her. “I have one Satoru Gojo noted down as your male guardian. Surely, he will be able to attend.”

Megumi pauses. He blinks up at her expressionlessly, and fights off the urge to push his teacher down a well. You often preach about being kind to others, and that wouldn’t be very kind.

“Can’t I take my oth—”

“I’m afraid not,” she interrupts him before he even gets the sentence out. It irks him. Megumi isn’t fond of speaking to begin with, so when he does, he’d prefer not to be cut off halfway through. “An exception will not be made. Please, make sure to bring Gojo-san to school.”

Megumi briefly, and for the very first time ever, mourns the fact that you and Satoru weren’t married. A small part of him calls the man a coward for not asking you to. If he’d simply taken the step, then Megumi would be able to pass you off as Gojo-san. Unfortunately, he can’t, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that there’s no way around this problem.

“Fine,” he grumbles. It takes all of his remaining willpower to not stomp out of the classroom. Once again, he thinks of you. It’d be extremely bad manners. He can’t find it in himself to wish his teacher a nice day this time, though, and so she’ll have to make due with a slightly less polite Megumi for today.

There’s nothing he can do about it. Satoru will have to come to the school.

Megumi suddenly despises the idea of Career Day.

“I need you to come to my school next week.”

Immediately, all chatter around the dining table stops. For once, Megumi finds himself annoyed at the sudden appearance of silence. Before he said it, he knew his words would most likely have such an effect—he just didn’t expect it to be so instant.

He tries his best to feign nonchalance, as if the topic that’s coming up didn’t make him feel stressed-out beyond belief. The confused, startled glances you and Satoru share don’t do much to help him, either. Perhaps it’s because Megumi is looking straight at him; him instead of you. Yeah, Satoru, he isn’t a fan of it, either.

“Me?” The man asks then, and Megumi has to resist the urge to say, ‘no, I meant the snail in the backyard—yes, you,’ in the most sarcastic voice he can muster up. Satoru once again steals a look at you, ever so oblivious to Megumi's mental remarks. “Don’t you mean—”

“I don’t,” Megumi cuts him off solemnly. His lips are pursed shut, and he pokes the slices of pork belly in his bowl with his chopsticks. One didn’t need to be of particularly high intelligence to notice the boy’s displeasure. “I have to bring a male figure for Career Day.”

It’s slow, the morphing of Satoru’s face, but it happens gradually and doesn’t stop until he’s positively beaming. Megumi doesn’t like it one bit. Nothing good happens when he looks like that, and he’s quite sure that all that will spew out of his mouth in a few seconds will be nothing except for pure nonsense.

“Well, luckily, I will have the day off, then!” Satoru chimes, with a smile so wide it causes two dimples to appear on his cheeks. You copy his smile, and gently go to poke the little dent in his skin—Satoru lets you, as he always does. Megumi would think of it as cute if he weren’t so annoyed. “I will be there.”

It seems he was right. Satoru’s words are pure nonsense.

“I didn’t tell you when,” he comments dryly.

The sorcerer blinks. His smile is still on his face, but it’s fading, and the dimples do so with it. Your hand hovers halfway in the air, stuck with nothing to poke, and you slowly bring it back down to your side. It seems neither of you had taken time to think about that small fact—Megumi blames Satoru for dragging you down with him; him and those indentations in his cheek that you always seem to coo over.

“Oh,” Satoru mumbles. A crease between his brows forms as his brain hurries to catch up with the newfound information. A few seconds pass, and then the previous bravado returns. “Well, it doesn’t matter! I can take the day off. When do you need me? Tell me, and I’ll be there.”

Megumi very much doubts he can take days off all willy-nilly like that, especially after he pushed his workload onto someone else to attend his science fair last time, but then again, what does he know? If Satoru didn’t care about the consequences of his actions, then Megumi wasn’t about to break his own head doing so, either.

“Next Friday,” he mumbles. From the tone of his voice, it’s quite clear that he’d rather be saying anything else. “We have to leave at eight a.m., please, be on time.”

“Sure thing!” Satoru chimes, and with that, Megumi thinks the dreaded conversation has finally come to an end.

All in all—it could’ve gone worse. At least Satoru didn’t prolong it unnecessarily. Nor did he add a bunch of relentless teasing. He glances at the sorcerer. Satoru is happily munching on the dinner you’d prepared, both his cheeks stuffed full with entirely too much rice. It’s unbecoming, and a reflection of his poor manners, Megumi thinks, and he doesn’t understand how you look at the man with such hearts in your eyes.

Though, your more than adequate cooking seems to have saved him from one of Satoru’s onslaughts. He’s grateful. Even if he doesn’t particularly enjoy the sight in front of him.

“Hey, ‘toru?” You ask, breaking the silence with a slight hesitation to your voice. It nearly sounds nervous, and both Megumi and Tsumiki look up in alarm. Satoru hums, still chewing away. “What are you going to tell the class?”

Satoru stops eating. His chewing comes to a halt, and his chopsticks freeze in the air. A slice of pork drops from between them, and falls back into his bowl—It’s not hard to see the cogs turning in his head. “Uhm, I. . .” He swallows the food still in his mouth, and clears his throat.

Right. It’s Career Day—but Satoru can’t tell a bunch of seven to eight-year-olds that he hunts and kills grimy, ugly, and freakishly scary curses for a living, now, can he? Megumi doesn’t think that would go over well with the other parents. The boy sighs. It’s just one thing after another. He grimly believes the world might just be out to get him.

“I. . .Oh! I can tell them I’m a teacher,” his guardian scrambles for a solution, and Megumi can’t help but think it’s a little lack-lustre. Who would believe that guy is a teacher, anyway? Then again. . .Megumi doesn’t know a better fix for their current problem, either. He was so focused on the fact that it was Satoru that had to come to the school, he all but forgot about the fact that the dear thorn-in-his-side didn’t possess a normal job. “Suguru has told me a thing or two about his internship. I can take inspiration from there.”

Ah, yes. The famed Suguru Geto. Megumi has met him before. He hasn’t actually spoken to him, however. The man often visits, and has twin girls clinging to him when he does, and while Tsumiki seems to really like him—and them—Megumi doesn’t have an interest in seeking out some form of interaction, yet. Whenever he comes over, Megumi opts to hide in his room. Suguru never tries to disturb him, nor does he try to coax him into coming out. He’s very grateful for it.

So, despite never speaking to him, Megumi knows about Suguru. Well, he knows enough. He knows Suguru went to school with the two of you, and he knows something really, very bad (nearly) happened that caused the man to take a step back from the world you all live in. What exactly happened (or what didn’t happen), Megumi doesn’t know for sure. You and Satoru almost never speak about it, and when you do, it’s in hushed voices—and you always stop immediately when he enters the room.

But that’s okay. He doesn’t need to know. Suguru doesn’t force himself upon Megumi, and so he will extend him the same courtesy. “I thought Geto-san wasn’t a teacher, yet?” Tsumiki speaks up from beside him, tilting her head to the side in confusion. “Mimi and Nana said he’s still learning. How can he be teaching, already?”

“He’s not a teacher, yet, munchkin, well spotted,” Satoru answers with a proud grin. The nickname annoys Megumi—the feeling of irritation has been conditioned into his very being after Satoru chose it as the designated nickname for both of them. “An internship helps him build experience in the field. It means he is still learning, but he will do so while teaching.”

Tsumiki nods in understanding, her mouth opens and her lips curl into a small ‘ah’ as the information settles in. “So, you will pretend to be a teacher, then? At Megumi’s school?”

Satoru bites on his bottom lip, seemingly deep in thought. Seemingly—as Megumi is quite convinced he doesn’t ever think before he speaks. “I think so, yes,” he explains, and unknowingly retorates Megumi’s train of thoughts. How annoying. Satoru looks towards you for approval; it’s something he does very often. “It’s probably the safest route, no?”

“It’s our best option,” you say, and bring a thumb up to the corner of Satoru’s mouth. Gently, you wipe away a grain of rice stuck to his skin. It’s effortless, and nearly automated. Megumi wonders how many times you’ve had to do that. “Pretending to be a teacher shouldn’t be too difficult a task. Right, mochi?”

“Right,” Satoru echoes. His eyes track your every move, and the slight, pink colouring of his cheeks doesn’t seem to embarrass him even a little bit. Megumi thinks it should. Have some decorum. “I can do it, no problem.”

“Alright then,” you say, and smile. First at Satoru, and then at Megumi. You look at the boy for a few seconds; you’re about to ask him if he’s okay with it. He knows you are, because you always do. “Is that okay for you, Megumi?” It’s like clockwork, almost.

Megumi feels the need to answer with something snarky. Something akin to the sound of ‘What choice do I have?’ but he doesn’t—because you’re being kind, and you don’t deserve such a response. So, instead he turns towards Satoru.

“. . .Just don’t mess it up.”

Satoru delivers a whole spiel about how ‘he’d never do that’ and that he’s ‘more than capable’ of telling a little white lie, but Megumi dilutes it to background noise rather quickly. He continues sputtering his nonsense when Megumi and Tsumiki stand up to clear the table, and still hasn’t stopped even when you and him start loading the dishwasher together—Megumi chooses to seek reprieve in his room while he’s distracted.

It isn’t until many hours later, when Megumi leaves the sanctuary of his room to swipe a quick snack from the kitchen, that he first hears Satoru speak about something other than his great, and very much sufficient, ‘capabilities’. Your voices are muffled, and Megumi has to focus to make out your words. His soft, inaudible padding down the illuminated hallways comes to a halt. As if that would make his ears function better.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Satoru?”

The boy frowns. With such gentleness in your voice, it’s hard to identify the worry lingering beneath the surface. Megumi moves a bit closer. He stops one step shy of bumping into the wooden surface, and peeks through the groove. The door is ajar—it’s something that allows him to watch how your eyes follow Satoru’s large frame as he paces around the room. It’s strange. Seeing him so. . .frazzled.

Satoru nods. “I can do this, I know I can,” he says, and quits his pacing to look at you. Megumi can’t see his face, but he can see yours. He might as well not have, though, as he can’t make out the emotion that fills your eyes. It’s not one he himself has in his repertoire, that he knows for sure. “He never asks me for anything, princess. I have to do this right.”

Ah, this isn’t a conversation Megumi is meant to hear. He should probably seize his eavesdropping, he thinks, and winces a little when he properly analyses Satoru’s words. They’re truthful. Megumi doesn’t go to him when he needs something. His first thought is to go to you—and his second, Tsumiki. And if he’s being honest anyway, his third thought very likely isn’t Satoru, either; He’d try to solve it on his own if it came down to it. Megumi frowns again. He doesn’t like how that realisation makes him feel.

A careful shuffle of footsteps breaks him free from his thoughts. Megumi looks up, and catches how you place a hand on Satoru’s cheek. “I’m sure you’ll do great, baby,” you mumble. There’s a small, soft smile on your lips, one that quickly makes way for the peck Satoru places upon them.

“Thank you,” Satoru whispers. One of his hands reaches for yours, and Megumi suddenly feels as if he’s intruding on something when the man brings them up to his lips to press a tender kiss to them. Okay, no, definitely intruding—ew.

The boy scrunches his nose up in disgust, and hurriedly darts back towards his room. Suddenly, he has lost his appetite for a late-evening snack. Megumi lets out a deep sigh once he’s all tucked into his sheets again. Perhaps giving Satoru a shot wouldn’t be that big of a problem. Just one, though.

. . .Yeah, just one should be enough.

It’s the final, conclusive thought Megumi has before dozing off to sleep. Blissfully unaware of the conversation you and Satoru share—now behind a very closed door.

You stifle a giggle. The disappearance of Megumi’s presence outside your bedroom was quick and rampant as soon as Satoru started to kiss your hands. Something the sorcerer did very deliberately. It’s as if the boy suddenly forgot about the very special, very effective pair of eyes his guardian possesses. And with a cursed energy output such as Megumi’s, it would be hard not to recognise his presence.

“You did that on purpose,” you comment. “How cruel of you, mochi.”

Satoru hums, and kisses the inside of your wrist. “Maybe, the little brat shouldn’t eavesdrop, then,” he defends himself. There isn’t an inkling of guilt to be seen on his pretty face.

. . .Though, both of you still take some extra care to shut the door next time.

Megumi faithfully believes that, as of today, he has used-up all of his luck for the next five, no, ten years. It can only go downhill from here. For some inexplicable, mind-boggling reason—Satoru is actually pulling this off. That’s not all; he’s not merely winging it, he’s genuinely doing well. The boy can’t quite believe his eyes.

When he’d walked to the front with such an overexaggerated pep in his step, and an overabundance of bravado rolling off of him in waves—Megumi couldn’t help but watch on with a grim look, and a healthy dose of negative thoughts. It only amplified the nerves he’d collected so far during the walk to school. Somehow, watching Satoru give your flashcards a frantic do-over did very little to ease his bubbling anxiety.

There were many of them, flashcards that is. All possible questions his peers or his teacher could ever think of are written on those little pieces of cardboard. Courtesy of you, and your boyfriend. Megumi’s able to recall all those nights the two of you spend at the kitchen table—practising. He thought it was silly at the time.

But, as it turns out, it works.

Satoru is fun. To other people; Megumi doesn’t share the sentiment. Against all odds, he’s dynamic, and speaks with conviction. His flamboyant hand gestures have others think of them as amusing—captivating, even. Satoru is talking, and they’re all hanging onto his every word. No matter the fact that they’re all cleverly disguised lies.

Megumi can’t wrap his head around it. He doesn’t need to, however. If anything, he’s relieved that his peers think of his guardian as cool. While he certainly does not share the opinion, he isn’t too dense to admit that such a belief will save him a lot of embarrassment in the future. So, for this one, single day, he will let Satoru Gojo be cool. His snarky comments can resume tomorrow.

“Ah, it seems you have a deep love for your profession, Gojo-san,” his teacher says. She interrupts Satoru’s rant, and catches his attention as well as Megumi’s. Her voice is light and airy, and carries nothing that should cause him to fear the worst. Still, the boy feels on edge. “Though, I don’t remember the grade you are teaching. Could you tell us, again?”

Ah, and there it goes. The very first card in the elaborately built castle of lies.

Satoru pauses. A second passes, and then two, and three, and so on. He doesn’t speak for a good thirty, and Megumi can nearly see his mind leaf through his beloved flashcards—flashcards that are now neatly tucked into his pockets and entirely out of reach. That’s good. Because the absolute last thing Satoru should do now, is resort back to the flashcards.

Megumi shakes his head no as a signal.

“Ah,” Satoru says. “I teach kindergarten.”

Satoru didn’t catch the hint. Megumi wishes the ground would swallow him up. It would have been the correct answer—it is the answer that’s written on the flashcards—if Satoru hadn’t decided to go off route. Getting too caught up in the story he’d been free-writing, and allowing himself to get carried away by the looks of awe is resulting in his downfall, which, consecutively, will end with Megumi’s downfall, as well.

“Huh? But! What about the science experiment that exploded?” One of the children in his class whines. “I didn’t get to do that in kindergarten!”

“And the backflip you taught your students!”

“What about the first prize in the talent show? I thought your students were famous!”

The little bit of colour that normally resides in Satoru’s face steadily disappears, and he clenches his fist at his side. Ah, it’s great to know he’s at least aware of his mistake. That won’t help either of them at the moment, though. Megumi’s eyebrows furrow, and a feeling of distress overtakes him. It shows on his face. He doesn’t exactly go through the trouble of trying to hide it—there are bigger problems right now.

How utterly humiliating to be caught lying.

Satoru’s eyes find him. They’re just as troubled as his own. It worsens his anxiety.

“Oh, uhm, you see. . .” Satoru stammers, and Megumi’s stomach churns when the children around them continue to ask more and more questions. The wince his guardian lets out does little to soothe him. Megumi sighs, and looks at the ground. “Ah, I see. It seems you guys saw right through me.”

Megumi slides down in his seat. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, the ground would absorb him. It’s currently looking like a preferable fate.

“. . .I’m actually a detective.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“And. . .And for a detective, it’s very important to listen to what people say, because they could be lying!”

It’s a sad, pathetic excuse for a save. Megumi briefly ponders the distance between his seat and the door. Perhaps he could make a run for it. The subway station is very close by—getting on and travelling to an entirely new city to start a new life doesn’t seem like such a bad option. He sighs. No, that’s not possible. You and Tsumiki would be very worried. What else is there to do, though?

“You all picked up on my lie, which tells me every single one of you could make a great detective in the future.”

Megumi thinks Satoru might have some underlying mental problems. Though, they can’t possibly be as severe as the problems his classmates have—for they all believe the nonsense he’s giving them. Bright eyes, filled with hope and admiration, stare up at the man at the front of the class; impressed hums and entertained smiles get passed between the parents standing at the edge of the room. And Satoru, well, he seems entirely too proud of the fact that he made a bunch of children think they’re destined for a career in law enforcement. But, be that as it may, it works.

The children stir up unrest—the good kind this time, the kind that vocalises their excitement—and all rush to ask the detective a question. But, before they can even open their mouths, Satoru claps his hands together. It seems he has decided enough is enough, and it’s one of those very rare moments where Megumi agrees with him. The boy needs this to be over already.

“Alright, that’s it for today,” Satoru says, and feigns disappointment. He pretends to be affected by the sad groans of the children—keyword being pretend, as to the trained eye it’s quite clear that he wishes to leave. “I’m not allowed to tell you more.”

Ah, see, now that’s a good card.

“Wait, but, what about. . .”

“Ah, sorry, that’s confidential. Detective stuff, y’know?”

Confidential. Megumi thinks that might just be his new favourite word. The lingering feeling of anxiety slowly starts to subside with every step Satoru takes towards the back of the room—to the back, and away from the spotlight. His eyes follow the man’s large frame, but Satoru never chooses to look at him in return. His line of sight is firmly focused on the floor. It confuses Megumi, but he chalks it up to a mere whim.

All things considered (and minus the near cardiac arrest he went through), today went pretty well, after all. Much to his surprise.

Perhaps Megumi doesn’t hate Career Day. A strong dislike is more like it.

Megumi can’t count the times he wished for Satoru to be quiet. The exact number is much like the digits of Pi—huge, and absolutely never-ending. He can, however, count the times he didn’t wish for him to be quiet. As of today, that stands at a very solid one.

The birds around them chirp, and the bustle of other people is heard all around them—but they’re the only sounds gracing his ears. There is none of Satoru’s incessant chatter, nor is there even a glimmer of gloating about a job well-done. It’s eerily silent, and Megumi isn’t sure what to make of it. This isn’t quite how he imagined the walk home to go. Far from it, if he’s being honest.

“What’s up with you?”

It’s possibly the first time Megumi decides to break the silence, ever. The boy frowns, and fiddles with the straps of his backpack. There isn’t a middle-ground with Satoru, he has found out. Either he speaks entirely too much, or unnervingly little. There’s a tiny pebble in his path, and Megumi feels the need to kick it forward—so he does.

“I kind of messed up there, huh?”

The kick doesn’t have nearly enough force to it. Megumi watches as the little rock skips forward. Once, twice, and then it comes to a standstill again. “Yeah, kind of,” he agrees.

“I’m sorry,” Satoru rushes out. It’s said so fast, as if it physically pains him to say it. Perhaps it does. It’s sincere, however. There isn’t even a hint of a joke to be found. Something must be bothering him. “It didn’t go how I wanted it to go, and I don’t know why I went astray, and forgot about the cards. It—well, it was pretty stupid.”

Megumi doesn’t exactly feel the need to deny it.

“So, I get it, okay?” He continues, seeing the boy’s silence as an empty space for more conversation—more rambling. Since that’s what it is; rambles, plain and simple. Megumi doesn’t see the need for such a fuss. “I shouldn’t have strayed from the plan, and. . .”

“It’s fine.”

Satoru blinks at him. “What?”

“I said it’s fine,” Megumi repeats. Because it really is fine. Admittedly, it wasn’t smart of Satoru to all but discard your carefully planned presentation, but it ended well enough regardless. No harm, no foul. “Thank you for coming.”

That small, short sentence is enough to stop Satoru in his tracks. Megumi doesn’t, however. The man is very tall, he’s sure to catch up in a jiffy; he doesn’t need him to wait. There’s another small silence, though this one feels a lot more comfortable than the last. Satoru takes his time to process, and Megumi lets him.

“W—What?” The sorcerer stammers in shock. There is no need for Megumi to turn around and see—he can hear the smile curling onto his lips. “Did you just. . .”

“I won’t say it again,” Megumi grumbles definitively, and picks up his pace. The very tips of his ears heat up, and the apples of his cheeks turn red. The feeling of embarrassment. This wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned it to appear when the day started.

Satoru attempts to run after him, to catch up. “Megumi!” He calls out, the very prominent, very familiar whiney lilt now back in his voice. Megumi didn’t miss it. “Wait for me, I didn’t hear you! Could you repeat that?”

“Yes, you did!” Megumi says, and throws him an annoyed glance from over his shoulder. He tightens his hold on the straps of his backpack. “Stop lying.”

“Nuh uh!”

“What are you? Six?”

Satoru’s toothy grin is infuriating. But—it’s familiar. And Megumi discovers he’s much more at ease when that grin is on display, than when the man in question is moping around. It’s a lot less alarming.

“And a half,” Satoru adds.

The scowl that’s on Megumi’s face appears almost instantly when he goes to ruffle his hair. For a man whose technique largely surrounds being untouchable, he has a surprising lack of awareness concerning this thing called personal space.

“Ugh,” Megumi groans, and pushes him off. It doesn’t work. Satoru gravitates towards him again—almost as if he’s a magnet. He doesn’t attempt to move a second time. In moments like these, it’s best to let Satoru get it all out of his system. “You’re so stupid.”

It’s true. He does think Satoru is stupid, but he can’t deny it—Satoru tried his very best today, and in the days prior. Which makes him one of the very small, barely existent group of people who have done so for him.

It seems one shot was enough, after all.

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#ꕤ — sanatomis darling: fushiguro megumi #ꕤ — sanatomis darling: gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi x platonic!reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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merlucide · 20 days ago

Text

GIVING THEM A FLOWER CROWN!~ ♪

notes: aha… not my normal content! The alien stage brainrot has gotten to me and there is NOTHING for this fandom 😭

characters: Mizi, Sua, Till, Ivan, Luka, Hyuna

warnings: light curing, cringe but who gaf, not proofread

You carefully weaved the red flower stems together, fingers gently tugging on the petals to perfectly secure the crown. You examined your work, satisfied with the quality of your labor. You got up from the grassy shade you were sitting under and looked around for your s/o, whom you finally found in the cafeteria, sitting alone in a secluded corner munching on something to their liking.

Her eyes immediately brighten when seeing you hehe

She stands up from her spot and slams her hands onto the table

“Y/N! Guess what!! They’re letting me have sweets!! It’s just this once but still! Would you like some?”

To which you happily nod your head, letting her feed you a spoonful of strawberry shortcake.

“Isn’t it good? Ugh it’s amazing!” Mizi sighs happily, licking the frosting of her spoon.

“Everything all good though?”

You fiddle with the petals behind your back, slightly nervous.

“Well, I have something for you, close your eyes!”

Mizi goes ‘😲’ to ‘😊’

She patiently waits for you give present her with whatever it is

You place the delicate crown onto her awaiting soft hands.

She blinks open her eyes and a bright smile adorns her pretty lips

“I- For me?! Really?! Oh wow!! It’s so pretty!” She gasps excitedly, her index finger hovering over the red petals barely touching the soft skin.

“How did you know these were my favorites?!” Mizi asked eyes wide

“Heh, well you’ve mentioned it to probably anyone who would listen, and they are the only flowers that grow freely in here,” You giggle, which a soft blush coats her cheeks.

She whispers a soft “oh..!” 😮

You took the crown and place it on top of her pink hair

“So pretty, my princess,” you teased lovingly

She thinks something happened by the way you just speed past everyone straight to her lmao

“..Where you looking for me? Sorry, I should’ve told you where I was headed,” Sua softly said, wiping the corners of her mouth politely.

“Everything alright?”

To which you wave her off, saying simply ‘I just needed to see you,’ which makes her feel all mushy n’ loved ><

“Now! Close your eyes,” you playfully demand, which Sua obeys.

You take her hands and hold them out open for the crown

And then placed your creation in her palms

“Okay- open now!”

Sua blinks her eyes, surprised at the sudden gift, a soft smile settles on her lips

“It’s so very pretty, y/n, thank you,” Sua beams, placing it upon her head.

“How do I look?” She asks

You look BEAUTIFUL Sua 🥹

You smile back at her, “Stunning as ever! Red is such a pretty color on you Sua.”

She then places a soft kiss on your cheek.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to give you in return, I hope this will suffice for now,” Sua cheekily whispered.

“Yeah, that took a lot of my time and energy so I’m gonna need a few moreeeee 😏”

Currently gouging little sandwiches down his throat lmao

He was scarfing it down like a starved man probably was ☹️

You’re unsure if he hears you or is simply in sandwich heaven because he isn’t responding to you calling his name ‘Till, Till, Till, TILL?? TILL?!?”

“TILL?” You almost yelled, tapping him

His head frantically shot up and distraughtly began choking and coughing.

Which you’re freaking out bc you though you just killed him somehow

You aggressively pat his back, flower crown long forgot on the floor lmao

His coughing fit calms down, and a tear slips down his red face.

Just kill him now, he CANNOT look you in the eye after you just witnessed that

“Till?? Are-Are you okay?? Sorry- I didn’t mean to, scare you? Are you okay?” You awkwardly rub his back

“Fine.” He grunts out

He awkwardly clears his throat, fixing his gaze on the floor

“So um, didja uh, need anything..? Or something?”

“Oh yeah! Um, well I have you something, if that’s okay,”

Till blushed at the thought that you cared enough to give a gift to him

“Okay! Close you eyes!” You beamed

you bent down and picked up the crown.

He thought of every possible outcome it could be- his imagination likes the idea that the gift was a kiss >.<

Which has Till beet red, awaiting for a kiss that never came

“Alright- open your eyes!”

He peeled open his eyes, settling them on the flower headpiece you made

He was unsure what you had meant by this

Like?? You want me to wear it?

“What do you think? Hm?” You peered

“Y-you made this for me eh?” He awkwardly asked

You nodded as he took the crown from your hands and gave it a good look

“It’s very, ah, pretty..? Thank you y/n,” he gave a smile to you, putting the crown on the table

You softly frowned. “You’re not going to wear it?”

Oh Till wish he would have just shut his mouth-

“WHAAT? No!! Of course I am?! What the hell are you talking about!?” He scrambled to find something to say to make you happy again

Till aggressively put the crown on top of his head

“S-SEE?!” Till nervously yelled, causing a few heads to turn

You giggled at his reaction, oh he was so cute :3

“I’m glad you like it Till, mwah” you placed a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth

Till rn: 😳😦

Basically he’s broken yk

“Okay- I’m leaving now byeeeee!~” knowing what you just did left him a mess

“Out looking for me so soon?” He teased

“Oh hush would you,” you playfully snapped back, sitting beside him.

Ivan curiously leaned to see what you were hiding behind your back-

Which you leaned back further so he couldn’t heh

“Abababa!- No peeking, you’ll see soon enough,” you grin

Ivan dramatically sighs and sits back, waiting for what you’ll do next

You exhale “Alrighty, close you eyes,”

Which Ivan did as you told

After a few times of peeking his eye open to annoy you just a bit

You grabbed his hands and opened them flat, and then put down the crown upon them.

Ivan opened his eyes and made a ‘:o’ face

He moved the crown around, looking at all of the intricate braidings you did

“..It’s lovely, thank you y/n,” Ivan grinned

He installed it on top of his head, making sure it’s secure.

“Now, did you make this all special for me?” He coyly asked, already knowing the damn answer 🙄

You scoffed, you felt your face warming up at his teasing

“You’re so annoying..”

Ivan rn: :3

“Yes stupid, I made it just for you, because I love you. Happy with that answer?” You mocked lovingly.

Ivan was kinda caught off guard at your honest answer tbh

His face was dusted with a glowing crimson, and eyes slightly widened

“Mn, good,” he softly smiled “I love you too,”

He pressed a soft kiss to your hand and offered to make you a crown in return :)

(Luka + Hyuna’s parts doesn’t take place in Anakt Garden 🗣️)

He was aware of you nervously tip-toeing around him, and he was rather curious to what you’ve been hiding

“So, what is it hm? What is it you don’t you want me to see?”

And you were kinda like ?!

You thought you were being sneaky, huh

“Well ah, I’m not hiding anything-“ “Really?” “Nope,” “Then why are you so nervous, hm?” Luka continued to press

He was soo annoying like this, ugh

You sighed, leaving the room for a moment and returning with something behind your back

Luka’s brows raised expectantly

“I wasn’t sure if you’d like it so ah,” you fiddled with the crown nervously.

Luka could be very condescending and belittle your feelings, and just be a jerk yk

Which was a totally valid reason to be scared to give him a gift you made!

“It’s silly but um, here, I made this for you,” you said handing him the flower crown

Luka’s expression was unreadable, which kinda stressed you out more

Luka placed the crown on his head, “What do you think, hm?” He asked

“It’s rather suiting for the prince, don’t you think?” He mused, his purple fingers tucking a piece of your hair out of your face.

“My star, don’t be shy to spoil me with gifts, I won’t reject you y’know”

You all felt silly and embarrassed :> heh

“..mm right,”

“When did you even have time to make this?” He asked curiously

“Well, my ‘owner’ is less strict then yours,” you scoffed “I’ve been bringing good money n’ popularity with my photoshoots and other gigs . It apparently values ‘self expression’ , heh, so it let me wander a bit.”

Luka hummed in acknowledgement, continuing to play with you hair

“I’ll get you something pretty next time,”

She was like all stressed out because the gang was supposed to have already left the area and you weren’t anywhere to be seen

She’s looking around everywhere for you, and Aliens and androids are starting to figure out what was happening- a raid

Right before she’s about to go rouge and take the motorcycle

She sees you running towards her 🙏 Which she lets out the deepest sigh out ever

She takes your hands and drags you into the jeep

Dewey slams the gas and everyone speeds off, luckily without anyone being caught

Nooow… as for what happens when you guys get back at base

She so pissed LMAOO

I mean she has every right to be upset, you done fked up dawg 🧍‍♀️

She scolding you for going off the plan and wandering off- especially during a raid!!

“What the hell were you thinkin’ huh?! What if they caught you? You wanna be forced back into that life?! Hyuna yelled, gripping onto your shoulders

You could only try to defend why you did it, but it would only fall to deaf ears

You knew she was right, and what you did was stupid- but you haven’t seen those kinds of flowers in what seemed like forever!

They were like a strange comfort, an odd memory of ‘home’

You also could see how overwhelmed Hyuna was by everything recently, the main plan was getting ready to be in motion

You thought you could give her the flowers, hopefully brightening her mood somehow.

“I really am sorry Hyuna, I just had to get it!” “Get what? Get what hah?” Hyuna pressed

You sighed and pulled out the squished flower crown from your bag

Hyuna’s eyes slightly widened as she watched you

“I found them, the flowers from the garden,” You paused. “‘Made it for you, Hyuna,”

She paused, slowly taking the crown and touching the petals,

He shook her head softly.

“You’re ridiculous you know that,” she scoffs, her lips curling into a soft grin

“Unbelievable, really, no sane person literally risks their life for flowers, babes,”

You smile “Heh, I don’t think anyone here is sane,”

She leaned forward to place a lingering kiss onto your forehead

“I really am sorry yun’,” You whispered

“It’s done now, please don’t do that again though. I can’t do this without you y/n,” She smiled at you

“I don’t think I’ve seen these since we left? I didn’t even know they grew out here!” Hyuna laughed

erm sorry for the cringe .. 🧍‍♀️ also sorry for the shortness of Mizi’s + Sua’s 😭 I had a brainfart w/ them

Made Nov 6th 2024

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pickingupmymercedes · 2 months ago

Text

Grovel - Lewis Hamilton

Part of 1K Jukebox Event

song: Grovel - April Jai - anon

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

genre: angst bc i wanted to feel something

wordcount: +1k

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Y/n watched from the mirror as Lewis paced across the room. He’d been like this for weeks now—tense, irritable, and locked in his own head.

She’d tried to be patient, she really had, but there was only so much silence she could take, especially when he was taking his frustration out on her with those sharp, thoughtless remarks.

Two nights prior though, they had reached a breaking point.

Dinner had been quiet until she’d asked how his day went, and his response was sharp, cutting like glass.

“Why do we always have to talk about my day?” he snapped, his tone brittle. He pushed back from the table, scraping his chair loudly against the floor, and stormed out of the room without another word.

Y/n sat frozen, her grip tightening around her fork. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to follow him, not to demand an explanation like she usually did.

Instead, she decided to give him the space he apparently needed so badly. Maybe he’d realize that space wasn’t what he wanted after all. And if he did, it would be on him to come back to her this time.

She cleared the dinner plates herself, the clattering of cutlery against porcelain echoing in the empty kitchen. The silence in the house had a weight to it, pressing down on her shoulders, wrapping around her like a blanket she couldn’t shake off. Even the hum of the fridge felt louder in the quiet.

This time though, she refused to be the one to chase after him, to coax out what he wouldn’t willingly share.

And for the next few days, their home was a quiet battlefield.

Lewis had retreated further into himself, throwing himself into training, music, meetings, and avoiding anything beyond the most surface-level conversations. Y/n kept herself busy, focusing on work and spending time with friends, leaving him to his own devices.

They shared a bed, but even that felt distant, like he was miles away despite lying right next to her.

Every time he tried to casually engage her, she gave him curt, polite responses, maintaining her distance—emotionally and physically.

It was like there was an invisible line between them, one she refused to cross. And he seemed to notice, too. She caught the way his eyes lingered on her, as if he were trying to figure out what had changed. But he didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer.

She’d asked herself a hundred times over the last few days if she was being too hard on him, if she should just reach out first. But every time, she thought back to the way his words had cut into her, sharp and careless, and reminded herself that he needed to understand what that silence felt like.

It was his turn to come to her.

On the third night of silence, their last one before he flew for a triple header, he finally broke. They were getting ready for bed, the quiet between them thick enough to choke on, when he turned to her, confusion and frustration etched across his face. “Y/n, what’s going on with you?”

She paused in front of the mirror, her reflection staring back at her, tired and worn from the days of carrying this tension. She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I could ask you the same thing, Lewis.” Her tone biting.

This wasn’t the first time they’d had a fight like this, but each time it happened, it chipped away at her patience a little more. It was like he thought he could just bury his feelings, shove them into a corner of his mind until they disappeared.

But they never did; they festered until he couldn’t hold them in anymore, and she’d end up bearing the brunt of it. And she was done being his emotional punching bag.

He needed to understand that his silence had consequences, that she couldn’t be the only one trying to bridge the gap between them. She’d tried to be understanding of the pressure he was under, but enough was enough.

“You just gonna ignore me, then?” His voice was defensive, but she caught the flicker of uncertainty beneath it.

She looked up, keeping her focus on his gaze, almost daring him to repeat himself. “You’re the one who walked out.”

His jaw clenched, and she could see him fighting with himself, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the right words. “I needed space,” he said finally, the frustration still evident in his voice.

Y/n let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Because clearly, that’s what’s been helping you so much lately.”

His frown deepened, confusion mingling with irritation in his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shifted on her balance, and for the first time, she let her anger spill out. “It means that you’ve been shutting me out for weeks, Lewis. You snap at me, you avoid talking, and then you think you can just come back like nothing happened and expect me to be okay with it. But I’m not. I’m tired of you treating me like I’m some stranger who doesn’t get to know what’s going on in your head.”

He blinked, taken aback by the sudden force of her words. “It’s not like that. I’m just dealing with a lot right now—”

“Oh, I know you’re dealing with a lot,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “But I’m your partner, not some sounding board for when you decide you’re ready to explode. Do you have any idea how it feels to watch you struggle and not be able to do anything because you won’t let me in? To have you snap at me over the smallest things when I know they’re not the real problem?”

He shifted on his feet, running a hand over his face as he let out a sigh. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just—everything’s so messed up right now. The car, the pressure… I can’t even think straight.”

“And you think I don’t get that?” she shot back, the hurt in her voice cutting through the air. “I’ve been here, right next to you, watching you try to handle it all alone. But you act like talking to me is some kind of burden, like I wouldn’t understand. You keep everything to yourself until you can’t anymore, and then you take it out on me. It’s not fair on us. It’s not fair on me.”

His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, she saw a crack in the armor he always wore. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said quietly, his voice sounding almost defeated. “I’ve always been the one to just deal with things on my own. I’m not good at… at letting people in.”

Y/n took a deep breath, trying to rein in the wave of emotions washing over her. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, or to have all the answers. I’m asking you to trust me enough to try. To stop treating me like I’m on the outside looking in.”

He moved closer to the mirror, sitting down on the edge of the bed end bench, though he kept his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’m not used to this—to having someone who actually wants to know.”

She softened a fraction, but the hurt was still too fresh to let go of completely. “Well, get used to it, because that’s what being in a relationship means. You don’t get to just disappear into your own head whenever things get tough.”

He reached out, tentatively touching her hips, and she felt the roughness of his fingers against hers. For a moment, she almost pulled away, but she forced herself to hold still, to let him make the move. “I know I messed up,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to push you away. I just… I don’t want you to see how messed up I feel sometimes.”

Y/n closed her eyes, the weight of his words settling heavily in her chest. “You think I don’t know that already? I see it, Lewis. I see how you’re struggling. And I don’t care if you’re ‘messed up’ or not—I just want to be there for you. But I can’t do that if you keep shutting me out.”

He exhaled slowly, and she could hear the vulnerability in the way his breath hitched. “I’m scared of letting you see all the parts of me that aren’t so put together. And I can’t lose you because of that.”

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze head-on. “I’m scared too. I’m scared that one day you’ll get so used to being alone in your head that you’ll forget I’m even here. And that I’ll keep waiting for you to open up until there’s nothing left to wait for.”

He swallowed hard, and she could see the emotion flashing in his eyes, the way he fought to hold it back.

She sighed, her anger ebbing away, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. “Just... trust me, Lewis. Even if it’s messy, even if it doesn’t come out right. I’d rather know the ugly truth than be kept in the dark.”

He nodded, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Okay” he said softly.

She stepped forward, allowing him to hold her by the waist, his head resting on her stomach as she ran her a hand on his shoulders “I love you, Lewis, but I won’t be the person you turn to only when you’re ready to talk. You and I deserve better than this.”

She could feel the steady beat of his heart on her lower stomach, and for the first time in weeks, she felt like she wasn’t fighting alone.

“Thank you” he whispered against her shirt, the words barely audible, but she heard them, and they brought a small, tentative smile to her lips.

“Just don’t make me fight you on this again” she murmured, a trace of her earlier fire returning to her voice. “Or I’ll be the one who walks out.”

He chuckled softly unwrapping from her and reaching for her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist. “I’m sorry, for everything.” She pulled back enough to look at him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity, but all she saw was the man she loved—imperfect, stubborn, but trying. “I know” she said, her voice softening. “I’m here, okay? But you have to let me stay.”

______________________________________________________________

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upsidedownwithsteve · 9 months ago

Text

A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [5.9K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh no, you know you know I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dying, For someone I could die for, someone I could try for Fall apart and cry for, go 'head, risk my life for."

-Someone I Could Die For by Lewis Capaldi

II. ROME, ITALY: 49 BC

The roar that came from the bowels of the Colosseum never became easier to hear.

The noise seemed to make the city shake, the streets empty, the market stalls abandoned in favour of bloodshed. The games took place in the summer, when the skies were an endless blue and there were no clouds to tamper down the climbing heat. The sun bore down on the sandy pit of the enormous Amphitheatre and the seats were filled, the doors that had already been closed still surrounded by regretful stragglers who were forced to listen to the chaos from outside of the walls.

Fourteen men had died already, three from the jaws of the lions, two from the bears and eleven from the swords of other imprisoned slaves. The cheering from the crowd made your stomach curl. The floor of the stage was covered in red, the sand streaked with spilled blood and the animals that were bullied back into their cages had their jaws tinted pink.

It wasn’t a joyous occasion, no matter how many people celebrated in the name of their emperor. The leader of Rome was sitting mere seats away from you, dressed in ruby robes that were slung like a cloak over his white toga and his laurel crown glinted with golden beads that sat tucked into the olive wreaths. He was drunk on wine and violence, and your father sat next to him in the royal box, ever eager to please as he clinked his chalice against his kings.

Being the daughter of Rome’s most beloved senator certainly had its positives. You were dressed just as finely as the royalty around you, the fabric that was made to fit your frame swept to the floor and only yesterday, the emperor’s cousin had gifted you a necklace made of the finest gold, inset with glittering emeralds, pretty enough for a princess.

The same cousin smiled at you from across the row, each seat in the royal box made from plush velvet, the high backs ornate and cushioned, unlike the stone carved benches the rest of the civilians were sitting on. You smile back, uneasy but polite, and your father nodded approvingly.

You were expected to marry, you knew that much. You were already considered too old to be unwed and you knew the rest of the court whispered about how you would now struggle to bear a child. But the man that was expected to be your husband wasn’t who you loved. He wasn’t unkind, he wasn’t cruel - not like you’d heard men could be. The girls in the kitchen would tell you stories of how their husband made demands. Shouting each night for their meals, their baths, how their shirts weren’t stitched right, how their beds would lay cold because their wives were too tired.

Some men visited the bath houses, you knew that much. Seeking out a lupa for the night, the ladies that were called she-wolves, with their painted lips and robes that showed so much skin. Some men decided that they didn’t need to listen to their wives at all, you were once told, horror etched on your face. Some men took what they thought they owned.

So no, the emperor’s cousin seemed kind enough. But you weren’t in love with him. You weren’t sure who you were in love with. A dream, perhaps. One that kept returning to you from a young, young age. A dream about a different town, one you’d never been to before. But in your sleep, it felt like home. White buildings and green gardens with tall, tall trees and pretty, ornate gazebos made of stone on the edges of shallow ponds. You were by the sea there, a blue-green ocean that seemed so calm.

Sometimes monsters came, the marble statues that guarded the city came to life and turned your dream into a nightmare. There was always fire and fury, storm clouds and too big waves and a man with skin the colour of death would try and take your hand. But even when the dream turned bad, there was always someone else.

A man, with a blurry face and a mess of almost too long hair. It hid his eyes from you and you could never make out too many details but you burned when you looked at him, you could weep when he touched you. Sometimes he led you through the burning town, his hand clasping your own as you both tried to run and run and run.

Other times, you lay in a bed with him, skin bare and your head on his chest as he murmured the sweetest poetry to you, words that made your heart race. Your dream was encased in white linen sheets, a hazy, soft light that always made it look like early morning and when the man’s lips met yours, you always woke up.

Him. You loved him.

You hadn’t been in love before, but whenever you dreamed of the stranger, you were sure that must have been what love felt like.

“Have some grapes, darling,” your thoughts were interrupted by your father as he thrust a plate of fruit and cheese under your nose.

But the fifteenth gladiator was being dragged through the gates by the armpits, a clawed hammer still sticking out from his chest and your insides turned over at the idea of eating such sweet treats as blood poured from the men in front of you. The emperor’s box was almost nauseatingly close to the fights.

You shook your head before you remembered your manners, smiling politely and murmuring, “I’m quite alright, thank you.” You blew out a breath, shaky and faint.

From your other side, one of the young girls who had been gifted to you on your sixteenth birthday waved a giant fan. A large peacock feather, a huge plume of colours that merely wafted the too warm air back and forth but you smiled your thanks at your lady in waiting, a pretty girl who’d turned into a prettier young woman. She was small and lithe, angular in the face with curls that came to her sharp jawbone and she smiled back.

Nancy, as she’d introduced herself to you a week after she’d arrived at your fathers house, from the Wheeler family of Liguria. She didn’t like the gladiator fights anymore than you did, always murmuring about the rights of the animals and how inhumane it was later in the night as she drew you your bath.

“—from Verona,” your father was saying with a mouth full of provolone. “One of their best, so they say, His Majesty simply had to have him.”

You blinked, frowning in confusion at your fathers words. You hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest and nothing you’d caught made any sense. “Sorry?” You grimaced apologetically and took a few pomegranate seeds from the plate of food in apology for your rudeness. “Who is from Verona?”

Your father rolled his eyes, a sure sign that you’d be lectured in his study later for your lack of respect. “The next gladiator, child.” He gestured to the stage where the soldiers were locking the gates to the tigers, each big cat growling with menace when the men came too close to the bars. “They say he’s unbeatable. Our Highness offered a more than generous helping of coin for his papers but Verona’s general didn’t seem to want to part with him.”

You frowned again. The crowd seemed to be aware of this man and his presence, murmuring and shifting in their seats in anticipation. “If that is the case,” you prodded. “Then how is he here? If the gladiators… owner—” the word left a terribly bitter taste in your mouth and you felt heavy with guilt when Nancy’s fan brushed your shoulder. “If his owner didn’t want to sell him?”

Your father snorted, an unattractive sound that made Nancy wince beside you. “No one tells the emperor of Rome ‘no’, dearest.” Your father shrugged. “The gladiator cannot be owned, if his owner is dead.”

Bloodshed. Always bloodshed.

A man came from the east side gates with chains around his ankles and wrists. You couldn’t quite see him for your seat, not yet, but the crowd above and around you roared, eager for the final fight to begin. The man already looked beaten and tired as soldiers stepped forward to unlock his manacles and you sat forward in your seat for the first time since you entered the Colosseum that day.

He had messy hair, dark brown and hanging just past his chin. It was already damp looking, matted and dirty from being kept god knows where as the emperor's new toy. He was shirtless, his body lean but corded with muscle. He had wide shoulders and a lithe waist, powerful thighs and skin that was tanned from the sun, a sure sign he spent too much time outside, training hard in the Italian heat.

As he moved closer to the middle of the stage, you saw the marks on his body, leftover scars and new slices in his flesh that still looked viciously red. The crowd got louder as a sword was thrown at his feet, a large, heavy looking thing with a bronze handle. Some cheered for the new warrior, hoping for some excitement, while others jeered and booed, already too attached to their darling reigning champion.

The gladiator picked up his sword and the crowd became wilder still, but he gave them no mind. He didn’t put on a show like some of the others, he didn’t flex his muscles or raise his weapon like it was already a prize. His leather loincloth was a deep wine colour, the tan leather pleats looking far from newly made and the material was already streaked with blood and dirt before his first opponent arrived.

Your heart felt heavy for him, as it did for all the others who were forced into the Colosseum - prisoners, slaves and animals alike. You watched the gladiator flex his wrist, testing the weight of his weapon just as the gates in the west cranked open.

Rome’s current champion strode out from the shadows and into the bright sun, his bare chest glinting with sweat and Hargrove held his hands aloft, grinning as the crowds went insane. He beat his chest, his long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and when he was handed his own sword, he wasted no time in running towards the new fighter, the steel blade glinting.

You gasped, moving closer still to the edge of your seat and you couldn’t find it in you to bear much mind to the looks your father and Nancy shot you. It wasn’t like you to take such an interest in the sport, never mind be so heavily invested. You didn’t like to watch the wounded, preferring to close your eyes when the screams began, hiding cowardly behind Nancy’s fan when the blood turned the sandy stage pink and red.

But this new gladiator, he was fast.

He dove at the last second, dodging the tip of Hargrove’s blade and he rolled towards the section where you sat. Dust kicked up from the move, his sword tearing into the wreaths and sashes that hung from the Emperor’s box. You grasped the edge of the wooden frame, peering over the side and down to the stage, hoping to not see blood already.

Instead you found the gladiator looking back up at you, his sword still in his grasp and when his eyes met yours, they widened. Something like recognition hurtled through you, a feeling that sucked the breath from your lungs and you felt dizzy, like lightning itself had struck you from the sky. You thought the man perhaps felt the same, a frown on his face telling you that he felt just as confused as you did.

But before you could consider where on earth you could have possibly seen his face before, Hargrove attacked again, bringing his blade down to where the gladiator's shoulder should have been, if he hadn’t rolled once again.

You were on your feet now, the stares of your father be damned. Your eyes were wide, your heart beating far too fast, like you yourself were on the stage, being hunted for sport. Wood splintered into the space under your nails as you watched the man run, his muscles pumping, his eyes narrowed.

“Darling, are you quite alright?” Your father placed a hand on your arm, more confused than concerned.

“Yes, I just— yes.” You cleared your throat and sat down again, albeit back to the edge of your chair. You could feel the rest of the royal party staring at you. “Where did you say the man was brought from? The new gladiator?”

“Harrington?” One of the Emperor’s councilmen interjected. He pointed a pudgy finger at the brown haired gladiator, who was now swinging his sword with as much power as Hargrove. “Steven Harrington of Verona, best of his breed I heard. His general didn’t take too kindly to the King’s offering and well— you know what happens when his Highness is made to feel upset.”

The metallic clink of the swords filled the arena as everyone held their breaths. Not many had lasted this long against Hargrove before.

“Rumour has it that he didn’t take too kindly to his general being beheaded. Took six men to get him into the back of the cart, even more to make him train. He’s been refusing food all week.”

The idea of it made you feel unwell, a sickly, creeping kind of pain curling around each of your ribs and suddenly you were starving, just as much as you were sure the man would be. But still, I didn’t seem to make him move any slower, it didn’t hinder him in bringing his sword down any harder.

But strangely, every time the new gladiator was struck, every time his knees hit the raw sand, every time he got close enough for you to see him suck in a gasping breath— you felt it too.

It was a battle like you’d never seen before, more vicious than the others from that day, a showdown under the blazing heat of the high sun. No tiger seemed as powerful as Steven Harrington of Verona did. There was something animalistic in the way he moved, all power and lean muscle, a steely glint in his brown eyes that you didn’t dare look away from. He moved too quickly for Hargrove’s blade, dodging and diving as he flung up sand, blinding his opponent and slicing at his legs. Each move was a blur, the stage bleeding with fresh red, the blonde gladiator on his knees.

But Hargrove was ruthless, grappling with the newcomer until they were both wrestling in the dust cloud and the crowd went insane, people chanted and stomped their feet, the amphitheatre shaking down to its very bones. The imperial box quaked with the energy, but truly, you weren’t present enough to feel it.

Your eyes never left Steven’s fighting figure.

The swords seemed to be forgotten, the steel blades rusted with blood, both fresh and new, and they lay in the sand. Fists flew, knees pressed to chests to keep the other down and it was brutal, it was harsh, it was deadly.

You wanted to vomit. You feared you might.

You wondered what would happen if you leapt from your chair, if you let your skirts get torn and bloodied in the mess of the stage, if you threw yourself down onto the sand and begged for Hargrove to take his hands away from the new gladiator's throat.

Would you be punished? Beaten? Locked away? Killed?

You weren’t sure but somehow, all the options felt worth it. You couldn’t watch this man die before you. Not when it felt like you’d already witnessed his death before.

But Steven wrestled himself out of Hargrove’s hold, twisting and tumbling whilst he gasped, one hand clutching at his reddened neck and the other grappling for his blade. He swung it through the air, arching wide, his wounded shoulder ripping with effort it took but the sword landed where the warrior intended it to.

Silence settled over the colosseum, the air still enough for you to hear the surviving champion heave out gasping, heavy breaths. There was blood on his hands, his chest, his face.

His right eye was already bruising, red and lilac coming to the surface of his skin like fresh blooms in spring. His shoulder was a mess, his right leg causing him to buckle slightly as he rose to his feet.

The man turned, jaw slack, his sword falling limply to the ground once more, his opponent still and at his feet. His eyes found yours and time stilled, at least, to you. The crowd erupted, an explosion in its own right, the entirety of Rome cheering for their new champion.

A man you were sure you already loved.

By the time the fight had ended, you felt beaten and bruised. There were no marks on your skin, no blood seeping through your gown, but something inside of you hurt all the same. It felt like something was clawing at your heart, a memory that was banging on the front of your skull, screaming at you to remember.

When the guards dragged the gladiator from Hargrove’s limp figure, he dropped his sword to the sand and spat a mouthful of blood towards the ground at the royal pit. The Emperor merely chuckled as others around you gasped and before you could even hear your fathers protests, you were on your feet.

Steven Harrington was shackled once more, the metal chains clinking around his hands and feet. And as he was led away back into the arches, the gears of gates making an awful protesting noise, his eyes found yours once more.

A burning gaze, too intense to look away from and you could’ve sworn on the gods, on the stars above, that something inside of you tugged sharply. Like the pull of a string, tied in a bow between your ribcage, urging you forward.

Telling you to go.

So you did.

You gathered your skirts in your hands and made your way to the exit of the box, too focused to hear your fathers objections until the guards at the doorway halted you with their spears. The wooden stalks crossed themselves over your chest and you froze, the string tied to your heart pulling tighter and tighter and tighter—

The Emperor was staring at you, with cold eyes and a smile that wasn’t really a smile. He spoke to your father, not you. “Where, my dear senator, is your lovely daughter running off to?” The king turned back to you, brows raised. “Doesn’t she know that more wine will be served soon? My cousin is looking forward to her company.”

Your father stared at you, a stricken expression on his aged face because everyone in the royal box could read between the lines of the Emperor.

You cleared your throat, eyes still trained on the sharp metal points of the spears that were very much in your face. “Forgive me, father - your highness - I was merely hoping to get some fresh air.”

“The sight of all that blood makes her rather delicate,” your father agreed and the crowd of councilmen, generals and their wives tittered in their jewels. “She isn’t one for conflict.”

The Emperor stared at the side of your face, something you could feel despite bowing your head in his presence. You stared at the floor and waited, heart racing.

The royal tsked. “What a pity,” he declared but he waved a hand, each finger heavy with golden rings, and his soldiers stepped aside. “Be back in time for the parade, child, you have company to entertain.”

The Emperor’s cousin leered at you, his wine glass empty, his lips stained ruby but none of it mattered right now, not when you were taking off once more, skirts dragging across the dust and sand, your chest heaving as you tried to navigate your way through the crowd that was already dispersing.

More guards, heavily armoured and with their swords drawn, were too preoccupied with a fight that had broken out between the arches, two lower class men arguing over a coin they found on the ground. Taking your chance, you moved with your head down, your face hidden as you slipped through a door that was normally carefully watched.

The heavy wood slammed shut behind you, the sunlight swallowed whole. Burning torches lit the narrow corridor, a maze of them leading you underneath the Colosseum. The hypogeum was almost damp as you tried to navigate its many walkways, a gasp leaving your throat as you took a wrong turn and ended up face to face with the iron bars that separated you from the animals.

A huge tiger growled at you, bloodied teeth bared in a snarl, the stench of raw meat and faeces hanging in the cool air. You backed away, eyes flickering from cage to cage, each one filled with another poor creature. Lions, bears, a rhinoceros and its offspring, and beyond them, an even larger cell holding prisoners. They all stared at you, men and animals alike, but nothing was spoken.

You backed away, unable to breath, turning on your heel and walking quickly enough to spot the familiar grey robes of the healers used after the battles. You followed, your steps light, and watched him enter a small room. Between the door opening and closing, you spotted the gladiator perched on a wooden table, his head bent low and his face hidden behind his damp hair.

You weren’t sure what possessed you, but before you barged into the room too, both men staring at you from the table where the healer held a ragged cloth to the gladiator’s shoulder.

“Miss, you have no need here,” the healer announced, his voice strict and cold. He narrowed his eyes as he gestured to the door. “This is no place for—”

“My father sent me.” It was a lie, of course. A bold and bare faced one at that. But you stood a little taller and lifted your chin, the emerald necklace at your throat shining in the low light that came from the small fireplace in the corner. “The senate has questions I’ve been asked to deliver. I shall not leave without the appropriate answers.”

On the mantle, beside bottles of acids and other medicinal vials, sat a small statue of the goddess Veratis. Her marble eyes seemed to judge you and your lies and you swallowed down the bitter taste it left on your tongue. But looking at the man - this stranger from Verona - the need to speak to him, to be alone with him, was overwhelming you to the point of senselessness.

The trouble you could be in if you were to be caught in your lie… or worse, down in the hypogeum. This was no place for a woman of your standing, never mind to be alone with a gladiator, both of you unspoken for. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“If we may have some time alone?” You added with more authority than you should have held. “Unless you’d prefer that my father leave the Emperor’s side to ensure his orders are fulfilled?”

The healer sighed but placed down his tools. He flashed you a smile that was all crooked teeth, more bite than kindness, but he made his way to the door. “That won’t be necessary, My Lady,” he told you and he left, closing the wooden door behind him.

The silence was a deafening thing. The crackle of the fire was still there, the distant roar of some poor, wounded animal, but whatever was held between the two of you took on a life of its own. It seemed to suck the rest of the world into it until there was nothing left but you and this man. He was staring at you still, brown eyes wide and so familiar, looking as confused as you felt as you stared right back.

It felt too easy to take a step forward, but the warrior flinched. Your next was slower, softer, more cautious. Your hand found the rag that the healer had once held, what little water it had been soaked in was cold, the material harsh. It didn’t take you long to find a new cloth in one of the drawers of the apothecary table and you took your time to warm some fresh water over the hearth.

Honestly, you didn’t know too much about medicine, only the basics that your father’s head servant had taught you as a young child. You found the small bottle of alcohol with ease, plucking it from the shelf and adding it to the warm water before soaking the new rag.

You held it up in offering to the man, still far enough from you that his dirty hair hid most of his face. His tanned chest was streaked with sweat and dust, marred with old cuts and fresher wounds from Hargrove’s weapon, but for the most part, he seemed okay.

“Can I?”

The gladiator lifted his head then, his hair falling away from his cheeks and you took in a sharp breath at the sight of his face. He was handsome, painstakingly so, but over and above all else, he was someone you were sure you knew.

The man nodded, just once, lips pressed together and as you came closer, his nostrils flared and his large hands gripped the edge of the table. His eyes raced across your features, recognition coming to the surface and before he could ask the questions that were clawing at his throat, you lifted the cloth and pressed it to the cut on his shoulder.

He hissed, teeth bared and you frowned, hushing him softly, apologies murmured just as quiet. “I’m sorry,” you told him and gods, he knew you meant it. “I need the alcohol to soak the wound.”

Your heart stuttered when he let you, shoulders tight and back ramrod straight, but his eyes were on your face the entire time you worked. “You’re not a healer,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

His voice rung through you, a deep timber that was hoarse and scratchy, no doubt from refusing to speak since his capture. You hoped he’d been drinking enough water.

You shook your head as you pulled away, dipping the bloodied cloth back into the bucket. “No, I’m not,” you confirmed.

Another swipe at his skin had him jerking in response but the blood and dirt was finally clear of the cut. It would need stitches, you were almost sure of it, but your skills started and finished at the basics.

“Then why are you here?” The gladiator’s eyes were trained on your necklace, a sure fire way to recognise nobility and you were overcome with the urge to rip it from your throat. “Why did you follow me?” He spoke like he already knew the answer.

You were hesitant about it, but you couldn’t stop your hand from lifting to his neck, fingertips brushing two beauty marks on his skin. They felt electric under your touch and you were impossibly warmer now, despite the old cell lacking the heat from the summer above.

“I feel like I know you,” you whispered. Your voice cracked with an emotion you didn’t quite know the name of. “I feel like I’ve mourned you.”

The gladiator looked back at you from behind his damp hair, the long strands matted with his and his enemies blood. He didn’t look as concerned as he should have been at your strange words. In fact, he leaned into your touch, lashes fluttering at the sensation.

“What an odd thing to say to someone who hasn’t died,” he answered quietly. But his gaze roamed over your features and something about being so close to him felt cosmic, it felt like a catastrophe waiting to happen. “I think I’ve met you before,” the gladiator whispered. He sounded reverent now, his own hand shaking as he brought it to your face.

He cupped your jaw, your chin, his rough fingertips trailing over your soft skin and when his thumb dragged across your bottom lip, you gasped and pressed closer.

“I think I meet you when I sleep,” he said and he frowned at his own words, at how confusing he must’ve sounded. “Every night, when I close my eyes. You’re in a garden and then you’re in my arms.”

Flashes of a bed came to mind, white linen sheets and too much bare skin. A man’s chest, tanned and muscled from hard labour, your hands that roamed the expanse of his back. You remembered how he kissed you in your dreams, with a longing so intense it could waken the gods.

Like he had enough love for you that he could end the world.

You could only nod. His thumb was still pushed to your bottom lip, your mouth parted as if you were waiting and his stare was so intense you felt warmer than you had in the stadium above.

Who was this stranger?

And why did it feel like something inside of you was being stitched back together by the sheer sight of him? His touch felt healing, it felt like home. Like it was only made for you to feel. Like he was made only for you.

Above, something boomed. Loud enough to be heard underneath the hypogeum, over the roars of the unsettled animals. If you had been outside, you would’ve witnessed the blue sky turning grey, shades of moody lavender and navy, storm clouds rolling across Rome from seemingly nowhere.

Thunder rumbled, threatening noise, something that made you and the man move closer to each other, like you both knew you were in danger.

That you knew something bad was coming.

“I don’t understand,” you said, eyes blurring. You weren’t sure why you were crying but Steve didn’t seem to question it. He merely swiped away the tears that slipped down your cheeks. “You’re a stranger— we’ve never— we’ve never met.”

Despite your words, the gladiator moved closer, standing from his seat on the wooden table to lean his forehead against your own. Your eyes slipped closed, nose bumping his. He smelled like metal, like blood and dirt and sweat but underneath there was something like fire there, like molten iron, like lavender fields and fresh cotton. Like a daydream, like something you weren’t sure was real.

His bottom lip touched your top one, only just, only barely. A whisper of a kiss, a small insight of something that could’ve been, of something that maybe once was.

Thunder rolled again, louder than before, as if it was right above you both. Even over the din of the crowds above, you could hear the heavy patter of rain that was now flooding the colosseum, the stage soaked. Another warning, something you’d seen before in a dream just before it turned to a nightmare.

“I was meant to find you,” Steve murmured. He had your face cradled in his hands, an overwhelmingly gentle touch despite the dried blood under his fingernails. His voice grew in urgency then, like he knew something was coming. Someone. “I was meant to come here. I can feel it. I understand now.”

“Someone once told me you’d come back,” you suddenly remembered, your voice eager, your eyes wide at the memory. “I don’t know— was it you? From before? From—”

From another life, you wanted to say.

How ridiculous those words were, how silly, how stupid. But there wasn’t any other way to explain. Logic didn’t seem to exist when everything you felt from this touch of this stranger led you to believe that somehow, someway, you’d spend a lifetime together.

Like you were supposed to spend this one with him too. And it didn’t seem long enough, decades wouldn’t make up for the time you’d lost searching for him, for this stranger who only came to you in your sleep. But he was very real now, solid flesh and bone underneath your own hands, brown eyes that seemed warmer than the Italian summer.

You didn’t want to let him go.

“In here, my King,” a voice interrupted. The door was open and the healer had returned, a cold look on his already stern face. The Emperor was behind him, ruby robes collecting dirt from the old floor. Four soldiers flanked him. “I have every reason to believe the Lady sold me lies, Your Highness.”

It happened too quick. Too fast.

The Emperor studied you, Steve’s hands still on your face as you stood too close, ready to kiss, ready to fulfil something neither of you were sure of. It felt catalytic.

“Seize him,” was all the Emperor said, one lazy flick of his wrist sending all four guards at you both.

There was too much movement in the tiny room, bottles of medicinal wares clattering to the ground and smashing at your feet. The table groaned as Steve was shoved into it, his own reactions too slow from his injuries. He grunted and reached for you too late, his hand slipping from your own, fingers barely touching, as he was shoved at from either side.

One soldier shoved the butt of his sword into Steve’s wounded soldier, the other bringing his armoured knee into his bare stomach. The gladiator doubled over, a gasp leaving his chest before he fell to his knees on the stone floor.

“Stop this!” You yelled, urging forward, trying your best to throw yourself into the mix of it all but someone’s arms - another soldier - caught your round the middle. “Unhand him! Your Highness - please - he hasn’t done any wrong, please—”

The Emperor just looked at you blankly before he picked at the jewels around your neck. He tutted, as if it were a shame, a waste. You could hear the shackles being placed back on the man, the low groan he gave as the metal was tightened around his sore wrists.

“He won,” you whispered, your voice low and choked. You were ready to beg. “Please, he won. He doesn’t deserve this—”

“I don’t like anyone else playing with my toys,” the Emperor interrupted. He said it like he was discussing what to have for lunch. “And my dear cousin doesn’t like anyone playing with his.” He motioned to the guards once more. “Take her back to her seat, where you make sure she stays. This isn’t any place for a Lady,” he told you mournfully.

You didn’t get to see what happened to the gladiator as you were escorted out of the room. But you did hear his yells when the door slammed shut, the dull thuds of impact that you were sure were on his already bruised and broken body. You hadn’t even told him your name, or that you dreamt of him too. That during your worst night terrors, he was the one that saved you.

When you reached the imperial box once more, your skirts dirtied from the sand, your face tear stricken, you felt broken. Like you’d been snapped in half, like someone had found that wound Steve had stitched up and pulled it apart again the seams. Like someone had ripped something important from you, half of your heart, perhaps.

You didn’t even notice that it had stopped raining. The skies were blue once more, the sun shining, the only evidence of the sudden storm were the drops of rain that had soaked into the pillow on your chair.

Steve was gone and the thunder was too.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington oneshot

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tilebytiles · 4 months ago

Text

infallible beliefs - a.t. (part 1)

summary: as it turns out, professors are actually capable of feeling things, and alex feels more things for you than he’d like to. word count: 7.8k warnings: age gap (reader is 21 and alex is 30), mentions of violence, abuse (physical, emotional and financial) a/n: the reason he's 30 is bc i personally didn't feel comfortable writing an age gap bigger than that ! lets all just use our imaginations and pretend that the looks are there </3

You liked to consider yourself the kind of person that had everything together. To some degree, you thought you did - you went to school and kept your grades up, you had a part-time job at a local pet store that you loved, and you shared a lovely flat with your boyfriend of three years. By all appearances, you had your life together. But that was the exact issue, wasn’t it? What good were appearances supposed to be when you constantly felt like you were on the brink of falling apart?

Coffee in hand, you rushed into the English building and made a beeline for your British Literature professor’s classroom. Due to the smaller size of your class, it was never in one of the lecture halls, meaning lessons always felt more intimate. You knew everyone’s names - you couldn’t say the same for the astronomy class you’d taken during your first year, or the nutrition class you were taking this term in an effort to chip away at your electives. You were normally one of the more participatory students, asking questions and answering any your professor posed to the class. Your love for literature ran deep, hence why you intended on getting your degree in English. It was easy for you to be invested in the lessons.

“Good morning, Ms. L/N,” your professor called from the desk at the front. He was doing something on his laptop, presumably trying to get the slides for today pulled up.

You smiled softly at him. “Good morning, Mr. Turner.” You walked to your usual seat and set your bag down on the floor, settling down into the chair. Your coffee felt like it would run cold soon if you didn’t finish it.

You were in your third year of university - in the middle of the spring term - and Mr. Turner was the nicest professor you’d ever met. You’d taken one of his classes before, and when the term had ended, you were half-tempted to sign up for every class he was offering. Would half of them even fit into your schedule? No. Did you really care? Also no. There was something about him that made his class actually enjoyable; maybe it was the way he spoke - soft yet sure, polite even when he was being forced to listen to the stupidest thing he’d ever heard - or the way he presented material, like he was genuinely interested in it and he wanted you to be, too. Whatever it was, you were utterly captivated.

The clock struck 10am, and Mr. Turner shut the door to the room before turning to the class. “Good morning, everyone. Today, I thought we could discuss Charlotte Brönte and the impact of her writing, most notably Jane Eyre.”

Rent was due soon. You needed to remind John to pay it. Speaking of John, he’d told you to ask for a raise at the pet store, but you really didn’t think you needed it. Your current wage was enough, wasn’t it? Plus, you didn’t want to come off as money-hungry by demanding more pay out of nowhere. Was he concerned about money? You knew the two of you had enough. You took a sip from your coffee and tried not to make a face; it was lukewarm. In your eyes, coffee either had to be piping hot or freezing cold to be enjoyed. You preferred iced coffee, but the risk of frying your taste buds prevented you from chugging hot coffee as soon as you got it, so you tended to opt for it instead. You were suddenly glad you didn’t try to get John coffee; he would be as displeased by the temperature as you were. He only liked hot coffee. Would you see him for lunch? If you did, you could remind him about rent then. You hoped he wouldn’t want to go back to your flat to eat.

“Ms. L/N?”

The sound of Mr. Turner’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and you looked up at him. “I’m sorry?”

His expression didn’t change, but you could have sworn you noticed a subtle shift in his eyes. “I asked what you thought of the feminism in Jane Eyre.”

“Oh, uh …” Silence filled the classroom, the kind that was all-consuming and threatened to swallow you, your classmates and your professor whole. There was a metallic thunk as someone near the back set their water bottle down. You looked down at your notes, as if they’d save you, but you’d written a whole of three sentences before clocking out. Speaking of clocks, what time was it? How long had you been deep in your own thoughts?

You finally acted as your own saviour and managed a meek, “I think it’s a product of its time.”

Mr. Turner’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly, and he nodded slowly. You were waiting for him to point out your spacing out to the rest of the class, but he said nothing of the sort. All he said was, “That could be argued, yes. Brönte didn’t write Jane as a hyper-feminist that smashed all stereotypes and expectations of women in the 1800s. In fact, many have argued that Jane Eyre has no true feminism due to Jane’s submission to gender roles by the end of the novel …”

The rest of the lesson went by in as much of a blur as the first half did, except now you were actually trying to pay attention. Eventually, Mr. Turner dismissed all of you, and the room was filled with bags unzipping and the clacking of pencils and pens being picked up off desks. You got your things together and stood from your seat, preparing to head out (and throw out your disgustingly cold coffee on the way). You were stopped, however, by the sound of your professor’s voice as he said, “Ms. L/N, could I have a word with you, please?”

You made a quick trip to the bin beside the door and tossed out your coffee cup, then circled back around and stepped towards the desk at the front of the room. Mr. Turner had looked down for just a moment, marking something on a sheet of paper, but as you grew closer, he looked up, offering you a small smile. It did nothing to calm your nerves. Gulping slightly, you said, “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes. It’s about your …” He looked off to the side as he searched for the right word. “… inattentiveness in class recently.”

The alarm bells sounded in your head, and your brain was a breath away from sending a signal to your legs to get you the fuck out of there. Sensing your impending panic, he quickly added, “You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

Your brain halted. “Oh. I’m not?”

“No. Believe me, you’re not the first student I’ve had to zone out during my lessons.” He waved his hand dismissively as he spoke, as if trying to shoo away your worries. “However, it is strange coming from you. You’re normally a very active participant, but recently, you’ve hardly spoken. I just wanted to know if something was going on.”

You didn’t know if you were relieved or even more scared. “No, I’m fine,” you replied, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I’ve just had a lot on my mind, is all.”

“Well, you can always talk to me if you just need somewhere to dump your thoughts. You’re one of my best students, and I wouldn’t want to see you fail.” He smiled again, and you managed a small smile in return. You appreciated his offer, although you weren’t sure if you’d be using it anytime soon. You didn’t want to burden him in any way.

You hadn’t noticed the way his gaze latched onto your wrist. At least, not until his brows furrowed. He raised his hand, but didn’t touch your wrist, just gestured to it. “Where did that come from?”

You looked at your wrist, equally as confused as he was, and saw the small bruise that had formed just below where the bone protruded. The alarm bells started back up, and your brain began drafting up that signal for your legs. “Oh.” You gulped. “It’s nothing. I just bumped into a table in my flat.”

His eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped back to his side. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Turner,” you said quickly, already turning around to leave. “I appreciate the concern, really, but I’m just clumsy. I have to go now.” You beelined for the door. “See you on Friday!”

“… Right. Have a good day, Ms. L/N.”

It took everything in you to not run down the hall and slam through the doors. You forced yourself to keep your pace at a brisk walk, gently pushing the doors open once you reached them. You spotted John’s car in the nearby parking lot with relative ease and headed towards it, cursing yourself internally for the shitty excuse you’d made for Mr. Turner. Bumping into a table? Really?

As you slipped into the passenger seat and settled your bag into your lap, John leaned over the console and kissed your cheek. “How’d your class go?”

“It went okay.”

You secured your seatbelt, and John reached over, gently grabbing your wrist. He turned it over, examining the bloom of purple by the bone. “Why didn’t you try to cover this up with makeup?”

“I was in a rush this morning. I didn’t think to.”

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the bruise and making you wince. “No one saw it, did they?”

“No.” You didn’t dare mention your professor’s questioning.

“Good.” He released your wrist, then put the car in reverse and looked up at the rearview mirror as he began backing out of the parking spot.

The car ride was silent as John drove the two of you to wherever he planned to take you for lunch (not your flat - you’d already passed the street he would normally turn onto). You were content to stare blankly out the window the whole time, but he had other ideas. “You know I love you, right?”

You looked over at him, a little surprised. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I know.”

“I would never intentionally try to hurt you like that, baby. Last night was just …” He sighed and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I was just frustrated, that’s all.”

The frustration in question arose when you had asked if you could buy the Starry Night Lego set. Van Gogh was one of your favourite artists, and you’d been dying to get the set since it had first released. When you told him what the price was, though, John was practically seeing red. The bruise did come from a table, but it was less because you’d bumped into it and more because he had shoved you and sent you crashing down against it. You had apologised and promised to never bring the set up again.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said, dragging you out of your thoughts and back into the car.

“I know,” you repeated. You couldn’t remember the last time you had said you loved him.

The car eventually came to a stop, and you looked up, spotting the café he had brought you to. The two of you had eaten there a few times before; you quite enjoyed the food, although John wasn’t very fond of coming because he was convinced the male waiter stared at you. The last time you were here, you’d made a point of checking for stares, and every time you looked, the waiter’s eyes were nowhere near catching yours. You kept that to yourself, though, not wanting to have a shouting match with your boyfriend in the middle of lunch.

As you both headed for the door, you wondered if this was his way of trying to make amends. You knew it would take a lot more than a lunch date for you to forgive him, but you at least appreciated his efforts; it was better than him doing nothing at all, right? His fingers were stiff between yours as he held your hand just a bit too tight to be comfortable, guiding you through the café as the employee behind the counter led you to an open table. You sat down across each other, and the employee informed you your waitress would be with you in a couple of minutes before disappearing, presumably to return to her post. You picked up one of the menus and opened it up, quickly scanning the options available to you.

Sure enough, your waitress came just a couple of minutes later, notepad in hand. “Hey, friends,” she said with a warm smile. You liked her already. “My name is Alina, and I’ll be your waitress. What can I get you guys to drink?”

“Can I have a margarita, please?” John asked, looking up from his menu.

Alina nodded and quickly jotted it down before looking to you. You did your best to return her smile and said, “Just water, please.”

“Alright, a margarita and some water. I’ll be back with those drinks as quick as I can, and then we’ll get going on food, okay?”

“Thank you,” you said, watching as she departed from your table. You eventually looked back over at John, doing your best to mask your mild disapproval. “Are you sure you should be drinking this early in the day?”

He scoffed. “Y/N, I can hold my alcohol. I’ll be fine.”

“But you’re driving-”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated, his voice growing cold. You nodded and looked back down at the menu, pretending to suddenly be interested in the café’s sandwich selection.

Eventually, Alina returned with John’s margarita and your water and set both drinks down on the table before getting her notepad back out. “What can I get you guys today?”

“I’ll have the salmon Benedict with a side of chips, please,” John said, looking down at his menu before looking up at Alina.

She nodded and wrote down his order before turning to you. “And for you?”

“She’ll have the Caesar salad.”

She looked back at John, slightly surprised, but nodded and wrote it down anyway. “Will that be all for you two?”

“Yup.”

“Alright, I’ll get this to the kitchen.” She smiled at the two of you and collected your menus before departing once more.

John reached over the table and lightly tapped your nose. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Hm?” You looked up at him. “Nothing.”

“You could try to look happier, you know.” You sighed through your nose and forced your best smile. He rolled his eyes. “Not like that.”

“I’m not unhappy, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.” You kind of would, but you didn’t tell him that. “You haven’t even thanked me for bringing you here when you know I hate coming here.”

“Thank you, John.”

“For?”

The image of you dumping his margarita right into his lap flashed through your mind, but you quickly shooed it away. “Thank you for bringing me here even though you don’t like being here.”

He nodded, as if to say your thanks was satisfactory enough. “You’re welcome, Y/N.”

You were beginning to wonder how much longer you could do this for.

•••••

“Alexa, I could’ve come here on me own.”

“You could’ve, but I wanted to come with you. You can shop for your cat, and I can shower the animals in attention.”

Alex sighed and pulled the door to the pet store open, allowing Alexa to step through first before following her inside. It was the middle of the week and just shy of turning to 6pm, so there weren’t many other customers inside. He kept running through the list he’d made in his head, not wanting to forget anything, and headed for one of the aisles while Alexa flagged down an employee to ask about petting the puppies.

He hadn’t intended to become a cat owner, but during an outing (with Alexa, funnily enough), he’d come across a stray black kitten shivering to death in a cardboard box. The sight of its small, furry form teetering between life and death was too much to bear, and it’d taken hardly any convincing on Alexa’s part before he was picking up the cardboard box and carrying it back to his car. They’d immediately gone to the vet and had the cat taken care of, and it turned out to be a male. Alex named it Herbert.

That was a couple of weeks ago. Although Herbert had the basics - food, a collar (for when he was actually big enough to fit in it), a bed (that he didn’t really use because he always slept with Alex) - he didn’t have much in the way of entertainment. Alex wasn’t sure which toys he’d like the most - which toys any cat would like the most, actually. He wasn’t used to taking care of animals.

He slowed to a stop in front of a shelf full of cat toys and bent down to grab a small plush mouse. He turned it over and over in his hand, trying to decide if Herbert would like it. It was a mouse, and cats were obsessed with mice, weren’t they? If the wild misadventures of Tom & Jerry had taught him anything …

“Mr. Turner?”

He looked up at the sound of his name and locked eyes with one of the employees over the shelf. “Ms. L/N,” he said, blinking a couple of times in surprise. “I didn’t realise you worked here.”

You smiled at him, perhaps a little shyly, and he instantly recognised it as the kind of smile you donned in class whenever you were invested in the topic at hand. For a brief second, he questioned why he even remembered what that smile of yours looked like, but he tried not to dwell on that for too long. “I’ve worked here for a little over a year now,” you told him, dragging him back out of his own head. “It’s a nice excuse to deal with animals all the time.”

You liked animals, then. He made a mental note of that, although he wasn’t sure why. “That’s entirely reasonable,” he replied, managing a small smile that mirrored your own. “I became a literature professor because … well, I love literature.”

You laughed at that, a small, soft laugh that bordered on a giggle. “I don’t imagine you’d become a literature professor because you love science.”

He chuckled. “No, certainly not. Science was never really my thing, anyway.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Ah, I needed to pick up some things for Herbert.” When you stared at him in confusion, he realised his error. “My cat, I mean. I wanted to get some toys for him, but, er, I don’t really know what cats like.” He held up the little mouse toy in his hand for emphasis, and your confusion quickly morphed into understanding.

He watched as you walked around the shelves and made your way to the aisle he was on, coming to stand beside him in front of the row of cat toys. “Do you know how old he is?”

“Uh, not even a year, I don’t think. He’s a tiny little thing.”

You nodded slowly and seemed to think on it before reaching out to grab a toy that perfectly resembled a fishing rod. It was one of those sticks with the line of string at the end and something attached to the string, but the something in question was a little stuffed fish. Clever marketing, really. “Kittens tend to be more energetic, so he’ll probably get a kick out of something like this.”

You held it out to him, and he took it from you. “Thank you, Ms. L/N.”

“Oh, you don’t have to call me that,” you said quickly. “You can just call me Y/N.”

His brows raised a little, although he didn’t object. He knew your first name, of course - he knew all his students’ first names - but he always opted to refer to everyone by their last name, seeing it as the polite thing to do. Calling a student by their first name felt … foreign, admittedly. If you wanted him to, though … “Right,” he said, smiling faintly. “Thank you, Y/N.”

You returned his smile, and he hated the faint flutter he felt in his chest at the sight. “Of course, Mr. Turner.”

Silence settled between the two of you, although it wasn’t necessarily awkward. A question lingered on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. He wasn’t sure if it was even his place to ask (it probably wasn’t). Still, before he could catch himself, the words tumbled from his mouth. "Are you ... doing any better?" He had half a mind to run out of the store and quit his job.

The way you were staring at him wasn't helping.

"Oh, um ... yeah," you said, your voice quieter than it'd been before. "I mean, it healed." You held your wrist up, and his gaze dropped to the smooth skin beneath your wrist bone. Sure enough, the purple blemish that had been there before was gone. A part of him was relieved, but another itched to know why you'd even had a bruise in the first place.

"That's good," he murmured, his gaze flickering back up to meet yours. "Y/N ..." He paused, then sighed. It really wasn't his place to ask, but - "If you're alright with me asking, where had that bruise really come from?"

He watched as your own gaze fell upon your wrist. You slowly turned it over, as if you were expecting to find some new mark you would need another half-assed excuse for. Nothing was there, though. You eventually opened your mouth, a syllable of a word escaping your throat, and he was immediately bracing himself for the answer - one he knew he wouldn't like - but you never got to tell him. At the same time you began to speak, Alexa came over, nudging her shoulder against his. "Did you find anything?"

He jumped slightly at the sudden contact and looked over at her, blinking once or twice. "Oh, er ... yeah. She helped me." He gestured to you, making Alexa glance over at you. "She's one of my students," he added.

Alexa smiled at you and held her hand out for you to shake. You did so and offered her a small smile. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Ms. Chung in the design department, but you can just call me Alexa. I don't think I've seen you around campus before."

"I'm Y/N," you told her. "I'm going into literature, so that's probably why we haven't crossed paths."

"Alex didn't have to bully you into that, did he?"

You laughed and shook your head. "Not at all. I'd already decided a while ago what I wanted to study. He's been a wonderful professor, though."

You thought he was wonderful?

It was stupid, and he felt like a teenager again, his head partway in the clouds and partway stuck to reality as he bought the cat toys and some extra food for Herbert. Stupid and reckless, that's what it was. You were his student, and as far as he knew, you were that nice to everyone. You considering him a wonderful professor didn't mean a damn thing, and it was insane of him to think it did - no, scratch that, to want it to mean something.

Those feelings of his weren't entirely out of the blue; he'd just gotten good at ignoring them and maintaining a professional boundary between the two of you. Even if it wasn't illegal - you were 21, and he 30 - it was morally reprehensible and went against everything he stood for. Sometimes, though, he still found himself staring at you for just a second too long, and sometimes your enthusiasm in his class made his heart skip one too many beats. Throughout the term, he had done his best to never cross the line he'd personally drawn, but when he'd seen the bruise on your wrist ... it was difficult to deny the feelings it stirred up within him. He didn't like the worry he felt seeing it, and he didn't like the cloud of concern that followed him for the rest of the day as your shitty excuse and your forced smile played on repeat in his head.

"Earth to Turner."

Alexa waved her hand in front of his face as they walked down the sidewalk together, heading back to his car so he could deposit the bag of goods for Herbert inside. He blinked in surprise and looked over at her, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"You're thinking awful hard over there."

"I've just - got a lot on me mind, is all," he said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't press him for answers. She just shrugged and sighed, redirecting her gaze to the world in front of them. "Whatever you say, Al." He knew she could see right through him, although he was silently grateful she didn't say anything else; frankly, he wasn't sure he even had any answers for her.

What were you doing to him?

•••••

You weren’t fond of bars. You didn’t mind alcohol - although you usually kept your drinking restricted to special occasions - but having to deal with other drunk patrons wasn’t the greatest way to spend your time, you thought. Having to deal with your drunk boyfriend wasn’t great, either.

You weren’t fond of bars, but when John wanted to go to one, you weren’t really in a position to say no.

Although your boyfriend seemed to go all-out every time the two of you left your flat, you couldn’t be bothered. You pulled on a white skirt that went down to your knees and a grey jumper than had some American university you were unfamiliar with printed on it (you had gotten the jumper from a charity shop, if you were remembering correctly). Despite it being spring, days were still cold in London, and the nights weren’t any better. Plus, you preferred to show as little skin as possible, especially if you had to be around drunk men.

You stuffed your phone, wallet and keys into your bag and double-checked that you had everything before zipping the bag shut and slipping the strap over your shoulder. John finally re-emerged from the bathroom and ran a hand through his hair, raising an eyebrow at the sight of you. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

“I don’t see an issue with it,” you said. Your voice was a bit curt, showing that you weren’t in the mood to deal with his persnickety bullshit, and he seemed to get the message. Instead of responding verbally (starting an argument), he just nodded and grabbed his keys.

Fifteen minutes later, after an uncomfortably silent car ride, you found yourself sat beside John in one of the booths at the back of the bar, nodding absentmindedly and giving false hums in an effort to make yourself seem like you were paying attention to whatever it was he was rambling about. You were only really picking up bits and pieces - his older brother was disappointed in him, he was convinced his parents didn’t love him even though you knew from firsthand experience that they very much did, all things you’d heard before. It wasn’t that you didn’t care; to a degree, you did sympathise with him. But it was only to a degree.

As he drunkenly babbled on in your ear, you glanced around the dimly lit bar, your eyes scanning dozens of faces you didn’t recognise. You could pick out a couple - students you’d seen around campus before - but the rest came together to form a sea of unfamiliarity in front of you. You sipped from your glass, wincing as the alcohol carved a burning trail down your throat. The bar you were in had live music on the weekends, and tonight, the performer was someone you hadn’t caught the name of. He had a shaved head, wore what appeared to be a leather vest with nothing underneath and a pair of black skinny jeans, and his eye makeup was leagues better than anything you could pull off. He seemed cool, and you liked the sound of his voice. You made a mental note to figure out who he was before you went home with John.

“I have to use the restroom,” you said suddenly, standing up from your seat and cutting John’s sentence short. You looked down at him. “I’ll be right back.”

His brows furrowed, and he grabbed your wrist. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise. Just wait here.” You pried his hand off (due to his inebriated state, he wasn’t gripping you very hard) and slipped out of the booth, heading straight for the bathroom. You kept your head down, doing your best to avoid eye contact with anyone.

The music was muffled and, admittedly, a little less headache-inducing in the bathroom. You stood in front of the row of sinks and sighed, rubbing at your face with your hands. You examined your reflection in the mirror, immediately noting the dark circles under your eyes and the almost gaunt appearance of your cheeks. Had you lost weight recently? You hadn’t noticed. You’d been too busy with everything else …

“Fuck you!” a shrill voice screamed, bounding into the bathroom as the heavy door swung shut behind the owner. You jumped at the sound and turned your head, watching as a girl stomped behind you, stopping in front of the sink beside you. She was huffing, her chest heaving, and for a second, you swore you saw steam pouring out of her ears.

It wasn’t really your place to get involved, but she looked like she was a breath away from blowing the building up. Slowly, you asked, “Are you alright?”

She slammed her bag down onto the countertop - that, too, made you jump - and began rummaging through it, pulling different things out. Ah, she was fixing her makeup. “My stupid fucking boyfriend started chattin’ with some other girl and thought I wouldn’t fucking notice,” she said, opening up a pack of makeup wipes. “It’s not even the first time he’s done it, I’ve just been too nice and let him off.”

“Did the girl know you-“

“If she did, I’m rippin’ her fucking face off,” she muttered.

Fair. You turned the water in your sink on and let it warm up for a few seconds before leaning down to splash your face. “Is he still your boyfriend, then?”

She scoffed. “Absolutely not. I told him he can go find some other girl to be a wanker around since he’s so desperate to get away from me.”

As you rinsed your face off, you wondered if you should have been grateful that John wasn’t a cheater. As far as you knew, anyway. Sure, everything else he did was … less than ideal, but at least he wasn’t going behind your back. Right?

“Men are shite,” the girl said, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You turned the water off and reached for the paper towel dispenser. “Yeah. They are.”

You could only think of one man (besides your father) in your life that wasn’t utter shite.

You left the bathroom after drying yourself off and intended to head straight back to your booth, but the sight of a familiar head of hair gave you pause. It wasn’t like he was the only one with that haircut, and for all you knew, you were about to look creepy as hell walking up to some random bloke and asking if he was someone else. Still, you couldn’t stop yourself from quietly approaching, hesitating before reaching up and tapping the figure’s shoulder. His head turned, his eyes seeking out yours, and for some reason, you felt comfort in being right in your assumption.

Your literature professor, the only man in your life that wasn’t utter shite, got up from his stool and turned to face you fully. “Y/N,” he said, raising his voice a little more than usual so you could hear him over the music, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m here with my boyfriend,” you told him, and if you weren’t paying attention, you easily would’ve missed the subtle shift in his expression before he schooled it back into a state of neutrality. “I could say the same of you.”

“Professors need a break, too, you know.”

He had a point.

You awkwardly shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of what to say now. You felt like you were seeing something you shouldn’t; like you were a child finding your teacher in the supermarket. You were both adults, sure, but the scene gave you the same feeling you’d had in the pet store. Encountering him outside of lessons just felt odd.

He seemed to feel the same as you, struggling to find anything to say. Eventually, he opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly interrupted by the sound of a voice behind you. You immediately knew who it was, and the way his gaze hardened confirmed it.

You turned and came face to face with John, who was nothing short of seething. “You said you were going to the restroom.”

“I did.”

“So then why the fuck are you here, chatting up some bloke instead of talking to me?”

“John-“

“Answer me,” he demanded, reaching out to grab your wrist. His grip was much tighter this time, almost bruising, and you winced at the pain that shot through you.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Mr. Turner began. “I’m just her-“

“You’re not a part of this, you fucking wanker,” John spat, glaring at him before looking back down at you. “Why are you talking to him?”

“He’s just my professor,” you said, forcing yourself to stay calm. “John, please.”

“Just your professor?” he echoed, ignoring your plea. “Why the hell’re you talking to your professor in a bar, hm? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Gettin’ him off for a good grade? Is that it?”

You felt sick to your stomach. “John, stop it, now.”

“I always knew you’d do this to me, Y/N! Can never fucking trust you with anyone! Am I not good enough for you? Everything I’ve done, and you’re shaggin’ your goddamn professor?”

“John, shut up!” you shouted, the last bit of your restraint slipping.

With your restraint went his - or what little he’d had left. Eyes wide, he lifted his free hand and quickly swung it in your direction.

You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the impact, but it never came. The musician’s guitar stuttered. The drums missed a few beats. You opened your eyes and were met with the sight of Mr. Turner gripping John’s wrist, the veins in his forearm protruding with how hard he was holding it. His brows were furrowed down in rage, and you could see the anger that swam in his eyes, threatening to drown him and you and everyone in that damned bar. “Let go of her,” he said quietly, “and get the fuck out of here. Now.”

You’d never heard him swear like that before.

John stared at him, then at you, then at him again. He yanked his wrist from Mr. Turner’s grasp and finally released your own, turning to leave. Not, though, before saying to you, “Don’t bother coming home.” And then he was gone.

The loud chatter within the bar’s walls had been reduced to mere murmurs by the scene that had just unfolded. You were shaken up - quite a bit. You were used to him exploding, hurting you, but not in public. Never in public. He had gotten good at making sure his outbursts were kept behind closed doors.

“Y/N.”

You jumped at the sound of Mr. Turner’s voice and looked up at him. Your heart was thumping in your ears. You felt shaky. You needed to sit down. He could tell you were on the verge of a panic attack, and he put a hand on your back, murmuring something about finding you a seat as he led you to one of the back booths. It was a more secluded spot, away from the stares and whispers of the other patrons. You were grateful.

Murder was illegal. Murder was illegal. Murder was illegal.

That was the only coherent thought Alex was immediately capable of making. He let you slip into the seat first before slipping in beside you, making sure to keep a respectable distance between the two of you. You stared down at the table, and he stared down at you, thinking of a million things to say and not finding a single one of them appropriate given the circumstances. The more empathetic side of him wanted to dance around the issue, tiptoe around what had just happened, but he knew he’d never get any real answers if he tried to play nice. This couldn’t go on.

“Y/N,” he said again, crossing his arms and setting them down on the table, “how long has this been going on?”

You were silent for a few moments, making him panic internally and wonder if he’d already fucked up in his line of questioning. Eventually, though, your answer came to soothe his worrying brain. “At least a year, maybe more.”

“A year?” Murder was illegal. “Has he been hurting you this whole time?”

“He doesn’t usually hit me. That’s only when he gets really pissed about something.”

“When did this start?”

“When we moved in together. He had always been kind of … kind of rude before that, I guess, but once we saw each other every day, it was like he just snapped. I guess he realised he finally had power over me.”

Of course. If the flat was in his name, then he could kick you out at any point he wanted. One wrong move on your end, and you would be out on the streets. He’d backed you into a corner; a corner you hadn’t left in over a year. Alex’s heart felt heavy. “He’s always been kind of rude, you said. What … what do you mean by that?”

You sighed and sank a little further down in your seat. “He makes comments on my weight sometimes. He never calls me ugly or fat, but the implication that he’s unsatisfied with how I look is always there. He likes to poke fun at the books I like and the music I listen to and the films I watch. It’s like - like he wants me to be a carbon copy of him.”

“Y/N, your weight’s fine,” Alex said with a frown. “You look like you’ve lost weight, actually. I’m worried about you.”

You looked up at him, and the resignation in your eyes added extra weight to his heart. “I’m fine, Mr. Turner.” Even though you clearly weren’t.

Silence fell between the two of you, leaving Alex to swim in the pool of his thoughts. Realistically, the most he could do by the school's terms was offer you resources for abuse and maybe help you get your boyfriend reported to the authorities. The issue, though, was that as far as he knew, your boyfriend wasn't a student. You being one - one of his, for that matter - didn't immediately give him the right to get involved in your private life, even when you were clearly in danger. There was also the matter of whether or not you even wanted him to get involved - that one, he wasn't really sure on. He didn't want to betray your trust and interfere with your relationship if you asked him not to, but he also hated the thought of turning a blind eye to what was happening.

Alex had never been one for violence. That wasn't to say he was a total pacifist, but he typically believed things could be talked out rather than resorting to fists (or worse). When he had seen your boyfriend grab you, though, and prepare to hurt you in public with such ease and no shame, he was pretty sure he was a breath away from knocking that bastard to the floor and giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“He didn’t mean it when he told me not to come home,” you finally said, dragging Alex back out of his thoughts. “I just have to give him some time.”

Time. Of course. “If you’d like, I can drive you home.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Turner. Thank you.” He offered you a small smile, and you did your best to mirror it. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, but he appreciated the effort.

You would have given a more genuine smile, but you were embarrassed and still shaken up, and really, all you wanted was to curl up in bed and cry for a while. You knew that, realistically, it wasn't embarrassing to be in an abusive relationship, and you knew that Mr. Turner was one of the last people on the planet that would ever be judgmental over it. You certainly wouldn't judge anyone else for being in one. When it came to yourself, though, it was just ... you couldn't help but wonder if this was all your fault.

You weren't sure how long you and Mr. Turner sat in that booth, but it had at least been long enough that you were sure John had either cooled down or passed out in your flat. The pair of you got up and headed for the door, but not before he stopped to say something to the musician that'd been playing, who was now sitting at a table and nursing a beer. "Sorry I can't stay for the rest o' your set," he told him, "I've got somethin' I need to take care of."

The musician glanced at you, and understanding flickered in his gaze. "Course, Al. Don't even worry about it. I'll see you 'round, yeah?"

"Yeah." Mr. Turner flashed him a smile before turning back to you and leading you outside.

As he took you to his car, you asked, "Who was that?"

"Miles Kane. He's a friend of mine. We go way back."

"Oh." Miles Kane - you did your best to remember his name for later. "I like his music."

"Me, too." He opened the passenger seat of his car for you, and you quietly thanked him and slipped inside. He went around the front of the car and got into the driver's seat, turning the car on and fastening his seatbelt. You did the same.

After you gave him your address, the two of you fell into yet another bout of silence, although this one wasn't as uncomfortable as it'd been in the bar. Mr. Turner fiddled with the radio, eventually settling for a station playing rock songs from the 80s. You recognised a few of them, although you were more familiar with the general tune than the lyrics. You could occasionally see him tapping out the beat against the steering wheel from the corner of your eye.

Unlike the drive to the bar with John, which had felt like an absolute drag, the drive to your flat with Mr. Turner was much more bearable and hardly felt like ten minutes, let alone fifteen. Once his car slowed to a stop in front of your block of flats, you undid your seatbelt, the soft click seeming to echo in his car. "Um, thank you," you said quietly, popping the door open. "I really appreciate it. Sorry if I ruined your night or anything."

"No, no, it's fine," he said quickly, shaking his head. "You didn't ruin anything, alright?"

"Okay." You nodded.

You stepped out of the car, bag in hand, and were about to close the door when he suddenly said, "Y/N."

"Hm?"

"Can I put my number in your phone?"

Ashamedly, your brain immediately jumped to what you deemed the most logical conclusion: he was proving John right and hitting on you. "Huh?"

"So I can check on you, I mean." He smiled apologetically at you when he noticed the brief flash of panic that darted over your features. "I'm not, er ... I'm not like that, I promise."

"Oh. Yeah." Now you felt foolish. You unzipped your bag and fished your phone out, handing it to him. He was quick to create a new contact for himself and handed your phone back to you. His contact name was 'Alex Turner', and you didn't know why it surprised you. Maybe you were just so used to calling him 'Mr. Turner'.

"If anything ever happens, please don't be afraid to contact me, Y/N," he said softly. "I may just be your professor, but I'm also a human being. You can talk to me."

You nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Turner."

"Of course. You should go inside now, it's getting cold out."

After exchanging a final quick goodbye, you headed into your block of flats, taking a silent trip up in the lift to the floor you lived on. You retrieved your keys from your bag and unlocked the front door to your flat, immediately noticing that the lights were still off. You slipped in, shutting and locking the door behind you, and crept through the living room, being careful to not wake a sleeping John on the sofa. As you'd suspected - he must've fallen asleep after he got back. Had he been waiting for you?

You threw a blanket over him before continuing to your bedroom, shutting the door as quietly as you could behind you. You let out a small sigh and leaned against the wood for a few moments, shutting your eyes. This was not how you'd anticipated your night going. You eventually reopened your eyes and turned the light on, depositing your bag into the armchair in the corner. Out of curiosity, you stepped up to the window, peeking through the blinds to see if Mr. Turner's car was still there. He was already gone, though.

After getting changed into your pyjamas for the night, you collapsed onto your bed and held your phone over your face, peering at the screen in the newfound darkness. You kept reading Mr. Turner's name over and over, the image of his quiet rage permanently seared into your brain. You were so used to him being calm and collected at all times - quiet, too. Granted, he hadn't exactly raised his voice, but somehow, that was scarier than him shouting could ever be.

And it was all because of you.

tags: @elexnorislingtxn / @edandmollydeservebetter / @sagegreensimmr / @billyseye / @supernaturalandpain / @not-a-big-slay

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #the car era #arctic monkeys #am #fanfic #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #divider by plutism

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desafinado · 2 years ago

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Hello! I really love your writings, they're lighthearted and interesting to read. I also love your characterization for the characters! Would it also be alright for me to request some fluffy domestic headcanons for Alhaitham or Kamisato Ayato with their s/o as their wife? Thank you and have a nice day! <3 <3 <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 happily ever afters (?)

°｡⋆ alhaitham, ayato x reader (separately)

°｡⋆ sickening fluff, nicknames/pet names galore, suggestive (omg)

note: hi hi! thank you so much for your support and feedback !!! as for your request, why not both! hope this satisfies your domestic/fluffy desires !! also… i like framing marriages as happy endings with a question mark, because i think that pretty much encapsulates my perspective on it. you hope it is a happy one and you’ll strive to make it such, but you’re never gonna be certain of it.

(alhaitham, ayato) | (zhongli, diluc, kazuha)

alhaitham ♡

i’m desperately thinking malewife, and i will bc these are my hcs so damn it.

he didn’t completely quit his job, but if you work as well… expect him to be babying you just the tiniest bit.

he made a promise to take care of you so he very much will.

cooking breakfast/dinner when he notices you coming home a bit more tired.

buying groceries (most importantly, your favorite snacks) while he's out.

leaving little notes around the house whenever he has to leave for work (whether it be a few hours or days).

you can also expect him to rant more nonchalantly, aka welcome the inner sanctum of his thoughts he must repress in front of higher ups in order to be “polite”.

“i mean what kind of buffoonery must you partake in to even have that idea? the mental gymnastics you must do in order to get from point a to point b is-” “dear, breathe and drink this tea for a second.”

in turn, you’re also often the one to keep him in and check and remind him of his own needs (whether it be emotional or purely basic like eating and sleeping).

in relation to this, you’ve implemented cuddle breaks where if you feel he’s going too far and in too deep, you can drag him into a cuddle session for an hour.

he’s usually silent the whole time, but you can see the clear progression from him grumbling about it to melting into your arms.

also they rarely ever last for just an hour and sometimes it might even escalate (suggestive yes) if he's feeling particularly clingy.

lets address the elephant in the room, alhaitham has been touch-starved for most of his life, so you coming in and giving him all the affection (with no question or judgment whatsoever) is the best thing that has happened to him.

his little smile when you hug him from behind or leave a kiss on his forehead.

anyways, back on track, most people don’t even realize you two are married but you both don’t really care either. it's just funny to hear/see their reactions.

“dinner with someone you're calling your beloved? yeah sure, that’ll be interesting” “you can disrespect me, but i will [redacted] if you so much as think about disrespecting them.”

living individual lives doesn’t stop either of you from being particularly clingy though… whether it be you storming into alhaitham’s office demanding for him to just hold you tight or alhaitham skipping work to have you kiss all his stress away.

you’re both pretty upfront about your emotions, because you don’t want to lose anything to miscommunication… (even if sometimes, it might be a bit embarrassing)

at the end of the day, you two are married… and he couldn’t have asked for a better partner to lay himself vulnerable to.

how can you say no when his eyes are practically speaking for his heart; a vision of longing and yearning so crystal clear. you’re running a hand through his hair, and as every second passes he only leans in to your touch. he looks up at you for a second, debating whether or not he interrupt the comfortable silence; he eventually looks back down, but you’re not one to ignore that and brush it off.

“my love, what is the matter?”

another moment passes before he finally gathers the courage to say the words trapped in his throat.

“i know we’ve been over it, but i can’t believe i’m yours… and you’re mine. i’m just thankful, is all. i hope i can always be the one you can rely on, as you are to me.”

a minor blush dusts his cheeks as you giggle softly at his flustered state. it wasn’t unusual, but it certainly made you feel happy, being able to fluster the stoic and pragmatic alhaitham.

“and you are, my love. celestia could send rains of fire and stampedes of thunder, and i would only ever run to you. i’ve entrusted my soul to yours, whether you know it or not, and you’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

ayato ♡

lord kamisato, this. lord kamisato, that. he does not care, he will take time out of schedule specifically for you and only you.

because no one could compare to the way you call his name, when you wake up first thing in the morning, your voice still groggy, or while you’re both walking in the garden and you spot a beautiful flower.

you specifically request him not to make you any food though, because there's a 20% it will be inedible (the chances are low, but never zero)

instead, he’ll order your favorite pastries and have them delivered every morning in time for breakfast.

once he leaves for work, you both are very reluctant to let go… as if you’re not gonna sneak into his office every hour or so.

having you sat on his lap, arms around your waist while he’s going over documents.

if he has some plans that require him to be out and about, he takes every chance to sneak away and have a secret little moment or two with you.

this only escalates during festivals when his stress levels reach new heights. you steal him away, so you both can actually enjoy the festival the way everyone else is.

hearing him quietly chuckling feels as though you’ve been welcomed into an eternal paradise that only you two know of.

on the rare occasion that you don’t see him the entire day, you change or do things around the house to it feel more like a home for the both of you

ayato’s been complaining about back pain? you spend the day searching for a pillow that fixes that (worse comes to worse, there’ll be a new mattress when he comes home…)

the walls feel a bit bare and drab? you’ll just frame and hang up some of your favorite memories together.

you’ll also often find yourself experimenting with new boba recipes and having him try them all when he comes home; because of this pastime of yours, his favorite milk tea flavor has gone through a variety of changes.

anyways, when he does come home from work, you very much try to leave it outside (unless he truly needs to get things off his chest by venting).

he just wants to spend an evening with you watching a movie, having homemade dinner, or simply cuddling in bed.

the rest of the world fades into obscurity whenever you’re holding him close, face snuggled into his chest.

you’re just whispering compliments and words of comfort, because archons know he doesn’t hear it enough (/srs i feel like he gets used to the courteous praises coming from his colleagues and such for doing a good job, but you telling him how pretty his face is, is simply unmatched)

to hell it be damned, he fought for his marriage to you and he will fight everyday to protect the home you’ve both built together.

“in the kitchen!”

your voice makes itself known as ayato is quick to rush to the kitchen to see what you’re up to. there’s some flour scattered on the counter and floor as well as some unwashed dishes in the sink, and you’re in the middle of it all, giving him an awkward smile.

“i was just trying a new recipe and tried making pearls, i’m sorry about the mess…”

you laugh awkwardly as he only moves faster towards you. the moment he reaches you, he takes both your hands, soft and still covered in flour.

“i’m sure it turned out great. your hard work clearly shows.” he chuckles, bringing a hand up to your face stroking your cheeks. “i think… it’s missing a personal touch though. would you mind?” he closes the gap between you both, his lips barely grazing yours, waiting for your confirmation.

“indeed it does. i’ve missed you… a lot.”

your lips eventually find his and you can’t help the smile that creeps on to your face. its moments like these that you cherish and keep in your heart; these memories of him that belong to you forever more.

requests are open!! please do not repost on other sites.

#genshin x reader #genshin imagines #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #ayato x reader #kamisato ayato #genshin fluff #genshin impact #airi.writes #airi.hcs

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 11 months ago

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ok I got an ideaaaa 🤭🤭

Mitsuri reader as the Goddess of Love from another pantheon and she met Aphrodite? But reader caught the attention of some greek gods? Like she did a kind act(u decide what) and then that caught the [gods] interest. Like bcs they never saw their own Goddess of love do something amazing like that lololol ig

W/ Greek bros, Hermes, Apollo mwah tyyy💕

-You were originally human, living and dying as a human, but you died for another, dying for love and for your sacrifice, several gods allowed you to ascend to Valhalla and you became a love goddess.

-While you weren’t as powerful or well known as goddesses like Aphrodite, you were adored by the gods who knew you.

-You were hardworking, from your time as a Demon Slayer, as you were a powerful warrior even if you didn’t look or act like it, and you had taken to your duties with helping others with love with ease.

-Your diligence and willingness to work is what caught the attention of so many, as you wanted everyone to get love, despite not having it for yourself, but you could tell that those who had come around that they wouldn’t be good matches for you.

-Many reminded you of the men you had marriage meetings with back on earth, ones who told you how odd your hair was, or that your large appetite and inhuman strength was a turn off.

-You let them all down gently, being polite before helping them find the person they were supposed to be with, playing matchmaker, but it made you happy, seeing everyone paired up with others that made them happy.

-You were unaware of a set of eyes that had been watching you from afar, as you were so unlike the goddess of love in his own pantheon, Aphrodite.

-You were always willing to help others, smiling so warmly, and treating everyone, men, women, and children, with such gentle kindness- it was refreshing really.

-It was your physical strength that made him finally get the courage to approach you. A rude god who had interrupted your time with some children who were making flower crowns and adorning your hair with flowers, grabbing your wrist, and demanding you go on a date with him.

-You politely refused, trying to turn him down gently while the kids all hid behind you, scared, but this god didn’t take kindly to your refusal, trying to drag you to go with him.

-This is when (Love) arrived, seeing you being accosted and he went to defend you before you glared up at this cocky god, “Fine, if you can beat me in a test of strength, I’ll go with you.”

-The god just laughed loudly, but agreed, not knowing of your true strength as you both got on either side of a table, for an arm-wrestling contest.

-When the god went flying, after you easily beat him, sending him head over heels and through a nearby wall, the kids all cheered for you as you beamed brightly, your hands on your hips in a victory pose.

-You heard someone else laughing behind you and you turned, seeing (Love) there, approaching you and the children. You smiled, greeting him warmly, unaware of the effect it had on him before he spoke, “Are you all right?”

-You flexed your arm that the asshole had been holding, showing him that you were perfectly fine, “Yes- nothing I couldn’t handle!” he was surprised, giving you a soft smile.

-The children all shared a look before making a quick exit, confusing you as you looked around, wondering why they had rushed off so quickly before (Love) held out a hand towards you, “May I have the pleasure of take you out for tea?”

-Your face quickly flushed red, from your neck to the top of your head, as you could tell, unlike the others who came to you, just for your beauty, his feelings were genuine, and you had only dealt with true feelings of another once before, back on earth.

-Hermes- He smiled softly, seeing you so flustered- you were truly a pure maiden. It was rather adorable, but he felt his heart soar as a smile appeared on his face as you accepted, placing your hand in the hand he held out to you. Hermes was a gentleman, holding the door open for you, pulling out your seat, and ordering a tea set, which included pretty looking cakes. Hermes was unlike any other man you had come across- he was so doting on you; he was so sweet. He would never tell you that he had been hesitant in approaching you, as he found you so perfect that you were intimidating, in his eyes. He wanted to stand by your side and you by his own side for the rest of eternity.

-Apollo- You knew of Apollo and how much of a ladies’ man he was, with the nymphs he usually surrounded himself with, so you were a little hesitant on accepting his invitation. He could see that, but he didn’t berate you or try to convince you otherwise, as that wouldn’t be honest of him, but he was surprised when you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear as you shyly took his hand, “Just tea, right?” You could feel the warmth he was radiating from elation as you at least accepted his invitation. You were willing to give him a chance at least to take you out, but you wanted to be his one and only, selfish of you to say, but you didn’t want to share your love. Apollo was nothing but a gentleman with you, giving you his full, undivided attention, asking about your likes and dislikes, and reciting poetry to you- he was so romantic! He was praying you were willing to give him a chance, and if you did, he would only focus on you. He was willing to wait- to prove himself to you.

-Ares- You were surprised when he approached you, as you knew that he and Aphrodite were an item, on and off again, but still! Ares was so sweet to you, asking you out to tea and when you accepted, he flushed so hard. He wasn’t used to soft affections like this, as Aphrodite was more interested in his body and bed skills, while with you- it was like you wanted his heart, you wanted the real Ares. He adored you and showered you with so much affection and when you returned it, he melted, easily falling even harder for you and it was hard not to fall for him either. The two of you became the cutest couple around, even Poseidon acknowledged how nauseatingly sweet the two of you were together. The only person not happy with you two going out was Aphrodite, who viewed you as a threat to one of her favorite boy toys, but Ares was willing to keep you safe from her, just as long as you kept loving him, which you had no issues doing.

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror hermes #ror apollo #ror ares

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saltylandland · 2 years ago

Text

🦇Every Good Girl Needs a Creepy Vamp🦇

Warnings: overstimulation, sex while high, noncon/dubcon, corruption kink (kinda), going off my nsfw headcanons that Paul likes to be degraded for being a creep, reader is in high school but she’s still 18, fem!reader, reader’s not a virgin, uses the term “mama” but reader isn’t pregnant/nor will she become pregnant, I guess this my as well count as yandere, stalking, an obscene amount of cum, I’m talking about A LOT, Paul can make phantom sensations as one of his vampy powers bc why not. Do you ever write something that makes you go ‘oml what the hell did I just write?’, no editing man, I like my men bloody, slutty, and pathetic.

Walking down the sidewalk you turn onto the residential neighbourhood where your family’s home resides. Out of the corner of your eye you spot the same guy. You’ve met him quite a few times on the boardwalk, smoked a joint with him almost every time as well, despite how unnerving you found him at times. But you really couldn’t blame yourself really, having been viewed as a good girl most of your life. Approaching the kids who would be able to get you it was a no go, not only attracting attention by interacting with them in general, you’d have nowhere safe to smoke it without getting caught.

So when you went looking for a possible summer job alone on the boardwalk, your chance came up to you on a golden platter. This new ‘friend’ seems to preen at your attention, not at all frustrated or wary of your shy prude-ness. And not at all aware or at least acknowledging how you only seem to come to him to smoke the devils lettuce.

But who were you to blame really? Upon first meeting you, he’d offer the joint unprompted and in return you’d hang with him until the boardwalk closes. That was your trade as far as you were aware.

As if sensing your eyes on him, he locks eyes with you and takes it as the signal to approach. You lock up a bit, remembering how… close you two have progressed on the boardwalk.

To be truthful you had been avoiding him for just a little bit now, which was easy considering you’d have no reason to go on the boardwalk besides your once in a blue moon shift at a carnival stand. But Paul seemed to have noticed your avoidance, finding him places you’d never expected too, each time a little closer to home.

But it was too late to run now without making it obvious, as Paul meets you with his characteristic non boundaries, practically draping himself across you as greeting.

Before you could think of a backup plan, you had reached your door, luckily you had accidentally left the lights on before you left. Making it seem like your parents were home despite them being a couple states away for work.

You try to think of a way to politely excuse yourself when Paul asks to borrow a lighter, offering to share a joint or two. As tempting as that was, you didn’t want to let him inside, nor did you want the possible smell lingering inside your home and get in trouble, you tell him the latter reason as you inch towards the door.

Paul offers the backyard as an alternative with a glowing smile, mentioning that your parents will know you're there, but you’ll sit away enough that you won’t get caught, and that’s when you give in. Walking into the house to fetch a lighter and ’telling’ your parents about hanging out in the backyard for awhile.

Paul gets settled quickly on the grassy path, pouting slightly when you sit beside him as opposed to on his lap as he eagerly beckons you too. Lighting up quickly he passes the joint to you and you’re quite proud of yourself and how you didn’t cough as you exhaled, welcoming that familiar warmth in your chest and fuzzy feeling crawling in from the back of your head.

Soon enough, Paul was back to his old tricks, hogging the joint and letting you crawl over him to try and get it back. Demanding some sort of reward for each hit you take, mostly little kisses. He’d prefer them on his lips, but he’s patient enough to let you build up to it, going on his forehead, cheek, and chin. Until he captures your chin and plants a kiss on your lips. Next holding you close and dizzying you with the quick succession of kisses.

Ah, this is what he does. His lack of boundaries upping to an eleven and his boldness holds no bounds as he gets high. Using your need for his weed to squeeze as much affection out of you as much as he could. Everytime it was you who stopped before things went too far, but gradually your resolve weakens as you start to crave more. The only thing holding you back was your perceived prudence. You were already pushing past the line with smoking weed, much less with a stranger, but having sex, all of those at once? It was too overwhelming.

Still that ache that often comes with the high, starts pooling in your tummy, letting Paul pull you into his lap despite your better judgement.

Yes, this is exactly what he does. It almost completely mirrors that night on the boardwalk before you started to avoid him.

Goading you on to his lap, holding your lips hostage as he winds you up. So worked up you don’t notice your hips moving, rubbing against his own. Fingers start to trace your body, seemingly seeping through your clothes to touch your skin, despite Paul's actual hands against your waist.

You jumped a bit, looking around to find no one else, the hands remained on your body, trailing against your sensitive breasts and thighs, constantly moving and overlapping with each other.

You had cum on his lap that night, and he tore off your panties just before you had managed to pull away, not seeming to mind the lack of underwear as Paul gave no chase.

In the morning you had woken and after realising you were sans panties, decided to keep your distance from both the boardwalk and him.

The reminder of your stolen panties comes to the forefront of your mind as you flush. And with the weed clouding your normal reserve you ask what happened to them, the grin Paul gives you almost regret your words. “Oh I think you already know huh?” You do know, you know exactly what a boy like him would do with stolen panties but you push anyway. Playing chicken with answers you knew you wouldn’t be able to handle. “Should I? I don’t have a dirty mind like you, you creep.”

You go to move off of him, but he pulls you back with a renewed vigour. “A creep really? Then you’re my good girl right?” Curling his hips upwards, you feel his chubbed up cock against your clothes. Once again you’re wearing a skirt without shorts underneath. You can feel the heat against your core.

“You’re the one I obsess over huh? The one that I climb into trees to get a glimpse of your bare skin? The one that I just can’t help but steal her panties, sniffing her panties so I can come over and over. Still craving her wet pussy all the while?” Smelling your hair makes him groan, his hips stuttering as he bounces you against him as he grinds up to you. “You’re my good girl huh? The one who’ll tease me to get what she needs? The one who’ll rub one out on her bed with her curtains open on the third floor, After getting the fix she needs and running away just as fast?”

Your eyes widen with fear as he reveals more and more intimate details. The more he talks the more it sounds like a confession, and with all the details he provided, you don’t doubt him. Shakily mentioning that you should go back inside, your parents might worry about how late it is. Paul only smiles with that same lazy smile and says oh so casually “I’m sure that won’t be a problem huh? We’ll be quiet enough as to not wake up the next state over.”

Before you start to thrash in his hold, Paul preemptively rolls you over, trapping you in his embrace, grabbing your panties and ripping them off again, this time unashamedly groaning against them as he huffs.

Dragging his hips back and forwards, Paul cums with a moan, his hips digging deeper into your own as he climbs back down, whining into your neck as he overstimulates himself, his pants dampening from his cum as he continues to rock his hips.

Climbing over, straddling your stomach, he pulls out his still hard cock, preening at your attention. He fondles himself as he speaks, cumming over your chest quickly. “I can’t even be satisfied with my hand anymore, can’t even cum with nobody else, I just need you pretty mama.”

With a shuddering moan, he pulls your shoulders down with unnatural ease. He now straddles your chest, as he continues to pump his dick with gross sounding ‘Schlick Schlick Schlick’s. With your panties still pressed up against his nose between words he whines loudly. “Don’t you feel bad for me? That shit you’ve put me through? If you wanted me so bad that you placed a spell on me, all you had to do was -fuck-ing ask”

His tip was an angry red as his hips jerk forward, his voice cracking between pleads and demands. “Uhhhhg fuck just kiss it won’t you? Open your mouth for me baby, you can do it for me, sugar, I know you can.”

Whether intentionally or not (most likely the latter) Paul’s hands snake up from the back of your nape and that makes you gasp lightly. Coincidentally, that is exactly when Paul rocks his hips forward, nearly gagging you on his girth as he slips forward with a guttural cry. “Fuck-fuck me sugar, like that, yea just… like that.”

Bowing over you, Paul keeps you in that position as he humps your mouth with very small movements, trying to stop his orgasm just yet. Only to cum in the back of your throat as he thrust in fully. His cries getting pitchier as he seems to overstimulate himself more, dragging himself on your tongue as you struggle not to choke on his cum.

Completely overwhelmed by the situation at hand, but your body seems to decide for you, that familiar ache of need that follows you whenever you get high has hit full force. Not being able to do anything about it has you squirming.

Pulling you away by your hair, he taunts you with misplaced smugness. “Fuck that’s so hot, you’re a natural you know that? Look how hard you make me” grabbing at your shirt he shreds it down the middle, grabbing at your tits like a tween boy. “There’s those beautiful tits.”

Familiarly, what feels like multiple hands start to grab at your body tenderly, looking around only shows nothing but the feeling is still there. Pawing at your neglected pussy, a hand gently spreads open your lips to the cold air, another teases at your clit and another starts to prep you open. The hands seem to work in tandem, so close together that they should be overlapping but that does nothing to deter their work.

Squishing your tits around his dick, he slides his dick between them as he watches your facial expressions knowingly. He quickly cums again, bending over to lick your face where his cum had covered as he continued to hump.

Pulling back by your hair he directs you back to his still throbbing erection. “Last time was cute, but suck like you really mean it this time yea? Don’t make me do all the work.” Giving you little time to even process that demand he goes to fuck your mouth again, a bit harder and with a lot less grace. Moaning around his dick, the hand prepping you slides in with two fingers. This time he seems to last longer, with a voice slowly becoming less human sounding he moans unabashedly “you’re doing so well for me, mama, fuck.” Pulling out suddenly, he cums on your chest, just as you were about to cum on the fingers, his seed catching on your open mouth as you pant.

The hands didn’t stop, nor did Paul as he tapped his still hard dick against your tongue. Very slowly moving down your body, he watches your body clench around nothing as if he knew what was going down.

“Stop looking you fucking creEP AH” another finger slips in as more hands cup your tits, toying with the sensitive nips as Paul kisses down your body with a gutteral hum. “Perfect mama, keep calling me that, sayin’ it like that. I’ll show you just how much I crave it.”

His dick slides against your clit, as the hand continues harshly. Rubbing gently at first but then a bit harder, a bit faster, watching you keen.

Pulling your legs over his shoulders as he keeps your thighs closed, Paul once again chases another climax with your thighs as you cum again against this invisible force.

Put still, nothing stops, not until Paul comes on your chest, licking up his cum and chasing down your mouth as he tongue fucks your own.

Kissing slowly down as he crawls in between your thighs, he gives a slow lick to your gushing cunt as you squeal. The warm, wet, and slimy tongue savouring your cum as if it was the best thing to eat. He lets the hands do most of the work, choosing to either watch from above you he makes an even bigger mess of himself, wiping your wet pussy with your panties to sniff. Or he licks you slowly, nursing on your clit with a patience you didn’t think he possessed.

But he was determined to make you cum more than he did, which was a feat in itself. Slowly, the invisible hands around your sensitive pussy faded away, leaving you gasping for breath and tired as hell. But Paul makes himself still very much apparent as he uses his palm to smack on your cunt a few times. Embarrassingly, soaking it as he did so.

Gathering your weak limbs, Paul slipped in easily, convincing himself that you were obviously made for him, not acknowledging how he made you this way. Instead preferring his delusions that you were perfect, just for him, as soon as he saw you on the boardwalk.

Wasting no time at all, Paul starts a punishing pace, meanly pinching at your teased nipples and smacking against your clit as you gush around him.

With weak arms you push at his chest, but he easily bats those away as he curls over you, giving you sweet little kisses as he rearranges your guts. Contrasted with the downright disgusting noises he makes as he moans unabashedly, his hips making loud clapping and squelching noises.

You cum around his cock but just as you were expecting he would, he pushes past your orgasm to chase the next one, making you outwardly cry from the overstimulation, barely making any noise as you pant from exhaustion. Paul only kisses up your tears, further silencing your moans as he tongue fucks your mouth.

After quickening up his pace you knew he’d be cumming soon, squirming under him, you really didn’t want to pay for plan b, but he isn’t moved so easily, pulling you back by your hips as he gasps, his forehead resting on your sternum. Just as you had predicted, his cum gushed into your spent cunt and you prayed that he would tucker himself out finally, but apparently god was determined to get your back broken, and so was Paul.

Hiking up your thighs over his own, your pelvis now elevated as your head still rests on the dirty ground, Paul starts to fuck you slower, but harder then before. Pushing up your shirt and bunching up your skirt at your waist, Paul all but salvates over them, laughing as he watches you try to cover them up embarrassed. Holding on to your forearms he uses them as leverage to fuck you deeper, making you cry out lewdly.

Time passes as Paul stays attached to you like a leech, and you start to wonder if he’ll ever let up. Swapping to different positions, trying to find the one he likes the best, but he just can’t seem to make up his mind as he fucks you over and over. Your only peace comes and you barely miss it but as a voice calls out, Paul slows down just enough. Dazed as all hell, you watch as Paul turns his head to regard the newcomers casually, not bothering to cover either of you up nor stop his menstrations.

You can barely understand the conversation but it seems to upset Paul, as he tightens his grip and growls, he fucking growls. And even more embarrassingly, the growl sends vibrations against you, making you mewl loudly. And that was met with whistles and chuckles, as Paul turns back to you to look at you adoringly.

The one who was mainly talking clears his throat, saying one last comment and despite the fact you expected Paul to pull away, instead he turns around and goes back to fucking you, turning your body sideways to where the three boys now stood. With one leg on his shoulder, he throws comments to the boys that you can’t process. It took two shuddering almost painful orgasms of yours until Paul came again. With no signs of stopping the two boys who kept quiet had to wrestle Paul off of you.

He growled, hissed, and made spitting noises like a cornered cat. But he eventually regained himself enough where they let him go. Allowing him to say goodbye, he crawls up to you again, using your panties to wipe both of your frothed up cum that spread onto your legs and abdomen, pocketing them and carrying you into your room through your open window.

Kissing you slowly he searches your room, for a keepsake or two as he looks for a pen. Grabbing your arm gently, he writes on your arm instructions before he kisses you again, tucks you into bed, locks up the window he just broke into, and lets himself out through the front door. Picklocking it closed behind him.

‘When you can move again, meet me at the boardwalk or I’ll come to you ❤️’ -Paul

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #tlb 1987 #tlb fanfic #tlb paul #paul the lost boys #tlb smut #the lost boys smut #yandere the lost boys #yandere Paul #yandere smut

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sapphicdib · 1 year ago

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my headcanon is that nhs thinks that they are more powerful than sliver idk i just feel that they THAT full of themselves

I’m assuming this is about the rot au! I recently added SOS to it, so this was a perfect ask!!

Sliver is local group Senior of a nearby cluster of iterators, which includes Chasing Wind. She never got along with Sig in general, and Moon was on thin ice. Now? She’s fucking PISSED. More below the cut bc this is gonna get LONG (also a transcript in case my handwriting is illegible).

So because the ancients are still alive during the rot au, Sliver hasn’t died yet. She is one of the youngest local group Seniors, one of the first of the mid gen Iterators, (her arm design matches Sig and Wind’s!) so she feels like she has to prove herself to the others. She takes her purpose and duties VERY seriously, so I put Wind in her Group, because his intense personality in relation to his citizens matches more to how Sliver would mentor someone, rather than Moon or Suns. Speaking OF Moon, they have a very tense relationship. Moon is a lot more laid back with her Group because when her personality cores were still stabilizing, her citizens treated her more like an accomplishment, an amazing feat, her construction was met with jubilation! Meanwhile, by the time Sliver was built, she was just another iterator, and meant to work like she was supposed to. Of course there was celebration, but her citizens treated her more as a means to an end, so she picked up on this and integrated it into her personality. When she was first put online, she did idolize Moon quite a bit, but eventually came to see her as a kinda shitty leader and too soft on her local group, especially Sig. She refers to Moon as Sig’s “handler” because she thinks he acts incredibly immaturely, and Moon is the one who has to yank his leash any time he gets a bit too annoying (though she doesn’t do a very good job, in Sliver’s opinion).

Sliver does not like Sig. Never has, and this shit has pushed her over the edge. She is incredibly aware of the intense political ramifications Sig and Pebbles’ actions have caused, and as local group Senior, she feels it is her responsibility to calm her group down and prevent them from getting hurt. She knows certain factions of citizens want to literally kill their iterators thanks to this, and if one of her group died she would see it as a MASSIVE failure on her part. She thinks it would make everyone think that she is an incompetent leader. In terms of her relationship with Pebbles, she still didn’t like him before, but she at least respected the fact he actually had a drive to solve the great problem, unlike Sig. Now she blames him for this mess as well, and is just as pissed at him.

As the news of this unfortunate development spreads, many workgroups are created, all with different goals. Some want to find a cure for the rot, to help calm Sig and Pebbles back down and hopefully repair their relationships with their citizens. Others are considering joining them, terrified of their citizens’ reactions and confiding in one another about what they should do. Sliver wants them dead. She is in a small workgroup that is attempting to find a way to straight up deactivate Sig and Pebbles to restore order. The problem is, she is not their senior and has no seniority privileges over them, so she has to figure out a way to take matters into her own hands.

Wind…Wind is Sig’s best friend. He is barely 50 cycles older than her, and despite Sliver’s VEHEMENT disapproval, they are very close. He plays video games with Sig and rants about his citizens being annoying, he actually drops his stoic personality around him and can chill out for a little while. However, despite the fact that he demands his citizen’s respect and is practically a dictator over his city, he is terrified of them. So, he took initiative when he was put online and scared THEM into submission before they had the chance to. Now? He’s even more afraid. He thinks his citizens will take the first opportunity to deactivate him in a form of rebellion. At first, he’s part of workgroups to try to find a cure, but eventually joins a few groups that are considering joining Sig and Pebbles. As the rot gets worse and he watches Sig’s personality get more and more corrupted, he realizes there’s no way to cure this in time, and…that’s a spoiler I might keep to myself for now >:3€

Thank you for being interested in my silly au!! I’ve actually started writing it, and chapter 1 is almost done! Feel free to send more asks x3

————

TRANSCRIPT:

SOS: This idiotic stunt of yours has gone too far. I am not asking you to fix this. I am telling you to.

CW: Sig…

SOS: Quiet, Wind.

SOS: I fail to understand why your handler refuses to do anything. You take Moon’s foolish mercy for granted. I will not be so kind.

NSH: PFFT!

NSH: “Handler”? Well that’s a new one~

NSH: Unfortunately for you,

NSH: You have no power over me.

NSH: No one does anymore.

#rain world #rain world downpour #no significant harassment #sliver of straw #rain world au #my art #rot au #rw #letters

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ghostkingdiangelo · 8 months ago

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I legit feel like Jason was only killed off because he was the only other straight white male character that Rick could kill off for social brownie points. I get the whole character arc that Apollo has after Jason dies and how that changed him as a person and how that could only happen to Apollo if it was Jason that died but that doesn’t excuse the fact that he killed off Jason bc he didn’t fit the political agenda behind his writing. This is proven more when he makes Piper gay afterwards as an attempt to invalidate her relationship with Jason and basically write Jason off completely from existence in the PJO universe. This just shows how little he cares about the characters and how he cares more about fitting the narrative of his books into his political righteous. To add more insult to injury, he tries to blame it on the false memories situation that they already moved past in the HoO series. Overall, it’s a disappointing way to write off a good wholesome character in order to meet the crowd’s demands and Rick scarified his own craft and art for it. It’s just sad.

#heros of olympus #pjo #jason grace #piper mclean #leo valdez #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #rick riordan #jiper #i hate this fandom #no hate to the gays #trails of apollo #jasiper

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arbitrarycategories · 7 months ago

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Hey would you mind sharing what the real point of jekyll and hyde is that Hollywood missed? I have never read the book

You just made my night actually THANK YOU

Long so it’s under a cut :)

(you should totally read the book, it’s not super long and it’s actually really good)

okay tw murder and suicide and like. Violence I guess. It’s a psychological thriller from the Victorian era idk what y’all expect

Alright here’s the part where I admit I’ve never seen a Jekyll and Hyde movie but I HAVE seen various iterations of him in pop culture monster movies where he’s some quirky background character yknow?? The pop culture idea of this guy is kind of wild

First things first!!! Pop culture would have you believe that Dr. Jekyll has a wife or a girlfriend or some shit that Mr. Hyde wants to ravage or cheat on or whatever!! This is false because the only female characters in the entire book are a little girl who gets trampled to establish how Evil Hyde Is and a woman who calls the cops after witnessing a murder as she took a smoke break on a balcony. Neither one of them even has a name :) this is a book with NO BITCHES okay??? There’s barely even any men

Important Character round up!

Mr. Utterson the Lawyer (most of the book is from his viewpoint)

Dr. Lanyon (a friend to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Utterson)

Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde (respected Chemist/criminal)

Poole the butler <3

And that’s IT.

Okay there’s also some parliament guy who gets murdered but like whatever. He’s just there to get killed. Bye.

So a very basic plot synopsis is that Mr. Utterson is the guy in charge of Dr. Jekyll’s Will. Because of this he happens to be sort-of-friends with Jekyll because neither of them really have many friends. They’re also both friends with Dr. Lanyon.

Mr. Utterson first becomes aware of Mr. Hyde as a person who exists when a friend (unimportant) of his tells him about this guy who trampled a little girl. Obviously this is fucked up, but the friend has more to the story. Bystanders didn’t let this guy just trample a little girl, they demanded compensation so that she could pay a doctor to help her. Hyde went to a door (which the friend points out bc he and Utterson are on a walk) and makes out a check under the name of Jekyll. And so Utterson is like. Huh what

He goes home and looks at Jekyll’s Will, and Hyde is the guy set to get all his stuff if Jekyll disappears!! And so Utterson is like well that doesn’t make sense for MY friend the Extremely Respected Chemist. So naturally he’s curious and goes poking in that polite Victorian way.

It turns out Hyde lives in Soho but is a FREQUENT visitor to Jekyll’s house, has a key and all the servants know him etc. nobody knows how he and Jekyll met and they’re all a little afraid to ask.

And then there’s a year long timeskip actually. Utterson asked and Jekyll said “yeah don’t worry about it :)” and then we just skip a year.

We come back because Mr parliament gets MURDERED in what seems to be a crime of passion by a certain Mr. Hyde. Like the fact that the guy killed was in parliament was a complete coincidence. I keep meaning to look up the guys name to see if he was a real guy who was just really hated or something but I never get around to it. Anyway. Hyde beats him to death with his cane.

OH YEAH. Break hang on.

HERES THE OTHER THING HOLLYWOOD FUCKS UP THAT I ALMOST FORGOT!!! Hyde is not Hulk!!! He’s not big he has no muscles he’s literally an itty bitty guy!! He’s described as “particularly small”, “little man”, “of small stature”. He’s tiny!!! Truly exemplifying that short people are closer to the devil etc whatever he’s itty bitty and super fucking mean like the worlds worst chihuahua given human form.

Alright back to PLOT

The police recognize Hyde pretty much from the witness description of him, and Utterson is like “well that’s easy I Know Where He Lives” but they can’t find him even though his neighbors all sell him out and they literally go to his place in Soho.

So Utterson goes to ask his good friend Jekyll, who he knows is close with Hyde, where the fuck his buddy is!!! And Jekyll is having like a full on nervous breakdown at this point. Jekyll swears that he’s “done with” Hyde and “he will never more be heard of”. He’s sweating and shaking and generally looking like he’s on drugs or something.

Hyde conveniently left a letter to Jekyll (wow!!) that basically said he had fled the country and thanks for being his friend this whole time :) Utterson has a lil convo with Jekyll where he becomes convinced that since all of Jekyll’s stuff went to Hyde if he disappeared that Hyde was planning to murder Jekyll but the heat from killing a member of parliament had scared him off so Jekyll is safe now. If what Utterson thought was happening was what was ACTUALLY happening this would probably be where the story ends. But NO. First bc Utterson hired a guy to analyze the handwriting on the letter from Hyde to Jekyll and the guy (literally named Mr. Guest) was like “yeah this is Jekyll writing with a different slant idk who he’s fooling” and so Utterson is now convinced that Jekyll is covering for Hyde for some reason

And SECOND because jekyll starts acting like a crazy person. Poole the butler shows up at Utterson’s house one day like “hey my boss is freaking me out and also his voice changed?? I think Hyde is living in his room and pretending to be jekyll”

So naturally they bust into his locked room with an axe. Like you do. It’s not his bedroom it’s like his chemistry room idk they just call it his cabinet but it’s Clearly Some Kind of Lab. Anyway they find Hyde’s dead body on the floor <3 he has pretty explicitly killed himself with cyanide.

They also find a couple letters, which make up the rest of the book.

The first one is from Dr. Lanyon (remember Lanyon?). Lanyon writes all about how Jekyll started acting like a crazy person and had him deliver a drawer (like, pulled out of a dresser and full of chemicals) from Jekyll’s cabinet to Hyde, who Lanyon has never met. The description is this part is actually really good, you can tell it’s Hyde who shows up to meet Lanyon even though it never says his name. This is the part where he mixes the chemicals like the worlds worst smoothie and then fucking Shapeshifts back into Jekyll right in front of Lanyon :) why did he Do this. At this point in the story we are hearing this from Lanyon’s letter instead of Lanyon himself because Lanyon fucking Died when it was still Uttersons pov and didn’t tell anyone what he had learned?? He thought nobody would believe him ig but he tells Utterson he has had a shock and will die within a few weeks and then he literally Does. Like what the fuck man.

The next letter is from Jekyll!! It is a confession of how exactly Hyde came to be AND WHY.

Look me in the eyes. THIS IS THE PART POP CULTURE GETS COMPLETELY WRONG!!!!!!

Jekyll, being a well respected Member of Society, wanted to expunge himself of all evil desires by splitting himself into two people, one who is good and one who is evil. He manages to make a chemical potion of some kind that lets him shift between two bodies. Here’s where the text will get you: Jekyll is an unreliable narrator.

IT DOESNT WORK!!!!! He claims that Hyde immediately felt more evil but was shocked when he switched back to Jekyll and didn’t feel any different than before. Jekyll is still just as good and JUST AS EVIL as before he downed his magic shapeshifting potion!! Jekyll didn’t invent a second, more evil form, he invented a mask he could hide behind that let him escape all accountability for his actions.

And you know the most damning proof?? The switch has started happening without him drinking the potion. He will go to sleep as Jekyll and wake up as Hyde, and it’s taking more and more doses to turn back into Jekyll. At the time he writes the letter, he is permanently stuck as Hyde, but the letter is from JEKYLL and laments the guilt he feels for actions done as Hyde. He condemns Hyde as if that IS a separate person!! But Hyde has the same mind and should that Jekyll does, just a different face, and Jekyll is lying to himself.

Anyway that’s what happens in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It’s all about this lawyer dealing with the most Batshit series of events a client has ever made him deal with <3

#jekyll and hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #arbitrary speaks #thanks anon!

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youaremyhome · 2 years ago

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Pieces of the Night: Supernova

Warnings: Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader, 18+ NSFW, smut, HEAVY non-con/dub-con, drug use, possessive behavior, blackmail, manipulation, DARK. More to add. Read at your own risk.

Notes: 3.4k words. This might have a few typos in it and ill come back later to fix it but I'm just so excited to post this bc it might be my fav chapter so far!!!

Taglist: @belcalis9503 @ACRAZYBIOTCH374 @fangirlwithlou @malfoytargaryen @RAFECAMERONSBADUSSY @takin-care-of-business @watersquirtpewpewboomm @jpmswife

Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist! (and I'm sorry if i missed anyone that's asked already!)

You sit across Rafe in a diner booth. The menu is planted in front of your face to avoid his, eyes roving across the plastic pages meaninglessly. After your crying fit, he rubbed your tears away and led your speechless form out of the courtyard.

Now, you were hunched in a cracked leather booth with mascara smudged and eyes puffy.

Originally, you had expected Rafe to take you somewhere unnecessarily nice and expensive. He seemed like the type to flaunt his father’s wealth for praise from others. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen with you. Which suited you just fine because you did not want to be seen with him.

“So, where were you?”

Peeking over the top of the long menu, he’s leaned back, all lazy confidence and smug.

“Where was I for what?” You ask loftily.

“Don’t be cute.” Rafe knocks his knuckles on the table absently, gaze right on you. “Where were you Friday?”

“Oh, the day you demanded I go on a date with you?” Innocently you raise your eyebrows like you just remembered. “I went to the movies with friends.”

Shrugging, you go back to the menu. Heart beginning to pick up pace with anxiety at his reaction to your admission of standing him up. That night, you had asked your roommates for a dinner and movie date, dragging it out as long as possible.

Tension rolls in like fog, condensing on top of your shoulders, his anger a tangible thing and you’re left to wonder what your punishment will be this time. Because while part of this whole thing is a fucked-up power play of blackmail, it’s also equally a punishment for your stunt. An inkling of the lengths Rafe would go to just to get what he wants.

“I was running around this fucking town just for you to be at the movies?”

“Coffee?”

Rafe is interrupted by the young waitress, her polite smile dissolving into a panicky look when he directs his glare at her.

“I’d love some.” Tilting your head up and smiling sweetly, you push the empty mug closer to her.

An awkward beat of silence blankets the air before she’s pouring the hot liquid into your mug and then scurries away. With your lips still curled up from the smell of coffee, it instantly drops when you meet cold blue eyes. Rafe’s jaw ticks and an unreadable emotion crosses his face when his eyes dip down to your now frowning mouth.

You don't have anything else to say to him, so you let the silence stretch. Now that you’re in a public place, you’re more comfortable meeting his gaze head-on, mind cleared from your emotional episode.

“You’re not at all like how I thought you’d be.” Rafe finally says, but he doesn’t sound disappointed about the fact either.

You nod. “Yeah, that generally happens when you make assumptions about people without getting to know them.”

You pour cream and heaps of sugar into the mug, his eyes tracking across your movements.

“Then,” Rafe places his elbows on the table, leaning forward. Eyes intent solely on you. “Let me know you.”

“Pfft.” You blow out. “After all that shit you’ve pulled? No way.” It’s comical to think it would be that easy. To forget the things he’s said and done when he’s still a stranger to you.

“Wasn’t really asking.” Rafe waves his hand.

“See you can’t just say things like that.” You give him an incredulous look, like he should know better.

He’s quick to ask, “Why not?”

“Because it's disgusting –”

“Wanting to know you is disgusting?” Rafe scoffs. Shaking his head about to argue back but you beat him to the punch.

“It's the way you go about it –”

“Would you rather have me beg?” Rafe rumbles, voice gravely and low. “Cause I’ll do it. Get right on my knees for you and beg for every crumb of information you’ll give me.”

That stuns you. Warmth blossoms up between your legs all the way up to your cheeks, hating your body for such a reaction. Looking away, you nervously pick at the leather cushion as you await Rafe’s mocking. It never comes through, his imagination taking over while you sit there all embarrassed and cute. Wondering how loud you’d be with his tongue so deep inside you –

“Y’all ready to order?” The waitress asks out of nowhere, popping Rafe’s little daydream bubble.

You order french toast with bacon and sausage while he gets the cheeseburger, handing the menus back to her as she runs away again. If only you could do that.

“So, you a big breakfast person?” Rafe casually asks, ruining your fantasy of hightailing it out of there.

You are, but you aren’t going to be telling him that. He doesn’t deserve to know an iota about you. All the little things that build you as a person will stay hidden in a vault away from him.

Shrugging, you continue to pick at the leather, exposing more of the soft spongy texture of the filling of the seat. Though you know that you’re stuck here with him, it doesn’t mean you’ll make it easy.

“C’mon, give me something, something.” He drones out. “This is supposed to be a date remember?” His voice is coaxing but a glance up at his face reveals his sneer.

“Do you always blackmail your dates?” You remark, arching your eyebrow at him.

“Just you.” Rafe grins.

“I must be so special.” Rolling your eyes, you send him an obnoxiously fake smile.

“You are.”

His tone turns serious, and you glare back down to the seat. Blue eyes chase your gaze, trying to keep a hold of you.

He really does need to stop saying that kind of seemingly genuine shit because some tiny part of you lights up like a Christmas tree. And just as quickly as the idea sweeps through, you squash it like a bug. It’s only because no one has ever shown you this kind of passion before and your lizard brain is lapping it up. Thirsty from the barren wasteland of your love life.

The fear is still there, your skin tight from the dried tears but you remind yourself that Rafe is only a college boy. Barely a man. You just need time to figure a way out of this situation.

Eventually, the food arrives but it’s difficult to swallow anything down. With him directly in front of you, Rafe has a front seat of every passing emotion on your face. From the delighted hum of the first bite to how your jaw moves as you chew. You’ve never felt so exposed, so aware of yourself with every movement you make.

You take subtle stock of him as well. How the big burger looks small in his hands, the surprising decorum of his eating, unlike other males. Wordlessly, he hands you a french fry and in exchange, you hand him a strip of bacon. You reason that it's better than talking to him.

Throughout the meal, you start exchanging more pieces of food back and forth. A silent communication that has you slowly but surely relaxing in his presence. There’re moments where it looks like he wants to say something, decides against it and hands you another fry. The quiet is nice, allowing your mind peace from today's events. Allows you to forget who you’re with for bits at a time.

Once your belly is full and the bill is paid, uneasiness creeps back onto your skin like spiders. It’s the longest you’ve gone without talking to him, but Rafe looks content with the quiet too, something you weren’t counting on. You’ve come to realize through your previous interactions that he rambles a bit often, and you’re not sure what to make of this.

Rafe leads the way out of the diner, holding the door open for you, keeping his hands to himself as you walk down the sidewalk. It’s a stark constant to when you first arrived here: with his hand on your back, and threats of being good whispered in your ear. Maybe is he able to –

“What are you doing?” You squeak, unexpectedly being herded down an alleyway. A hand wrapping around your bicep to lure you in deeper.

Rafe says nothing when he shoves your back against the brick wall, blue eyes a thunderstorm of chaos before he’s stealing your breath from your lips. He cranes your neck up with both hands, devouring your lips and then your tongue. The force of it is too great, gasping into it only to be able to breathe better making you inhale the taste of him.

A wet smacking pop sounds when Rafe pulls away, pearly teeth biting his pink lips fill your vision before you’re staring at the other end of the alley.

“Told you I’d get on my knees f’you.”

Rafe Cameron settles on his knees in front of you and all you can do is gape back, dumbfounded. Dirty blond fringes kiss his eyelashes, mirroring your open mouth as his tongue swipes at his bottom teeth. His hands slide up from your knees to your thighs painstakingly slow, gentle as a boyish smile grows.

“Rafe – not here…please.” Your voice can’t seem to go above a whisper, heart rate doubling in a second.

He ignores you and it’s becoming an obvious trait for him. His knees dig into the gravel uncomfortably but with the warm scent of you being so close, he can’t think of anything else.

Without permeable, he’s burying his face in the soft cotton of your leggings at your crotch, crudely inhaling and licking a stripe up your covered mound. He moans and swears he can almost taste you through the fabric, tongue dampening it as he teases you. Hands groping at your thighs up to your ass, flattening his tongue to cover every inch he can.

With layers between his tongue and your pussy it shouldn’t feel as good as it does. Wiggling his tongue around slowly, like the push and pull of the ocean. The muted feeling of his hot tongue seeping through the material makes a whine crack out of your chest. Again, you protest while your hands flutter down to pat his head, eyes darting around the empty space. A pierce of anxiety hits you and blends with the thrill that is building up between your legs. A familiar unwanted buzz you’ve come to dread and anticipate.

Your mouth opens again for a protest, but Rafe interrupts, staring up at you with full dark lashes and panting.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so far left field, you don’t understand him until he repeats himself, swiping kisses around your hips as he awaits your answer.

When you do, he pulls on your waistband, tugging your leggings down until they hit midthigh, uncovering and restricting you all at once. Threading your fingers in his blond locks you tug, hoping to pull him upright, to stop this – whatever is happening.

A heavy groan vibrates along your mound and burns down to your clit. Rafe is quick in pressing his face right up to your cunt and kissing it. Like a man starved, his fingers pull at your thong to the side as his tongue slips through your folds, taking one, two moments of exploring and then finding your clit. The tip of his tongue, flicking and prodding as he switches from caresses to sucking.

“Favorite book?”

Your body feels heavy like gravity is pushing you down while your head is floating away from you. Answering his questions scrambles your brain more as he continues his assault of pleasure. His hands encompass your hips, supporting the roll of them along his mouth. Grating your hips up again, the strong bridge of his nose slides and press on your clit as his tongue breaches you for the first time.

It’s a damn struggle to keep your voice down, for your moans not to echo off the brick walls of this deserted alley. Rafe moves his head side to side, working his tongue further into you only making it harder to be quiet. You’ve never fallen into the haze so easily before, any thoughts of your hatred for him shutting off completely. He’s in complete control even in this position, demanding your pleasure and bits of yourself.

Clenching on his tongue is a different type of sensation you’ve never felt before, soft but hard enough to feel it. Hot and wet with plenty of friction as his nose bullies your clit. You whine in disappointment whenever he pulls it out, asking you meaningless questions. Dragging out this tortured pleasurable hell of yours. Edging you into a lust-induced daze, body preparing for that ultimate high.

Fingers knead at the fat of your ass and in the back of your mind you’d wish he would slip a couple of those long fingers in you. Your thighs start to twitch as you get closer, pulling his hair harsher causing his attack to increase with vigor. His teeth graze the sensitive flesh of the hood of your clit and you’re squealing with no inhibitions.

“What’s something you’re scared of?”

It’s the first question with real significance behind it. And although you’ve told yourself earlier to lock those pieces of you away, it all comes tumbling out like the spilling of glass. You answer with no hesitation, just honesty.

“You!”

Rafe loses all control he thought he had. He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue sliding back and forth as the suction deepens. The pressure of his lips is like a vacuum as he works you into a frenzy. He growls back into you, responding to the soft pitiful whimpers you make. Squeezing your ass as he presses his face deeper, your slick covering his chin and dripping down his throat. The front of his teeth grinds at the top of your slit, hips jolting with the strike of lightening of your orgasm, a hoarse cry that you have to bite off.

Hiccups break between your erratic breathing, the rush of your high lasting longer than ever before as Rafe keeps his mouth right there, right in the same spot that’s making you see white specks of stars.

His tongue softens, flat and drinking as much of you as he can. The combination of spit and cum makes everything slippery, soft lips kissing down your slit to your pulsing hole and back up again.

Finally, thinking you might just have to live in this never ever dying bliss with Rafe between your thighs forever, he stands up.

“So good f’me,” Rafe mumbles. One hand pets your hair while the other reaches down, you think he’ll pull your pants up for you.

Instead, Rafe is undoing his own, taking his rock-hard cock out and you’re shaking your head no before he can do anything.

“Uh-uh, hush.” He chuckles. “Not gonna fuck you…” You watch as he pulls on his cock, tugging with a moan. “Gonna cum with just the taste of you on my tongue.”

You can’t tear your eyes away as he pleasures himself in front of you, the weeping tip brushing along the top of your thong, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you watch. The rough whine of your own name makes ruminates of your high bleed back in, hips thrusting closer to him of their own fruition.

His stroking speeds up as he cums all over you, only stopping once there’s nothing else to wring out. It’s the first time you’ve really gotten a good look at him down there, thick and heavy with an angry red mushroom head. It’s always the assholes that have the best dicks.

Heavy pants begin to synchronize together, both of you staring down at the mess on you. You blink heavily, resting them closed and it's then you get a flash of another time you were covered by him.

Look like an angel with all that white on you.

His words echo in your head, giving you the willpower and common sense to pull away from him. Rafe stumbles back a bit from your shove, your fingers fumbling with your waistband as you quickly pull it up.

“Woah hey, it’s ok. Relax.” Rafe attempts to pacify you, seeing the thoughts whirl behind your eyes. He rights himself up, towering over you as his hands soothe down your arms.

You wiggle uncomfortably, the touch of him scratching at you. “It's not ok! You can’t keep doing this to me!”

Rafe sputters. “What, g-giving you so many orgasms that, that you can’t keep your eyes open?” His grip tightens, bending lower to get in your face. “You sure know how to keep your legs open!”

Your gasp is like the sound of a shotgun firing, silencing the air around you. Rafe’s face softens, loosening his hold as one hand scrubs down his face in regret.

“Look, I didn’t mean that –”

“Yes, you did.” You say strongly.

“Nah, I didn’t.” Rafe points a finger at you, shaking it in your face. “You’re just pissing me off right after we had a great time together.”

You know you can’t fight him physically and now with his blackmail, you don’t know if you can fight him off mentally either. It’s exhausting going from fear to ecstasy to anger, all in a loop every time with him. Maybe you did ruin what could’ve been a nice moment between the two of you, but hasn’t he already ruined the foundation? How could he ever think you can get past what he’s done to you.

He's delusional, is what he is. Speaking to him rationally doesn’t work and each time you fight him, the more extreme he becomes. So, maybe it was time to choose a different route. One that can either break him or break you.

“You’re…right.” The words are bitter on your tongue, lying straight through your teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Rafe’s surprise is easy to read on his face, an open book you know you’ll have to use to your advantage. An arm slings low around your waist, pulling your bodies tightly together as his other hand cups the back of your neck. Leaning down to press his lips to yours, the kiss is a slow burn of rekindling desire for him and a reluctant duty for you.

You can taste yourself on his lips, your cum slicking up the movement of your mouths. Giving into it is easier than you’d like it to be, the salty tang shared as he swipes his tongue in your mouth. Licking his way against yours, the clench of your thighs is involuntary.

Pulling back, long fingers slide up to your face, his thumb tapping at the corner of your mouth. Rafe’s gaze zeroed in on your swollen lips.

“Smile for me, angel.”

It might seem like a request, but you know it’s a thinly veiled command. Straining your muscles to trick your lips back into a smile, demurely looking up at him in hopes to end this date already. The tip of his thumb hooks at your smile line, forcibly stretching your lips. He says your name like a curse.

“Pretty little smile makes my dick hard.”

Bruising one more kiss to you, Rafe takes your hand and leads you out the alley. You don’t know where’re going but you don’t question it either. Conscious of the fact you must choose your battles wisely from now on.

Rafe sticks to the subject of you. Asking about your classes, assignments, and various mundane things. You answer as vague as possible, upset with yourself for succumbing to his earlier interrogation.

Walking south of the campus, you don’t recognize much but just an odd sense of familiarity. You don’t often make your way to this side of the town, all the bars, and campus buildings further north. The trees shake their limbs in the winter breeze creating an eerie warning.

“Where’re we going?”

Opting for casual, your voice betrays your nerves. Rafe squeezes your hand and pulls, eliminating the gap you’ve made during the walk.

“Figured we can keep our date going.” Rafe pivots, heading into a building. “Don’t worry, you’ve been here before.”

With dawning horror, you know exactly where you are. The place that started this whole mess. Somewhere you’ve never expected to be again.

You’re back at Rafe’s apartment.

#pieces of the night #dark fics #dark!rafe cameron #rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #obx #obx fic #fanfiction #smut #rafe cameron smut #outer banks smut #rafe cameron x you

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romanarose · 1 year ago

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Darkness on the Edge of Town: Chapter 3

Joel Miller x Fem!reader

Chapter 1 : Chapter 2 Masterlist Join my taglis

Fic Summary: Right before a mandatory FEDRA lockdown, Joel saved a woman in an ally from FEDRA guards and is forced to house her for the entire lockdown. I.e theres only one bed

Chapter Summary: You and Joel pretend life is normal

Warning: SUBBIEST OF SUB JOEL, dirty talk, PIV sex, fingering, Joel being a bit worried he crossed a consent line given the circumstances but he didn't, uhhhhh thanks it? if i miss anything LMK

A/N did I return 4 months later? yes. Will it take another 4 months for the last chapter? I hope not. bc I actually have inspo lol. I had given up but then i got an anon asking for more which always perks me up, so, remember, if you like a fic thats been dead a while, politely tell the writer you are looking forward to more! (politely, do not demand)

**************

When you woke up, Joel’s arm was around you.

You suspected he was lonely, lonelier than he’d like to admit, and his subconscious sensed the warm body next to him and gravitated towards it. Briefly, you wondered if he had been married, if maybe his wife had died during or after the outbreak. Is that why he had pads in the bathroom? Had it been recent, or had he just not been willing to trade for them because he was secretly sentimental. You’d seen people get sentimental over a lot weirder things than pads.

You decided to just lay there, enjoying the warmth of his company, silent as ever but no less safe and strong and assuring. He was masculine and you were drawn to that, but a healthy masculinity, the kind where he was the strong silent type but he could not walk away from what was happening to you, no matter how much he wanted to. The kind that didn’t kick you out no matter how much you annoyed him. And yes, you were fully aware you annoyed him, because god, he was so fun to annoy. His grumpy little face, grumpy little frown, the grumpy little lines between his eyebrows you just wanted to kiss…

Images of last night flashed through your head, sucking on the fat tip of his cock, grinding yourself on his leg, the whimpers and shaky moans he made…

“Fuck!” Joel sat up, jolting awake and realizing her was entangled with you. “Sorry, fuck- shit fuck!” He ran both sets of fingers through his messy morning curls, his tan skin even showing a hint of flush at the embarrassment. He’s never seen him so uncertain.

“Joel, It’s okay” You reach for him and he flinches, making you pause… but when you reach for him again, slowly this time, he allows it.

He’s frozen, eyes wide and sad and soft all at once, a new look. Guilt. “I shouldn’t have done that and I should not have let last night happen and-”

“Joel…” You chuckle softly, not mocking him, not belittling his concerns, but merely from the warmth in your heart that such a hardened man could be so soft hearted. “Last night happened because you and I both wanted it.”

“But I shouldn’t have done that to you”

“You didn’t do anything to me. I offered, I wanted to, and if I remember correctly, I did most of the work” You give him a quick wink and he relaxes just a bit. “Joel, I had already made it to adulthood when this outbreak happened. I am not a child, or a mentally stunted youth. I’ve survived this long because I am strong. I know you had to save me, and that’s why you probably view me as someone vulnerable and in need of protection but that’s just not the truth. I appreciate you being considerate, but I really don’t need to be coddled.” You watch as the words settle on his, the gears turning in his head. “Do you regret last night?”

Joel considered this… He felt like he should… but he didn’t. “No”

You give him a smile. “I don’t either. It was fun, you’re hot, I’m hot, we fulfilled a natural urge. And… We’re still stuck together…” Letting go of his hand, you plant both of your palms on bed, positioning yourself on all fours. “So who’s to say it won’t happen again?” With a quip of your mouth, you tease him slowly crawling forward as his eyes darken with desire. In a few moments, you are face to face, your own eyes boring into his milk chocolate ones as you see his need for you, the way he’s fighting with himself. You wondered if he had been religious, if that was the reason he felt this guilt. Did he have a daughter? Did he know someone that had been taken advantage of? These were thing you wanted to know about the sweet, gruff man in front of you… but right now, the main thing you wanted to know was if he could stretch your vagina the way he stretched your mouth last night.

The impulse must’ve won over, because Joel leaned forward, kissing you, attempting to gain some sort of control over the situation.

But you knew Joel a decent amount by this point, been able to glean a vague map of his personality from the glimpses you got into his psyche and you knew what he needed. Joel mother fucking Miller did not need control. He needed to let go.

So you help him with that.

Hands firm on his slightly softened chest, still hardened with physical labor but a little squish from age, you push him down gently, never breaking the kiss and you claim his mouth for your own and guide him to lay down. Laying there for a while, you don’t push anything, allowing the moment to do its work. You had to be gentle with a man like Joel. Firm and clear, to be sure, but careful. He’d be spooked away easily, and the last thing you wanted was to add to his nerves. Joel just submitted… so easily.

Emboldened by the make out and the way you ground your body against him, Joel slips his hands down your pants- his pants- and begins to massage your mound. Joel may enjoy letting go, but he is no stranger to pleasing a woman, and he quickly had you moaning into his mouth.

“Can I ride you, Joel? Please?” You beg for his permission, ready to put the built muscles of hard work to use on him.

“Oh god, yes” Joel is eager for you, ready to feel the warmth of a woman for the first time in god knows how long. He feels you begin to move to climb on top, but he instead pushes you down, angling his body above yours for a flash of dominance. You look up at him all bright-eyed and ready, but he had your comfort in mind. Sliding his hands down your pants once more, Joel plays with your pussy lips before asking permission. “Let me open you up first.” He didn’t want to sound braggadocious, but he was aware of his size.

When you agreed, Joel wasted no time and slid 2 long, thick fingers right inside you, curling up each time he pumped inwards. You hum in appreciation as he continued kissing your neck.

“Can I mark you, beautiful?” Joel asked, taking a light nibble on the soft flesh off your neck so it was clear what he wanted to mark.

“Yesyesyesyesyesyes pleeeeaasssee” In rapid succession, you not only grant him permission but beg him to make you his, if only for now, if only for this week, you were his and he was yours. You buck your hips up subtly to meet his hand, feeling the warmth bubbling inside you.

Joel began to suck on your neck, nibbling a bit on your shoulder to test the grounds and when you moan, he bites harder… and harder… and harder until you scream out his name and he attempts to pull away, afraid he hurt you, but your death grip on his hair keeps him latched onto you, pressing his teeth further into your skin. You cum around his fingers with a death grip, Joel’s body rutting against yours.

As you came down from your high, Joel disengaged from the attachment but never from your skin for more than a second, licking and sucking and kissing over that bleeding spot. With the slow of your heavy breaths, you could hear his desperate whines from his throat.

“Joel, Joel, baby” You force him to look at you, his eyes wet and mouth bloody, worried he did something wrong. “Goddamn…” You surge forward, just desperate to kiss him again, unable to be away from him for more than a moment to breathe, sometimes you didn’t even want that, perfectly happy to suffocate together and die like this. As you kiss, you guide him to lay down, taking off your pants as well as his, you climb on top and straddle his slutty little waist.

His obscenely large hands tug at your shirt. “Off, please? Please, please I need- fuck, I need to see you.”

Happy to oblige the handsome man under you, you place your hands over his and tighten them to a grip on your shirt. Guiding him, you allow him to pull the shirt over your body and you smile at the awe in his face. Joel paws at your breasts and you slide your slick core over his hard cock that rested against his belly.

“In my mouth” Joel begs, and you need to ask what he wants to suck on, his eyes are trained on your tits. “Need them in my mouth, please.”

You lean over, and Joel quickly takes your right nipple in his mouth, making the sounds of your pleasure fill the room. “Eager boy” You coo at him, tugging gently on his hair just to hear those needy whimpers again. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

While he remains otherwise occupied, you line his fat tip up at your entrance and slowly, slowly work your way down his length.

Joel’s lips let go of his ministrations on your tits, his head hanging back as he groans your name loudly. His palms find your ass, the sheer size of them spread out nearly covering the whole expanse, and with a bruising grip he begins to rock you on his cock.

“So goddamn tight, fuck”

You would be, you hadn’t had sex in god knows how long. Not the best pickings right now in the men department.

“You close, Joel?” You tease him. “Been so long inside a pussy, you’re gonna just cum right after sliding in?” Working those leg muscles, you begin to bounce on him, rewarding you with a moan and a tight scrunch of his face. He was trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by cumming in seconds, but you found it unbelievably hot. Making it your mission to make him cum, you lean backwards and brace yourself against his strong, meaty thigh and reach until you find what you're looking for; his hairy, sweaty balls. You play with them, rolling them around in your hand and finding the right rhythm until he’s bucking up his hips.

“Ho-o-o-o-o-oly shit! FUUUUUCK! You’re gonna- FUCK! You gotta stop that, you’re gonna make me- ohhhh, fuuuuck!” He’s practically thrashing beneath you. It was salacious, seeing his broad, strong body so submissive for you, beyond erotic seeing him an absolute mess for you, such a far cry from the man who rescued you that first day. That Joel was strong, dominant, in charge and clear headed. The Joel you had now? This Joel was submissive, fucked out and writhing, completely at you mercy.

The power of a good blowjob.

This Joel needed you to take care of him, and take care of him you would.

You continued bouncing off him, Joel’s hands having moved to the sheets for fear of hurting you with his grip, and he was trying to best to hold on to his own orgasm… but when he opened his eyes to see your cheeky, grinning face smiling down at him… he knew your were playing with him, and he couldn't help but smile back.

“Fucking brat!” But he was smiling, thrusting up into you and pawing at your breasts, bound and determined to make you cum before him.

Both of your attempts to make the other cum first backfired, both of you cumming at the same time. You scream his name while Joel shouts obscenities, not doubt irritating the neighbors trapped in the same apartment complex with you both all week. Exhausted, your sweaty body slumps over his, and you are delighted to feel his arms wrap protectively over you. It was good to know he wouldn’t turn straight back into the Joel you had known before right after shooting his cum inside you.

“Probably should’ve pulled out, huh?”

“You seemed a little preoccupied.” Always gotta be a pain in his ass.

“Go to sleep, you’re less annoying that way.” His voice was gruff but quite and his grip on you remained steadfast.

“Wait until I start sleep talking. You’ll never be rid of this mouth.”

“Oh Jesus.”

In his arms, you fall back asleep, his cock still inside you, but you don't care. None of it mattered. Not the circumstances of why you were here, not all the times he ignored you, not the dingy apartment room or the drool and cum and sweat on the sheets, swirling around the room and permeating your nose. In times like these you learn to take love where you can get it. Not that you thought you were in love, no. You weren’t stupid. But there was a version of love here, in this act, and affection that didn’t exist in the late night hook ups, meet ups where you were pressed against an alleyway by someone whose name you didn’t even know because intimacy more than penetration hurt. This was something different. Something fleeting and short and ill-timed but gentle and caused your heart to swell in just the right way. For this week, you could live in a bubble with Joel, just to have a taste of normalcy for a few godforsaken days. Both of you deserved it.

You dreamt during your nap. You dreamed most nights of a life you could never have again. A life of drinks and fun and holidays, family, rest, 40 hour work weeks… simple things. Tonight you were at a bar, at an open mic night, the sound of guitar playing and muffled singing ringing in your ears as you begin to stir awake, the sounds of the dream bleeding into real life.

‘Oh yeah, life goes on long after the thrill of live’n is gone‘

A blanket is tucked tightly over your, protecting your modesty despite Joel seeing you naked before. A gentleman, that one, no matter how much he tries to act like that part of him died. When you finally drag your eyes open, curious if you’re just plain hallucinating the singing of the John Melloncamp song, you are surprised to see the back of Joel’s chair with his salt and pepper hair popping over the top and the head of his guitar coming out of the side.

Joel was playing guitar for you.

Turning to the right to find your previously discarded clothes, instead find a fresh pair of sweats and a flannel laid out for you. Joel’s music pauses as he hears the rustling of the bed, but he continues, blending the song into an acoustic version of Simply the Best, the strum of his guitar much more pleasant a wake up than you’ve gotten since childhood. Instead of the sweats, you opt to steal a pair of boxers.

As he sings, you walk up behind him to wrap your arms around his chest, and he accu

“Now darl’n, did you purposely only button two buttons on this flannel just to- god dammit, ain’t even wearing pants.” He sounds like he’s grumbling, but you know him better by now. Although you adore the music, you take the guitar out of his hands and carefully lay it on the floor before straddling his lap.

“Can we just pretend?”

He didn’t need to ask what you meant. “Yeah we can pretend.”

Just for this week, you were a normal couple in the year 2003, having a stay-cation. Maybe American would come on, maybe you’d make him rewatch Sex and the City. All that was up in the air. Right now, you were just waking up and wearing his clothes like everything was normal and the outside didn’t exist.

You spent the whole day and the next talking. Joel wasn’t surprised by that; it was all you had done this whole week, even when you two fucked your mouth was running. Unless, of course, he had you occupied with his dick. Most of the time was spent talking about things from before, but only in a vague sense. He never mentioned Tommy or Sarah, and he didn’t know what family you have or had. He told you he did construction, you told him you liked Star Wars.

“At least we got to see Episode III before the outbreak. I wouldn’t be able to stand the suspense. I think I’d hunt down George Lucas and ask him what happened.”

Shirtless from your last fuck, Joel strummed his guitar while you talked, light and airy as to not seem like he was playing over you, but giving the room a relaxed, fun ambiance. “You think Goerge Lucas is alive?”

“I dunno, I think a lot of those rich guys are.”

“Maybe the ones with money and political connections. Like Swartzanagger. Or a Kennedy.”

“I met Natalie Maines”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. It’s so weird. Last I heard of her country stations were boycotting her music because she said something against George Bush. No wonder she was shoveling shit in Philly.”

Joel hummed in agreement, stating that Sarah Michelle Geller lives in the Boston QZ. Before the conversion could continue, you both hear a shout from the window.

“MILLER!”

“God fucking dammit.” Joel set his guitar aside, digging for his discarded shirt to go to the window, but saw you headed right for it. He shouted your name, but you didn’t listen. You never fucking do. He scrambled to pulling the gray shirt over himself, before shoving you aside just as you pull up the window.

Fucking Ross was below.

“What the fuck do you want, Ross” He calls below, continuously trying to push you away from the window while you pushed right back, bickering with him. He didn’t want you anywhere in shooting distance.

Ross and several other guards were standing there, arms.

“3 days left, Miller. What’s the plan?” When Joel didn’t answer, Ross continued. “You can’t keep her up there forever.”

Annoyed, Joel raised an arm to the window pane and cocks and eyebrow at the young man. “You still on about this? Can’t get pussy anywhere else?”

You peak out from under Joel’s arm, grinning even through Joel’s knee was trying to shove you away.

Ross wasn’t having it, raising his Joel.

Immediately, Joel’s body tackled you down and out of the way.

“SOON AS SHE’S OUT OF THAT APARTMENT, SHE’D RIGHT BACK WHERE SHE STARTED, MILLER!”

Joel waited, body covering over yours with a protective heaviness unless the footsteps and chatter retreated… but then he stayed, he stayed over you, as if as soon as you stood up you’ll be taken from him and the first sense of normal since Sarah’s death will be ripped apart.

He tucked his head into your neck, not ready to give up defeat… but unsure what to do. You weren’t safe. He didn’t save you.

“Joel…” You ask him, still pressed into the hardwood floor but not complaining. “What am I gonna do…”

*************

Thank you to the person who sent the anon saying they'd love more. that gave me so much motivation,

@trinkets01 @ninebluehearts@luciannadraven33 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @buriednurbckyrd @hiroikegawa @whatthefishh @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @koshkaj-blog

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