#pov: you're frank | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

werezmastarbucks · 3 months ago

Text

spite

pic credit

in which a big fight between you and Yoongi nearly results in Jungkook's death

husband!yoongi x f!reader + jungkook (?)

warnings: angst, topic of cheating, physical violence (1%), paranoid/depressed state, Yoongi's pov 65%, intense jealousy

author's note: i was lying in bed at three am and wanted drama, and also i want a house so i am manifesting

word count: 5659

music: my spring playlist

Uh, the house. In every room, there was a breath of you. Sweet sea air knew it was always welcome into the ajar kitchen window where bright blue curtains flapped in applause to it. You've been busy decorating the house for the last year and a half, which was two years after the wedding, which was two years after you met Yoongi. That's how much time you've been together. And almost for each memory, you found something to put into this house. The dream catcher you'd bought at the market in Seoul the week after you met, the carpet you nearly killed each other over: it was too tigery, too orange to Yoongi's taste. It literally depicted a tiger crawling through the jungle, in the medieval stylistic: ugly cat with a silly flat face and bulging eyes. He found it too out of place, just like he sometimes found you. But he came to be somewhat used to it, whereas he loved you. You just liked bright things. Sea green pine branches were peeking into the living room window where the blue round coffee table with thick feet always held some kind of a vase, or a statuette. Greneery on the walls. Cacti, similar to the ones you almost landed your butt on, in a botanic garden, when Yoongi accidentally pushed you in the crowd. Basically, it would be more frank to say that a lot of things in the house reminded you of your time together.

Which was already going on solid.

And yet, sometimes you fought. The dark green book case shuddered as you rushed past it and painfully bumped your shoulder into it. There was a Turkish vase on top, which you found in a second-hand store, which turned out to be an Edip Çini's work, a relatively famous ceramic master, whose little piece of art ended up in a store in Osaka. Now it dangerously swayed but stayed in place. Yoongi constantly scolded you benevolently, like an old man, for putting unstable pieces on tops of shelves, that always swayed, because you always bumped into said shelves. As you ran into the bedroom, your mind registered the sound of it moving somewhere in the tenth layer of your consciousness. Your focus was on your husband and the poison your brain was producing under the guise of chemicals that fed the toxic part of you. The thought of him constantly surrounded by girls, and his stupid moon face with black compassionless eyes, when you spoke about your concerns.

"You keep pushing it. It's not normal", he says in his unbothered voice which he had specifically crafted to deal with your tantrums. He never calls them tantrums, but you notice that for Yoongi, some of your outbursts are too much of a disruption, with all his collected quiet in which he resides.

"You just don't pay attention to it anymore", you press, "because you're constantly surrounded by people, and so when she puts her hand on your shoulder, you just don't see it as anything..."

He doesn't even let you finish, rolling his eyes, straightening his back painfully and putting his hands on it for support. The pregnant woman pose he usually strikes when he's observing. Yoongi is halfway through gathering the laundry for the basket, cosy, homely, in an old shirt and loose sweatpants, hair unmade, all over his face. And now he looks like you're dragging him by the hook plunged in his chin, and right into the sea. And all he has energy for, is objecting at half volume.

"And what? And what?" his voice is low, challenging. "You think she will make me subconsciously sleep with her? Or that I will sleep with her and won't notice?"

This tone always gaslights you into shutting up. Look how stupid your arguments are. The thing he doesn't get is, sometimes even his favorite girl feels insecure. He works with the most beautiful women in South Korea and just lazily expects you to never, ever compare yourself to them, even when they collectively hug him for a photoshoot in the studio, showing him their undying gratitude by pressing into his body, their silky expensive hair brushing against his face, their sweet, four hundred euro perfume enveloping him, getting him drunk. He spoke particularly sweetly of one singer with whom he worked the most lately; Seo Yun this, Seo Yun that, Seo Yun came over to redo the second verse, Seo Yun brought my favorite cheese, should I buy her her favorite alcohol for her birthday-

You tried to generally stay level-headed, but everything has a limit, and it wasn't just his friendship with one girl; it was the massive weight of the media speculation, leaked photos and his refusal to acknowledge and speak about your 'silly delusional concerns': from his high horse, he always nudged you to stop this nonsense and never bring it up again. How could you even think! That he would look at anybody else. When he loves you so much. None of this matters when the mind starts spiraling.

"You know", he raises a finger, getting into it finally, tasting the blood, accepting the rotten offer you're extending, that being, toxicity.

"You know, you should be grateful. Everybody I know cheats on their spouses, and I don't. I shouldn't be listening to this every other month".

Your jaw drops in disbelief. There are several ways of handling it, and he is choosing violence.

"Are you hearing yourself?" you demand.

"Yes, are you hearing me?" his hands throw the sheets on the floor with force and he grounds himself, putting one palm into his hair. Finally you see what you've been trying to squeeze out of him: the living animosity in his eyes, as he says,

"It's the culture. Don't you know? I could sleep around, too, I have options".

Before your brain weighs the audio input, the audacity of it makes your arm fly up, and you land your open palm onto his beautiful face. The way it doesn't change expression is very attractive. Only his hair moves a little, a strand of black covering his left eye, a cruel smirk curling his lips. You're about to start squealing with rage, but in a moment, Yoongi's hand grabs your chin as he pushes you against the wardrobe. He is still holding back, his fingers do not hurt you, he just needs to release the shock of what just happened.

Yet you still try to talk; he needs to hear that this take is absolutely insane; it's the modernity you're living in. If you don't love someone, then go on and cheat, but never return after. Yoongi's sculpted cheekbones gradually leading to his still passionless eyes, shark stare that he exercises on you, let you know he doesn't really care about your morality.

"You do the laundry", he says quietly, then finally allows himself to get angry and storms out of the bedroom, shutting the door. You clench your fists, looking at the pile of clothes at your feet, at the big unmade bed which you hop on occasionally throughout the day; your hand burns with the sensation of his cheek, because the slap was impressive. The truth is, you needed to do it at least once in a lifetime just to know what it feels like. You wished he was the bigger man and just fuck the argument over right now, but that's not what Yoongi is. He retreats from a fight because on the inside he is a raging sea, and he doesn't want it to spill out on you.

But maybe today you do.

So you step out of the room and walk into the living space, already feeling Yoongi's back tense, you know he hates it when you keep picking on him like this, like poking the same cut again and again. The flash of his disgruntled face, left cheek red, you can even see the impression of your fingers. A hit is just another version of a kiss. It's hard to explain, sometimes you want to physically fight him just to be closer. He did know that you had unresolved issues when he put a ring on it. He brought it all on himself.

Yoongi looks tired, and jaded at the same time, like he won. Just leave me alone, his posture says, as he sits down on the couch, phone in his hands, doubtlessly to tease you and make you ask yourself whom he's texting.

"Please, just let it go", he moans like a child.

"You have options then?"

Yoongi sighs morosely, pressing his lips together. You feel your face burn a little like you're the one who's gotten slapped, as you say,

"If it's the culture, then I can go on and, sleep with Jungkook, right?"

The silence that suddenly installs itself in the house is cemetery-like. You found the spot. As Yoongi slowly raises his eyes to you, you continue, while ignoring the glaring warning,

"You see how hypocritical this is? How do you feel about it? Everybody has options, Yoongi".

For a second Yoongi is a fine specimen for a museum as all skeletal structure in his face and neck is visible. He tenses up like a tiger readying for a jump. The flat tiger's head pressed under his foot like he had killed it.

"I am leaving", he says lowly. He managed to contain it again, and it pisses you off.

"No, you're not".

"Yes, I am", he says louder.

"Why you gotta escape this every time? Speak to me", you demand. And Yoongi snaps. He jumps up from the couch and aims for the thick-footed round blue coffee table, lifting it up with one hand, with no regard to a vase with fresh flowers resting. With a loud bash he strikes the opposite wall, a throw impressive like he should be considering a baseball career. The table crashes into it very close to the TV, leaving a weird mark and breaking into three parts. One foot jumps away and lands near him. You're impressed, a little scared, and feel that this should be very cathartic.

"The fucking nerve of you!" he finally yells, and it sounds great. As Yoongi measures the living room with his steps, he approaches you and grabs you by the shoulder.

"You're eviscerating me and scold me for not wanting to listen to it? How dare you", his face crunches so sweetly, he is so beautiful. His crafted appearance is manufactured for everything. How could you even think he'd never get a taste of his liberating beauty. You get scared. Yoongi thinks your expression of fear is due to his outburst and the firm grab he holds on your shoulder. Shoulder, not forearm; even now he is holding back, his fingers digging into the less sensitive area where muscle produces no pain. He steps back, not understanding that you're scared of losing him. And, like any other woman, this fear manifests in further argument.

"You're saying things you know will hurt me!" you scream, and Yoongi closes his eyes, lashes trembling, sleepy. You continue to follow him even when he rushes for the door, throws his shoes on, grabs the keys from the shelf. You just can't shut up. You follow him like an annoying little dog into the yard, bare footed, the soft evening grass obediently bending under you.

"Don't run away! You always do that!" you yell while Yoongi jerks the car door open.

"You are selfish!" he barks. You watch him get into the car and start it. You want to have pushed him even further, so that he'd fight you, and then stay. Now he's slipping through your fingers, and it's your fault, for not being able to explain better.

Yoongi looks into the rearview mirror and his own eyes reply to him with disbelief. Y/N's voice drills into his eardrums like a scalpel. She could've chosen his best friend. His colleagues, the bodyguard who always flirts with her. But no, she goes for Jungkook.

The second Yoongi in the mirror stares him down. Even his eyes know. Of course. Jungkook is not to her, what he is, to Yoongi. He is not the little, big-nosed boy he used to know. Not the mama's boy that he cradled at the worst times, not the boy he helped raise. Jungkook is fucking handsome. He doesn't have a face of a pan and a body of a mouse, Yoongi thinks. Thoughs interlock in his brain. She knew exactly how to hurt him fine, and now, all kinds of questions slowly bore holes in his skull. Why him though? Yoongi feels panic coming and turns his head to look at sea always accompanying him on this island. They had never fought on Jeju before. It's a happy place; it's the house that he bought for her, so that, when he is overwhelmed by the capital, he can escape, to her. The only place he never gets tired of, this house, where she bumps into things and curses corners. It felt wrong. He suddenly remembers the pile of laundry he had abandoned in the bedroom. Thinks of the flowers he destroyed together with the table. She loves this table. Yoongi swallows hard, realizing that he keeps stalling not to think about the creeping suspicion, poisonous, like rosary peas. Why. Did. She say Jungkook? Are they already sleeping together? He feels his Adam's apple slide furiously up and down in his throat like he's choking. He knows, probably not. Jungkook would never do that. Accomodating imagination pushes all the fuckboyish behavior of maknae on him immediately; how flirty the youngest is; how ready he is always to see Y/N. Jungkook and her, they are great friends. Constantly giggling when they're together.

Once Yoongi heard them discuss the laundry (why is this day revolving around the dirty sheets?) when the members were visiting their quiet shelter on Jeju.

He was folding the clean ones, while Jungkook was helping his wife load the washing machines. Everything was funny to them two.

"I become stupid when I'm with you", she complained, giggling. Yoongi smiled then. His disposition was very different on that day, of course. He had no reason not to love them both carelessly.

He listened to them shuffling in the room, at peace. Then Y/N gasped comically.

"No, don't lick it!" Jungkook cried desperately, and they erupted in laughter again. Yoongi couldn't help but shove his head into the room with a silent question, only to find them snickering.

"She was about to eat the detergent off of her finger", maknae explained. Y/N shrugged.

"It's a habit already".

Yoongi stayed in a hotel for a night. Not too far away from home; he decided to leave for Seoul the next day. Had promised to stay with her a bit longer, but now obviously they didn't want to see each other, he was sure.

As he dropped the keys on the night stand in his room, he kept thinking about all of this. He suddenly felt very tired.

You couldn't sleep in bed out of anxiety, so, after cleaning up the living room and then dealing with the laundry, collapsed on the couch listening to a Youtube video. In the morning, the sound of Yoongi's steps woke you up and you sat up, curled in the blanket you'd knitted years ago. Also green, all green. Pure white of his face was moving across the rooms, gathering his stuff. He didn't need to say anything, you could read his mind, he wanted to leave and get to work sooner. You chewed on your cheek, still half-asleep, a silent spectator, while Yoongi changed his clothes. You looked at his wide back, and a question lingered in your mind, so bright-magenta that it hurt your temples. You were paralyzed, no impulse to fight anymore, just cold.

Yoongi methodically packed his bag and slowed down at the book case in the living room, observing the space, his eyes soft.

"I didn't sleep with anyone", he said, and you felt grateful for not having to say anything. A new day began, and he was merciful again, gentle. His puffy moon face turned to you again, and he sighed:

"Did you manage to fix the table?"

You shook your head.

"One foot broke off and the screw stayed inside the wood".

"I can try to repair it", he offered.

"No, I don't need it", you replied tenderly. "It's okay, it's gone".

Like his fury. His face bore no sign of your punch yesterday, and he nodded.

"I'm going to Seoul. I want to start sampling, uh..." he suddenly looked very unsure, young and innocent.

"Seo Yun is ready to record".

"Okay", you agreed readily, "I'll see you at the birthday then".

Uneasy 'yeah' as if he wasn't sure. You watched him go again, feeling the venom enter your heart. Sometimes you liked to suffer. Everybody likes to suffer sometimes. It's just the lack of general drama, when your husband is such a green flag that, if he stood to the wall in the kitchen, you'd lose the sight of him.

Yoongi only knew about what his presence did to you; that you feel the most peaceful when he's at your side. He was blissfully unaware of what his absence made you become.

Every time you fought even a little and didn't manage to make it up before he left, due to his habit of just retreating instead of saying things he'd regret, you would suffer immensely. What he didn't understand was, you'd prefer him to say something, hurt you, but then make up, rather than leave you hanging silently, like a dead spider in a forgotten closet.

You barely managed a day, engulfed in his last words. This Seo Yun again. The thoughts went into a tailspin disregarding any reality. In the back of your mind you knew Yoongi wasn't cheating on you, would not, and didn't want to. That was the back of your mind, the rational part that was choking on fresh blood of your worry.

You collapsed by nine in the evening because Yoongi didn't even text to let you know he landed okay and went to the apartment in Seoul. For all you knew, he could head straight for the studio, tired and unshowered after the night god knows where, after the plane, to complain to his favorite singer about his hysterical wife.

You sat on the empty bed where just yesterday morning, you were curling like a cat in Yoongi's warm arms, listening to his chest, holding on to his shoulder as you both watched the black pines filtering the sunlight in between the needles. His warm breath on the top of your head and fingers, drumming a tune on your ribs.

Now, you held up your phone, thinking about who could keep a secret for you. Without any second thought, without any malice, and guided solely by sincere trust you had in him, you called Jungkook.

The boy's voice was always joyful when he picked up. If he didn't, then he simply didn't. But every time you heard Jungkook on the phone, he sounded happy, bubbly, sometimes unbearably zesty.

"Noona-a!" he exclaimed. Music in the background was muffled. You could always clearly see his face when you spoke to him, knew the expressions he made, and how he showed his teeth with delight as he laughed.

"All good?" he clarified, upon hearing no response. You broke down a little.

"We had a fight", you whined into the phone.

"O-o-h", Jungkook really liked his vowels, "about what? Tell him I'll slap him!"

"I already did, I slapped him yesterday".

Jungkook gasped, clearly he never meant to actually do what he said. To him, it was unthinkable, and not only because he was younger.

"What happened? Are you crying?"

You squeezed your face with your left hand and observed your empty bedroom.

"Jungkook, I need a favor, but you can't let Yoongi know, it has to be a total secret".

"O-okay", he replied hesitantly, a bit frightened.

"I need you to..." you sighed, devastated that you're about to say it out loud, "it's gonna sound crazy, but I don't care, if I'm going crazy it doesn't matter, but I just need to know".

Jungkook made a sound like he choked on a jellyfish.

"You need to find out if Yoongi is cheating on me".

"Wha-a-at?" he yelled. Your mind painted an excrutiatingly clear picture: his mouth, oval, his eyes, completely round, dark pupils staring into you.

"Is he cheating on you? Why would he do that? Yoongi-hyung would never do that", he started like a speed bycicle, "no, I don't think, he's the last person to do that, Y/N. No, I don't believe it".

"Ask him".

"Ask him?" he panicked, "how?"

"And keep it low-key", you begged.

"But I don't know how I can bring this up just like that".

"You start training tomorrow, don't you?" you offered. Jungkook seemed unsure.

"Yes, but Yoongi was going to come on Thursday, and now it's Monday. Or has he left?" he gasped.

"Yes, he flew to Seoul to start working on that fucking song with Seo Yun", the regret of not handling yourself better boiled in your throat.

"You think it's Seo Yun?" Jungkook whispered, like a kid. He was so taken aback it seemed the only structure his brain could produce was questions.

"I don't know", the tears made your lips very dry and you moisturized them with you salty tongue.

"I don't know anything".

Jungkook sighed deeply and somewhat professionally.

"I'm on it", he finally replied, "but I can assure you he's not sleeping with anyone. But you, of course. Or like, I don't know. You know what I mean".

You nodded into the void. Now that you released a little bit of anxiety, you started feeling guilty for the way you 'eviscerated Yoongi'. You always get this feeling after a fight and it's because you're always the only one trying. Yoongi, he's never bothered by anything, he never has complaints or worries. You're always the one stirring the pot.

"I just don't get how I can start a conversation about it", Jungkook complained.

"You're a talented person, Jungkook", you managed a small smile, "you'll find a way".

You see his funny baby face with your eyes closed. It's comforting, imagining him, sitting dumbfounded in his purple room with the colorful dots crawling up the walls from the cosmic lamp, with this silly expression, lip piercing poking out. It's comforting, because when you think of Yoongi, the longing is so strong that it hurts your ribs.

His eyes are locked on the boy. Yoongi sits with his mouth slightly agape, hand hovering over the keyboard which is dying slowly with pale green light. The laptop knows it has lost the master for now. Yoongi feels his eyelids getting heavy as worms reign in his head and his ribcage. Jungkook is laughing on the phone, pacing along the wall of the studio, effortlessly impressive. From time to time he lifts his head and looks at himself in the huge mirror, and throws a small dance move. Jungkook at his natural. Yoongi is trying to imagine him with Y/N and he hates himself for being able to. It's the expression on her face when she said it. Why did it look so resolved. Like she was dead set on something, and she wasn't really asking a question. I can go on and sleep with Jungkook. The hole that opens up in his lung is sucking in all the liquid from his stomach and he starts choking silently. It's like when the ground you're standing on, starts crumbling down. He studies the smile on Jungkook's face. Does he smile like this at his wife? He usually does, and she smiles back. Yoongi doesn't catch the irony of it all when he accepts the call from Seo Yun, without taking his eyes off of maknae. Jungkook, in turn, finishes his call, and Yoongi continues watching him. The boy's smile fades and they exchange glances. Obliviously, Yoongi calls his singer's name.

The practice is another happy place: the years of training taught them to clear their heads off things even when their relatives are sick. If there's no immediate need to be somewhere and save a life, or a relationship, they can all switch off and practice together, the world can wait. It's a good discharge, the way the body tires after seven hours of intense movement. Yoongi does well even after a month's break, and gets a lot of taps on his shoulder. Jungkook must feel uneasy, seeing how Yoongi stares him down all day long, but he manages to hide it well. In fact, the years of training actually taught Yoongi to layer his brain and think about the sequence and about what's bothering him at the same time. All day long, he's watching the maknae's movements, trying to see him in his new position of a traitor. Trying to see him as a man who gets girls, and others' wives, and he knows it's completely delusional. There are two types of people: good and bad, and Y/N is good. She is sometimes insane, she is spoilt (something Yoongi understands is his own fault), loud, hovering, too anxious and restless, but she's not rotten. She doesn't hate him enough to stab him and twist the knife in his guts. Sleeping with Jungkook Argentinian drama style is too out there, it belongs in pulp fiction.

"Suga, spacing out again", Jimin called, his light slap on the shoulder bringing him back to reality. Namjoon turned his head towards him like a crane and looked deep, the way Yoongi always hated. It was so intimate, uh, he could feel RM's tentacles unceremoniously touching his brains.

"They had a fight with Y/N", said Jungkook, jumping in one place to squeeze out the last drops of energy after the dance. He swung his arms. Yoongi's nostrils went so hot that for a second he couldn't breathe.

"Huh?" was all he could utter. The audacity of this boy, to reply with nonchalance,

"She told me".

Taehyung hummed something.

"You're still going to my birthday, right?" Jimin asked, scared. Yoongi clenched his teeth together, locking the tip oh his tongue inside. He knew his face didn't really express anything because he mastered it well. Jungkook was moving his, too readable, naive guy, biting his lower lip as if waiting for him to clarify.

"Let's go eat", Jin moaned, "I am hungry".

Namjoon gingerly looked at him, sitting on the floor and pulling the toes of his left foot.

"Yeah, let's go eat", the leader confirmed.

"You're not gonna order?" Hoseok's eyes widened as he tried to push the menu into Yoongi's face.

"I'm not hungry".

"You can't be not hungry", Jin shook his head authoritatively, "we've been working our asses off all day".

"I don't have appetite", Yoongi growled quietly.

"What was the fight about?" Namjoon asked. The only one who could actually listen when his stomach was empty. He acted non-invasively, not to scare the usually unwilling Yoongi away. Yoongi kept looking through the table, seeing the blurry Jungkook on the side, stuffing his mouth with pork. Maknae nodded into the table hoping that his call for communication lands somewhere.

"I hate it when they fight, right?"

Hoseok nearly punched him, or at least he looked like he wanted to, for dragging the others into this. Taehyung was quietly drinking his coffee. Jimin gently extended his frown:

"I hope you make it up. You always do, it's going to be okay".

Jungkook was eating loudly, as usual, slapping his mouth and moaning with pleasure. Whereas Jin did it with no sound whatsoever, although more food could fit in between his jaws. Yoongi blinked several times, trying to shake off the sleepy liquid of fever. He tried not to think of consequences of what he's fearing. Rather, he preferred to mull over the way he'd retaliate. What can he do? Seo Yun? He didn't like her like that, at all. She wasn't his type, really. Nobody else was, and he wasn't the type of person to cheat out of spite, in revenge. There was a lot of mercy and love in him, and he was balancing on the edge of his paranoid thoughts. Crazy how he managed to run himself almost to lunacy in just thirty-six hours. His eyes were resting on Jungkook again as a pacifying sigh left his dry lips. The thought of food was good, actually. He almost reached the menu, eyeing soups, when Jungkook managed to completely tip off his very fragile balance:

"It's insane how, I'm not talking here, but, like", then Jungkook stopped, took a breath, like he was reciting a poem he memorized very badly, "when couples argue they go on and cheat on each other, you know?"

The table fell quiet. Namjoon's jaded eyes drilled maknae into place, and Jungkook caught his tongue for a minute. Then he seemingly pushed himself in an unimaginable effort, and turned to Yoongi:

"You're not doing anything like that, are you?"

Yoongi saw red. The space around him started pulsating, twelve faces around the table. Jin started choking on his food; usually he did it for comedy, when cameras were on; now it was annoying.

"Jungkook", Jimin meowed, and the sound of his name being sung even remotely with love made Yoongi imagine burying his fist into maknae's face. Oh yes he does love him. He loves Jungkook to death but if he's doing it to Y/N, Yoongi refuses to be a human anymore.

He assesses Jungkook's grown frame. He is at least a size bigger than Yoongi, and if he tries to grab him by the throat, Yoongi will be the one hanging in the air. So maybe he should go for the knife. Then he can kill himself. This is the day when Yoongi finds out he still harbours a lot of unnecessary pride inside, the black kind which makes people make tragic, idiotic mistakes. Maybe he should have been a little more gentle with Y/N and her constant, purely girly worrying.

Taehyung keeps hitting Jin on the back to save his life while Jin goes red in the face. Namjoon opens his mouth to de-electrify the situation but for some reason can't utter a word. Hoseok keeps holding his chopstick with noodles hanging down like dead hair, in limbo, with horror in his eyes. Jimin is staring at Yoongi with a silent entreaty.

"Are you fucking my wife?" Yoongi asks.

Jungkook gulps once, stopping halfway, and his hand flies up as his jaw falls down.

"I- what?"

He has no time for this comedy anymore. Yoongi's fist bangs on the table so hard that all the detached objects clank in unison.

"Are-you-fucking my wife?"

Jungkook's face immediately tells him something is off, and the black-red cloud starts sliding away.

"Me? Uh, no! ME? The-" Jungkook can't even grasp the concept. His face of indignation, terror and betrayal tells him everything.

"Y/N? No, me? She's one of my closest friends, why would I-" he extends his hand towards Yoongi as of begging him, "you two... why would you even think about it?! She called me asking me to find out if you're fucking Seo Yun!"

Jungkook licks his lips quickly, bracing for the storm. But Taehyung masterfully diffuses the whole thing from his shaded corner of the table. His deep voice soothing:

"Oh, I see. We have a classic case of two idiots failing to communicate".

Jimin gives out a sigh of relief and Jin moans so loudly that people who just stopped staring after Yoongi hit the table, look again.

Yoongi hides his face in his hands, relief so strong that he feels like fainting. He takes several huge breaths and his brain finally clicks back to normal so that he can think for once. Namjoon still watches him with some hidden question, and Yoongi replies, only to him, quietly,

"No, I am not".

He gets up from the table, leaving everybody distressed and Jungkook, distraught to the point of almost vomiting. The poor boy keeps looking at each member with nagging: you know I am innocent, right? You know, right?

Yoongi follows the narrow path among the tables and leaves the restaurant to breathe the dirty night air. The black sky is up there and far away, whereas on Jeju it's close and full of stars. He likes the idea of Y/N seeing stars and bathing in comfort of their unmoving light. He calls her.

She picks up almost right away.

"I almost stabbed maknae just now", Yoongi delivers calmly.

"Why would you?" she yelps.

There it is, going from 0 to a 100 in a second. Worried about her baby.

Yoongi ignores her question and says,

"I never cheated on you. Never wanted to do so. And I don't think I ever will. One woman is straining me enough, and..." he sighs, marvelling at how easy it is to finally breathe, "there's just, not anyone I love as much".

Y/N is quiet, and he can hear the sounds of his happy home: her breathing, the distant sound of sea - he's probably imagining it - the creaking of one floorboard at the kitchen entrance. He knows she's standing there, looking at the night wind slithering inside.

"I'm sorry I slapped you".

"It didn't hurt at all".

Seoul is getting loud around him because it is trying to attract his attention.

"Can you come? Tomorrow?"

"Yes".

"I'll buy the ticket. Please don't forget Jimin's present this time".

"I already packed it", her voice is melodic and close. Yoongi feels like he just recovered from a wound. He puts out his hand and looks at it against the street, imagining your fingers resting inside his palm.

He returns to their table in a minute to six pairs of tentative eyes. They are all silent, eating, acting normal. Only Jungkook crooks his neck, looking up, expecting him to say something. The person Jungkook is used to calling hyung bows down and puts his arm around his shoulders from behind, places a careful and quick kiss onto his temple:

“I am sorry”.

Jungkook deflates and crashes down onto his chair, a relaxed smile on his face.

#bts imagine #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #jungkook imagine #jk is literally my baby

186 notes · View notes

almostfoxglove · 10 months ago

Text

LOCK THE GATE

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: QZ!Joel Miller x ofc (Bill's neice) - reader format/pov WORD COUNT: 50k | STATUS: COMPLETE

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

SUMMARY: You're less than enthusiastic when your uncle's partner Frank invites two strangers from the Boston QZ to your compound to trade. Joel Miller proves just as callous as you and brutishly stubborn—but after a cutting first impression, a bloody inconvenience, and a long walk through infested woods, you're not sure if the fire you carry for him is actually hate.

SERIES CW: Graphic descriptions of and reference to canon-typical violence, injury, gore, and body horror. (Eventual) smut. Reference of the death of a child, the death of a spouse, and brief mention of past suicide (of an OC - not shown on page). Discussions of / thoughts of death. Bitter allies to lovers. Major canonical character death (NOT Joel). Joel lives forever. Hopeful/open/ambiguous ending.

ONE - A CHAINLINK CAGE (chapter post) TWO - THE RIVER STYX (chapter post) THREE - ANABASIS (chapter post) EPILOGUE (chapter post)

NOTE: I have officially moved away from tag lists as they've gotten lengthy (thank you for that <3) so please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

#joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #almostfoxglove #joel miller x you #myfics #ao3 fanfic #tlou #tlou fanfic #fic: lockthegate #joel miller fic #joel miller angst

504 notes · View notes

isak-dot-gov · 9 months ago

Text

Empty promises

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Word count: 1764

My masterlist :)

................................................

Reader’s POV:

“Paige what are you actually trying to say right now?” I asked in shock and slight annoyance.

“I just think we should be taking time apart, is all.” she sighs before continuing, “The season’s about to start up and the team really needs me, you know that. I can't afford to have any distractions.”

I feel my eyes sting as she continues to talk. Paige and I have been having this conversation for hours now, talking in circles and never getting to a solid resolve. Something in me was telling me there was much more to this than her current focus on her basketball career, her body language gave it away so easily, it always did. With Paige always being willing to drop any and everything for her basketball career, I had a feeling a day like this would come. I just thought it would've happened a lot later than now.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to drop me like the last five months meant nothing?” I asked, evidently getting frustrated with her inability to directly tell me what she needed.

She avoided my gaze as she said, “I’m not dropping you. I promise I'm not. We just need to take a break so I can focus on basketball. We can still be friends and stuff.”

Still be friends? Seriously? She and I start taking each other more seriously for five months and she decides on a random Tuesday that “we can still be friends and stuff”? She has to be joking. I feel my blood boil at this. She doesn’t get the right to use me like that then make me go back to being her friend “friend”.

“Paige I’m going to be quite frank with you. Your promises mean absolutely nothing to me right now. You’ve promised me multiple times that whatever this was, meant something to you. You’ve promised me you would tell the rest of your team about us so we wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore. You’ve promised me so much and what you’ve just said diminishes all of that,” I take a deep breath as I scratch at the skin on my thumbs, “I’m so tired of this, P. You say so much, yet everything you say has no substance. You’re right though. You should focus on your basketball and I deserve much more than what you're willing to offer me right now.”

I got up from the purple bean bag in the corner of her room, my view level elevating from her bed she sat on. At this she finally gained the courage to look at me, panic being the main emotion on her face. It was obvious that my words affected her, and for once in the past five months, I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. She deserved to hear that, in the same way I deserved to say it.

“I’m heading out, hope you get whatever you tried to achieve with all of this. Stay safe, Paige.”

I walk away before she gets the chance to respond, feeling too angry at such an abrupt ending to look back at her.

—------------------------

Paige’s POV:

“I’m not gonna lie, you fucked up big time, P,” KK said while eating a packet of trüfrü as soon as I finished speaking. This earned her a smack over the head from Nika as the rest of the team processed what I’ve just told them. The last two months had been insane to say the least. With starting off the season, playing back to back games and having early morning practices almost every day the one person I wanted to be around was Y/N. I couldn’t believe I messed up with her that much. That day and everything she said to me still runs through my mind.

“You’ve promised me multiple times that whatever this was, meant something to you. You’ve promised me you would tell the rest of your team about us so we wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore. You’ve promised me so much and what you’ve just said diminishes all of that… You say so much, yet everything you say has no substance. You’re right though. You should focus on your basketball and I deserve much more than what you're willing to offer me right now.”

She was right, she always was. It sucks that it took me so long to see it. After I realised just how much I missed her and how unfair I’ve been, I decided to start trying to make it right, I just didn’t know how. So I decided to start with the obvious, telling the team about her. I called them all to my room and immediately started telling them about the past seven months.

“Fuck, I know, KK. I just really wish I could fix this,” I say and rub my hand against my temple as a lame attempt at alleviating the stress in my mind.

Azzi looked at me compassionately and said, “I think you should talk to her. I know it seems really bad right now, but that closure would be healthy for both of you.”

Aubrey nodded and added, “She’s right, P. Let’s be honest, you’ve been a complete wreck on the court for a while now. Talking to her might fix that.”

The rest of the court chimed in with ideas for ways for me to fix what I’ve caused. Finally, after many questionable ideas, Inȇs spoke up, “I think you should just show up to her house and say you’re sorry then tell her how you’re willing to change. There’s nothing you can really do other than that, Paige. Everything you’re telling us about what she said shows that. She needs your honesty, not huge signs of love.”

The rest of the team looked at her slightly shocked as she continued laying on the couch and finishing an assignment as if she had not just schooled us intellectually. With a new found sense of comfort from her words, I stood upright from the kitchen counter I was leaning on and went to grab my keys. As I unlocked the door I said, “You’re right, Neshy. Thanks guys.”

“Girl boo, are you insane. It’s almost 12AM,” KK said. I ignored her as I continued out of the shared dorm and made my way to my car.

—-----------

Reader’s POV:

A loud knock could be heard from my apartment door as I sat on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through my phone. It was late—much later than I usually had visitors. My heart skipped a beat as I wondered who could be at my door at this hour.

Reluctantly, I got up and made my way to the door, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling in my chest. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and after the exhausting day I’d had, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for surprises.

As I opened the door, I was met with the sight of Paige standing there, looking slightly disheveled and anxious. Her hair was a mess, like she’d been running her hands through it repeatedly, and her eyes were filled with a mixture of desperation and regret.

“Paige?” I said, my voice tinged with surprise and a bit of annoyance. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

She looked down at her feet for a moment, seemingly gathering her thoughts, before finally meeting my gaze. “I know it’s late, and I’m probably the last person you want to see right now, but I needed to see you. I needed to apologise.”

I crossed my arms, unsure of where this was going but not ready to let my guard down just yet. “You’ve already said what you needed to say, Paige. I’m not sure what else there is to talk about.”

She took a deep breath, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I messed up, Y/N. I know I hurt you, and I’ve been kicking myself every day since you walked out that door. You were right—I made promises I didn’t keep, and I took you for granted. I let basketball become more important than us, and that was a mistake.”

Her voice cracked slightly as she continued, “But I miss you. God, I miss you so much, and I’ve realised that nothing—no game, no career—matters if I don’t have you in my life. I told the team about us. I wanted you to know that I’m serious this time. I want to make things right.”

I felt a lump form in my throat as I listened to her. Part of me wanted to believe her, to take her in my arms and tell her everything would be okay. But the hurt she’d caused was still fresh, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to let her back in so easily.

“Paige, I…” I started, struggling to find the right words. “I appreciate you coming here and saying all this, but I don’t know if things can just go back to the way they were. You really hurt me, and I need time to figure out if I can trust you again.”

She nodded, her expression full of understanding and regret. “I get that, and I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. I just needed you to know that I’m sorry and that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust back. If that means giving you space, I’ll do it. If it means proving myself to you every day, I’ll do that too.”

I looked at her, searching her eyes for any hint of insincerity, but all I saw was raw honesty. It was clear that she meant every word she said, and as much as I wanted to stay mad at her, a part of me couldn’t help but soften.

“Okay,” I finally said, my voice softer now. “I need time, Paige. But I won’t close the door on us just yet.”

A small, relieved smile crossed her face as she nodded. “Thank you. I’ll give you all the time you need.”

We stood there for a moment, the tension between us slowly easing, replaced by a tentative hope. It wasn’t a perfect resolution, but it was a start.

“Goodnight, Paige,” I said, taking a step back into my apartment.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” she replied, her voice filled with gratitude.

As I closed the door, I leaned against it, letting out a deep breath. Things were still uncertain, but for the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other.

..............................................

Isak speaks: I'm on a fucking roll today guys :]. I'm also considering writting for KK and Inȇs becuase they are highly underated on tumblr tbh

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #paige x reader #uconn wbb #wbb #wbb x reader

256 notes · View notes

richeeduvie · 7 months ago

Note

hey👋 😊🤗

where’s wedding bells pt.2 😠😾🔫

Wedding Bells (Part Two)

Stewy H. x Reader, Roman R. x Reader (complicated), Kendall R x Reader (minor, minor as in what Baby was when she was groomed by him) here yall go damn!! (jk it's been long overdue after my failures I love u guys)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

PART ONE (OUT OF FIVE), AUTHOR MASTERLIST After assuring Roman that Stewy being your date was nothing but a platonic necessity for Shiv's wedding, the start of the night has decided on proving you wrong. It's much to your dismay...maybe not so much Stewy's (for the most part), but most certainly Kendall's. Knowing the aspects of the "DogandBone!AU" do help add content to both parts of this story, but you do not need to read anything prior to understand it. If you would like to, you can go onto my masterlist linked and browse through the masterlists/content of my succession characters. All are content for DAB!AU. Or you can simply search up the tag. (Stewy's POV next!)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

The ceremony was beautiful, vows mandated. Knowing Tom as your technical boss, you're sure he wanted to say something from the heart. Knowing Shiv...Shiv, Shiv, your only girl friend Shiv...you know she wouldn't have that.

Roman took to looking bored next to Tabitha. You caught him making quips to her and you hate to wonder what he was saying, if he'd tell you the same things if you were his date.

Or maybe there's just some different with you that you wouldn't get the default comments out of Roman. Something just for you.

Maybe that's true for the past, before Tabitha and the now. You hate to think that, you think to not be over it already - you were asking Roman the what ifs of finding someone for you and you've got nothing to show for being ready to find that someone. That not-Roman.

Almost. Not really. No, you won't say you do have something to show for you. That something being taking looks at Stewy in the aisles.

Feeling your heart skip when he caught you taking those looks.

You were to not figure what the fuck Stewy was thinking at your stares when you were supposed to be gooey-goo over the new marriage of your friend. You were and are to not think about the way he met your eyes. You were to not notice the way Roman's head quickly, curtly snapped to follow where you were looking.

And now it's time for pictures!

"Has new, tanner dick brought you cause to lie to me?"

Roman kicks the grass, cut and too green underneath the both of you. What he's wearing isn't much different than his suits day to day at Waystar, but he looks nice. You don't know how to feel about how you don't feel the warm roll throughout your body at the sight of him handsome. Like he's not your boyfriend anymore.

He never was, he wasn't ever anything but the only person you've ever been in love with. Felt your loins on fire for, if you want to be gross about it.

You tilt your head.

"What?"

They're flashing pictures of just the bride and groom and it leaves Roman to whine to you on the sidelines. Stewy...in fact him and Kendall are nowhere to be found. You just know it's got something to do with whatever will ruin this family again. It'll be by tonight and forgiven in two weeks. At least the way you've grown into Roman over the years isn't something of a complete waste, you get understand the family you're working for for the rest of fucking time. Life.

Frank waves to you, you wave back.

"Ow! What the fuck?"

Roman's slapped your hand down mid-wave.

"You told me you just needed a date and you were too stupid to go with the obvious three-way Tabitha and I offered. Okay. I accepted that like I wasn't being fucked, but then you're fucking Stewy with your eyes, opening legs with your irises at my sister's wedding. Bridesmaid gangbang."

"...Are the bridesmaids gangbanging Stewy?"

Roman's brows are perpetually down, nose flared. You've shat on the grass, basically. The joke's bombed.

"You. Stewy...and his of color cock and his smarmy eyes. You think you can find out the number to his shaft shade by now? With all the times you've-"

Your eyes dart to where his fist opens and closes, then to where his neck rolls and head jolts. It's like a visual cough.

"Jesus Christ, you know what? Let me just not quip bullshit, I can be serious. I think I deserve that, maybe?" He sniffs.

And there it is...or there it isn't. No automatic, instinctual rush to comfort Roman and hold him or punish his insecurities with teases or insults punchier than his. Nothing.

Because you see Stewy coming up behind him.

You've always noticed he holds himself well, ever since you were younger. But now...no.

But then, you look into Roman's eyes, brown - facing rejection or no-care he's always so sure of. You sigh.

There it is. The rush.

Roman leans into your palm on his bicep.

"I'm going to ask if you've been keeping track of how many times you've ridden him. Or he's ridden you. You've taken to American Paint Horses."

"...When the fuck did you know pony breeds?"

"When you started fucking the brown kind."

Jesus. Roman.

"Roman! Fucking cool it. You're being...like, racist. Cartoonishly racist over something that you've made up in your head."

"It's not racist. Stewy's brown. Shocker. You went from me, not brown, to him. That's a fact. I didn't press negatives onto the color of his cock or our cultural differences in...fetishes."

Roman blinks, he turns to Stewy smiling at you before he's talking to Kendall.

"And did I make it up? Really."

You blink. You sigh.

It just slips out.

"You went from me to Tabitha. Should I whine?"

The words already leave a bad taste in your mouth once they leave it. They're not even particularly jealous-sounding, it's more of a casual tease to bite Roman and his hypocrisy. Still, it reeks on your tongue - it's a gag of admittance and by Roman's smug fucking face, you know he knows it too.

It's a slow growing smugness, too. First it's comprehension of what you said in the first place, then it's realization - life breathed onto his face.

Complete satisfaction.

....She still likes me. Wants me. Fuck it, knew it. Her vagina cares enough to be jealous. Knew it, knew it. Knew it. Thank God, I thought I was fucking done for and ready to be shot out back.

"I'm joking, but it's also a genuine question...because you're doing that over something you're making up in your head, Rom."

Roman puts his hands on his hips, lips pursing out.

"I just question the stares, you baby. That's all I'm doing. It's fair, they were like - fucky eyes."

No.

You don't know what they were.

"No. They weren't. And I-"

"Okay, now the family together!"

You turn to the photographer, Roman doesn't.

"I don't think you get to think over who I stare at, may-"

"Fuck you. Of course I do. I don't deny you from commenting on Tab's love for me as a result of pussy envy. I don't. I won't...and we..."

Roman turns to his family gathering, Shiv's blinking quick at him. It's like she's cursing at him to hurry the fuck up. He turns back.

"We can talk about it. Past the bullshit."

...Really?

"Really?"

The word on your tongue is more sarcastic than it is in your head. And there, in the pause...it's like Roman's pulling back from the openness of himself. Taking what he's put out away.

"Me and Tabitha and you...sure."

"...Mm. Shiv's waiting for you."

"Like, do I have to stop playing bits here and be fun for you to actually still have fun with me-"

"Roman, hurry the fuck up, dude! Seriously."

"Cool it! I don't care that it's your wedding, Shivy Ginge. I'll set fire to your minge."

He taps into his British roots there before he's off. Not before he kisses your knuckles, though.

"I just fucking miss you, weirdo. I want conversations. I just...I don't like...do things in spite - not towards you, even though you're being fucking weird. I don't make wounds and shove my dick into them as a gotcha."

It's said as he moves off. They take photos - the Roys...your Roys. You smile at Kendall when he smiles at you. Your thumb rubs your knuckle, you won't think about his kiss.

"Tabitha, just get it here."

But you don't think anything at all when they let Tabitha into the frame. It's easy for her. Rightfully so, but it's on your skin on a knife and you don't feel that's right.

But you don't feel it go away.

It hits you like the first time you cried as a child. It's a childish hurt and you can't make it go away as you watch the camera flash and Roys and Tabitha smile, as they bring Rava into the picture taking. Rightfully so.

It's a nail in the coffin, the confirmation what Roman has with Tabitha is real.

Your love, it still here thumping at your heart, is not.

Why are you about to cry?

"Hey, you."

You turn to the dark-haired, clean bearded man at your side. His knowing but soft voice.

"Hey, Stewy."

"What's with the glossy eyes?"

The burning is against the sudden, unwanted warmth you feel. You don't want to feel warmth at how Stewy's so close to you. You've been close to him before and nothing - nothing like what you feel with Roman.

But here, everything with what you feel with Roman. Maybe something new, something giddy that differs because Stewy isn't Roman, he's Stewy. He exists differently.

And now Roman exists away from you.

"Weddings, you know?"

Stewy smiles thin, brown eyes light.

"...Yeah. No. But even if it was yeah...I don't think it'd be Mr. and Mrs. Wambsgans getting me leaky. How's your legs from your formal-attire workout."

"...Upright planking?"

"Exactly."

You are sore. "It was a workout. At least I didn't have to listen to DIY vows. That would've been the real challenge."

Stewy leans you. You try not to breathe, you don't know why.

"I don't know, I think it'd be fun to see a Roy attempt romantics in public. Do you remember Ken's wedding with Rava?"

Yes. You won't be mean in your thoughts, genuinely.

"Yeah. The singing during the dinner was cute, I'm glad he chose to put that stunt there instead of the altar."

Stewy puts his hands in his pockets.

"Isn't that fucking right." His voice is warm, almost teasing - well...always teasing, even if the conversation is genuine. You know him well enough to know he's not fucking with you, laughing at you in the bore of small talk. It's just how he talks.

You also know him well enough to know his cologne is wearing off.

"You're not going to join the happy family photoshoot?"

"No. Have no reason to."

You and him haven't been facing each other in your talk, eyes to the Roy family with Tabitha and Rava as the reception beings to bustle inside.

You wonder if Stewy feels the tension too. If you're crazy - if you're childish for thinking he does or if you're both for feeling it yourself in the first place.

"That's a same, you're basically a fifth child. Which makes whatever you had with Roman incested. Which makes it less hot. I know, I'm weird, not...illegally weird, though. For the most part...so, the honorary incest is not hot, now that I think of it."

Stewy takes his hand out of his pocket. You see it out of the corner of your eye and you feel his touch on your back a couple seconds after.

You don't see how he pauses, you couldn't know how he thinks about how this touch is going to feel on his skin.

What the fuck happened, man? What happened that now things are...fucking coiling inside him. Like he's a boy - or no. Gross, cartoonish to describe it like...now it's just different with you. What fucking happened?"

Stewy smiles.

"You're perfume is disappearing on us. I don't want to be sniffing up on your sweat follicles while we're dancing, princess."

You shiver.

Why the fuck are you on fire in the best way possible?

"What a bore, right? Let's get inside."

Shiv fixes the waist of her dress.

"Yeah, honey. Photos are a bore, but important for our memoralization of our love...tonight, right? And I think we're supposed to let everyone go in first before we come crashing as bride and groom."

Photos are done. Everyone separates and even in the fire, you look to see if Roman's watching the flames. And....

Of course he is. But then you realize that you didn't tell Kendall that Stewy's your date. You didn't think you had to, but his eyes catching to where his best friend holds you is where you remember that yeah, Stewy's his best friend. The only reason why you know Stewy is because he's Kendall's best friend that he introduced when you were 14. You'll give him more leeway than you give to Roman. Even though it's still a date you needed, it must be weird for Kendall to see without context.

"I think you looked very beautiful up there."

You turn to Stewy, heart beating quick. Too quick for you to judge yourself for it.

"For Shiv's sake, I won't say you outdid her but...you were the closest bridesmaid to doing the out."

You smile to break away from that tension - between him and between how Kendall's hand drops from Rava's waist, how his eyes blink low from afar.

"You were examining all of us up there to figure that out?"

It's a joke you think warrants another smarmy-charming reply.

But all Stewy does is just hold his head up with something....serious along his face. Nothing under a tease, just eyes not blinking before he looks to the grass.

"No."

You can't stop your smile from falling before the photographer comes up to the both of you.

"Hey, you two want a photo? Cute couple."

"Oh, we're jus-"

"Sure. Have at us."

Stewy says it as charming as he says everything before he pulls you close by the waist.

"Oh, I can smell you better now. Smile, princess."

You do with every roll of fire on your skin. Your stomach turns over.

Maybe it's not childish...it's just new, it's just how you feel. What you hate is that you do, that it's Stewy. You have a right to new people, a new person to feel like this for...but not Stewy.

But it is, for some strange, new reason.

The camera shutters on you and him.

"Can I kiss you? It'll be modest. Cheeky."

It doesn't take you more than two seconds for it to slip out.

"...Sure. Yeah."

"Alright, yeah."

Stewy says it quietly before he kisses your cheek.

Oh, God.

The camera shutter, you might be...shuddering. You smile anyway. The photographer smiles too.

"Alright, make sure to catch the bouquet!"

They walk off and Stewy doesn't let go of you. You realize that he was holding it before the photographer came up for photos.

...Just breathe, just breathe.

And you do, Stewy's face doesn't stop you from breathing, you're able to breathe into it. Because of it - suddenly.

With his smile, with his smile.

...Maybe you'll indulge, maybe you have been indulging.

"I-"

You were going to, just before there's the sound of immense gagging. Vomiting.

"Fuck!"

"Rome?"

"Roman? What the fuck?"

Stewy turns to the commotion, brows rising up.

"Oh...oh. Fuck. That's disgusting."

It's Roman puking chunks onto the grass. Tabitha stands over him, complete ohs and rightful confusion on now knowing what to do. His father, Logan just looks completely disappointed.

Roman's hunches over. He's holding his head in what you know to be complete pain.

What the fuck?

"Roman?"

Of course, he doesn't answer you. You go to go up to him, but there's a hand on yours.

"I think we can go inside. Roman's vomit breath will meet us there, it looks like he's got enough people to check on him and his insides."

"I don't th-"

Even after everything, or because of everything, you still try and go to Roman. But Tabitha's hands rubbing his back stop you.

It takes the breath out of you.

Yeah, it's just...he'll meet you inside. Roman's got comfort, he decided it wouldn't be you and that'll stop hurting.

Roman will stop hurting a lot easier than you, you're sure. It'll be okay, you've got the rest of your life to take his insults of tonight.

"Okay, yeah. Let's go."

You hear the last of the gags as you and Stewy head inside to the start of the reception.

"I think they got my favorite desert, actually. I don't know how. If I'm feeling sultry and you're feeling consensual, I'll fork it into your mouth for you to try."

"...Sounds sultry. Okay"

You neither lean or move away from his hand on the small of your back. You let him pick something out of your hair.

"Roman, what the fuck? You okay, bro?"

"That was...you okay, son?"

You won't catch how Roman can't catch his breath. He can't recover. He can't come up from his knees. He actually lowers.

Tabitha's hands feels like bees, unfuckingfortunately. Roman crawls away and jolts at her palm finding him again.

"Stop! Just- it's fine. Stop. Sorry, sorry, Tab's. Dad, I'm good. I'm-"

He hacks. He can't breathe.

He knows why he can't breathe, but where are you? Where are the hands that actually feel like life digging back into his lungs?

Roman looks up.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?

Where are you?

"Roma-"

Whoever's talking to him gets interrupted by more vomiting. He's choking on it.

"Oh fucking Christ. I'm going, I'm going inside, Pinky. Someone get him water. Absolutely disgusting."

He would say he doesn't know what he did, but he does. He just doesn't...but he's sorry.

Where did you go? Why don't you come back?

"Roman, baby-"

"Don't fuckin-I said! I said stop. Sorry, you'll touch me later. I'm sorry."

He really fucking is, but someone else will be. If Roman sees Stewy in there...the bullet in Roman's head will be his to blame. That'll make him feel better.

Roman wipes his mouth, his eyes. He sniffles.

"Are you cry-"

"No! Tabitha, stop! Shiv - go get banged, it's your wedding day."

He can feel eyes. So, he's right. Staring does mean things.

"Fuck off!"

#inbox #hc's #drabble #dog and bone!au #succession fanfiction #roman roy x reader #roman roy fanfic #stewy hosseini #stewy hosseini x reader #succession fic #roman roy x you #succession imagine

214 notes · View notes

lostinlovingrevery · 4 months ago

Text

He's Definitely Obsessed With You (Series)

Origins! Logan X Fem!Reader

Plot: You're an army nurse, deep in the trenches of the Vietnam jungles, doing everything you can to keep yourself together, and the infantry that come into your tent. One day a soldier you aren't familiar with is brought in, and you find out something about him that leads to the start of an important relationship between you both that changes the course of your lives together...

A/N: This is basically the plot of Origins, but with my own spin on it with a Fem!Reader! This is my first time EVER writing an X reader, so comments appreciate! I plan to make this a series, but I wanted to put out a prologue first. Okay, it's not really a prologue and more like a chapter, and ended up being super long because I started writing and then didn't stop, and prologues are short- but IT'S MY STORY AND I'LL CREATE MY OWN RULES. The prologue is just how reader and Logan meet! (PS, there's eventual smut...Soon as I figure out how write it without getting embarrassed) Also, I'm still figuring out how to format on Tumblr, so please don't mind any funky design choices. Probably spelling and grammar mistakes somewhere in there

Warnings: Reader POV only (for now) Reader is female, also an army nurse, also a mutant- but powers aren't specified, blood mention, medical stuff talked about (like amputations), injury descriptions, Vietnam war and slight politics mention, probably a lot of historical inaccuracies i just googled things but I tried! implied reader could be religious but honestly there's nothing concrete to that. The only description of reader is her clothes and that she has hair, and wears makeup (lipstick). Reader has a hard on over Logan (she has a cruuuush), let me know if there's anything I missed!

Word Count: 4753

Series Masterlist

Prev<- ->Next

Prologue:

Rain rapped lightly along the top of the large tent, creating a soothing sound throughout. A radio, playing an american music station, played a rock song, of some new band slowly making a name for itself, sat nearby on a metal cabinet. Stacks of manila folders and papers were disorganized and spread, almost completely covering a desk. A clock ticks rhythmically. The tent was lined with cots, tables, ratty mattresses, IV stands, and small tables covered with empty food trays, water canisters, and paper cups filled pills. Some of the beds were taken up by injured men, snoring and groaning as they attempted to sleep, only slightly more comfortable here in the medical tent than out in the muddy, rainy trenches. It was monsoon season in Vietnam, and you were at your wits end with paperwork in the middle of a small but-not-that-small camp, set up not far from an American fire support base.

You were sitting at the desk, half asleep as you attempted to fill out another request form for medical supplies. Halothane, Methoxyflurane, Morphine, Penicillin - are common medicines that you find yourself constantly having to restock. Of course bandages, gloves, needles, saline, tubing, multiple surgical supplies, other things you find yourself low on often too, considering the amount of amputations, large and minor, that happen around here. The medical tent that you currently reside in was a revolving door of soldiers, both American and Vietnamese, as well as nearby villagers who come for aid after the American presence near their homes led to viruses they can’t combat on their own, or other unfortunate injuries if war breaks out in their village.

You were simply an army nurse, this was not your usual duty to perform, it was normally left to the assigned doctor of the camp. Your job was to assist the doctor, take care of the patients, administer medicine, IVs, change bandages, wet baths, feed them, and hold their hands as they cry for their momma and to God. You were busy enough, and the doctor, Doctor Frank Jones, who you were assisting had got shot by a stray bullet when out in the jungle, and had to be taken back to the main base, and back to the States. Due to a communication failure, his replacement ended up somewhere else, and transportation wasn’t an option due to the fighting happening.

Fortunately, Doctor Jones had seen potential in you and believed you would be an excellent doctor one day - something you wanted to pursue after your service was fulfilled. He became a mentor, helping you study and learn medicine, and giving you skills that an average nurse- even an army nurse- wouldn’t usually have. Now, it was just up to you, and a few young army medics - teenage boys who were given no choice in going to war, and their skills were found best in assisting injuries on the battlefield, but they were eager to help, and their light-hearted jokes and company helped relieve some stress for you, especially with the pain you watch day in and out. You didn’t always have the luxury of their help though, as when patrols went out, they required at least one of them to join. It leads you to have to order around other grunts who have no idea how to even measure the proper dosage of cough syrup for themselves whenever a serious injury comes in, having to give detailed orders on what to do- usually just getting you the supplies and medicine you need, as the grunts are typically too distracted and upset over their fallen brother to assist you in anything medical and complicated.

With being the only medical authority in the camp- as well as the only woman- you were well respected and popular. Your compassionate personality, and comforting presence, as well as your “Take-no-shit” attitude, led to soldiers of this camp visiting you all the time, usually making up excuses like having a cough, or a splinter in their finger, just so they could have the pleasure of your smile and encouraging words. The CO here made sure that they all treated you with respect, as a woman- and a nurse, so you never once felt unsafe- or unappreciated. Besides, a good section of this camp is young boys, too nervous about their situation to worry about trying to flirt with a woman like you. You're more of a comfort figure in these parts than anything else. Despite the stress and worry you face in day to day life, in the middle of the war, you were just happy to be doing something. You weren’t exactly a supporter of this war, but the moment you saw young boys lining up to go to war, something in you made you fiercely determined to follow, and do whatever you can to make sure those boys can go back home to their mothers and fathers.

The Rolling Stones was now playing on the radio, this was a band you were more familiar with - one of your favorites. Your foot tapped to the beat of the song, as you checked off another item you needed to be stocked up on- and hoped the supply chain doesn’t hold out on you again. For some reason, they seemed convinced that you must surely be lying about the supplies and will not send you the full amount of what you requested, leading you to storm into the CO’s tent on more than one occasion and rant to him with a few unsavory words about the supply lines commander. He always listens though, and does his best to get you what you can- which you can appreciate.

“Hey turn that up-” You heard one of the patients call out, and she smiles, reaching to the radio and turning the volume higher. She looked up from the desk to see one patient in bed moving his foot with the beat of the song, and the other, who asked her to turn it up, raised his arm in the air, hand in a fist as he rocked with the song. “This is a good one, hadn’t heard this one yet.”

“It came out in 65’ dumbass.” the other called out. “How’d you not know it?”

“I’ve been here since 64’ asshole! Think we always had access to a radio?”

They all chided each other, making you laugh as you shake your head, turning back towards your paperwork, determined to finish it today so you can send it out. It was rare you get these moments of quiet, so you appreciated it when you could. Things could turn on a dime in a second, especially since the fighting was getting closer to where this camp was set, and you’re hoping that you would get some help before anything serious came. You were just starting to get absorbed in the letter you were writing to the CO of the supply line, something slightly passive aggressive, when one of the soldiers yelled to you from outside.

“Hey! Nurse! There’s some guys coming this way! They got someone injured-”

You looked up, dropping your pencil, and turning the radio down as you readied yourself, brushing the pants of your army fatigues to straighten it out, and rolling your sleeves farther up your arms. You watched as the flaps of the tent get pulled open, as two men carry someone resting on a cot. You didn’t like how quiet the man was being.

“In here-” You lead them to another section of the medical tent, ment solely for treating wounded, in an attempt to keep something sterile and clean- well, as clean as you can get it. The soldiers set the man onto the table that sat in the center of the room, small trays and medical supplies, as well as a large overhead lamp that provided lighting to give you a better view at what you’re working on, surrounded the table.

“We got ambushed on patrol, fortunately he’s the only one that got hit, a VC jumped out of the grass and stabbed him. We got pressure on the wound, and he’s still alive- for now.”

You nodded as you went to a basin to pull on some sterile gloves, and walked over to examine the soldier. He was handsome- you couldn’t help but noticed but quickly put that out of your mind. A full head of deep beautiful brown hair, and a thick beard framed his face. He looked older, possibly in his mid 30’s. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, as his teeth were gritted and eyes cinched shut in pain. A wave of sorrow hit you, as you never liked seeing people in pain, it hits you bad enough to wonder why you chose to go into the medical profession of all things. Nevertheless, you push through, and began working on removing the uniform so you can see if you can save this one. At least he wasn’t screaming.

“Whats his name?”

“Logan ma’am. He’s Private First Class.” The private responds, voice professional, but quickly drops into something softer. “He’s a good guy, and smart, usually quick on his feet, its surprising someone ambushed him…”

“Need any help ma’am?” The other private who brought him in ask.

“No, I got it, thank you.” You tell them as you grab some sheers and began cutting through Logan's army garments. “Just make sure others are alright. See if any of the boys out there need water.”

They nodded, saluting- leading you to roll your eyes- and left your section of the tent, just as you manage to cut off the white wife beater he was sporting underneath his army garments, giving you a complete view of where he had been stabbed. You breathed a small sigh of relief, the wound appeared in the part of the torso where nothing vital was located and you managed to roll him to his side- seeing the stabbing didn’t go straight through, meaning this guy had a good chance of surviving, assuming he doesn’t succumb to infection…

“Alright Logan,” You turned you head to look at the man, who was still tense, eyes squeezed shut. He was somewhat awake, with his breathing and the way his muscles contracted, but he didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on, you still felt it important to talk to whoever you were treating though. You had to hold the hands of many scared soldiers, and quickly have learned the right things to say when comforting. “I’m going to take care of you, and in return, you’re going to need to be strong for me here.” You say softly but firmly to him, hoping that he’s hearing you through the pain, as you went and quickly grabbed a wet cloth out of a basin nearby, squeezing out the excess water, and gently placing it over his forehead, in order to soak up some sweat, and provide some more comfort to cool his skin that seemed to be burning hot. You couldn’t help but note that you don’t recognize him- you wouldn’t have forgotten his face that’s for damn sure, if he’d ever came to visit you, which most privates in this camp has at one time or another. You shook the curiosity out of your head, you had to move quickly, fighting the urge to wanting to take in the details of his face- his very handsome face, and moved to focus back onto the wound on his torso.

You started by slowly removing the packed bandages, examining the blood flow to make sure nothing gushed, but he really wasn’t bleeding much anymore- actually, it didn’t look like he was bleeding at all now. Confused, you began cleaning the area of the stab wound so you could get a clear view of what you were looking at. At first, you thought you were losing your mind, you had to been because what you were seeing…

It was as if the skin was growing back, the wound, going inwards seemed to almost pop out, before the skin stitched together, going through what the bodys usual healing process would look like- except doing it within a matter of seconds. Turning from a bright red inflamed wound, into a baby pink scar bump that slowly faded off, you couldn’t even tell anything had happen there- except from the blood stained around it. You were blinking in disbelief, mouth slightly agape, before it suddenly occurred to you what you were just seeing.

Oh shit-

He’s a mutant.

You looked at the man, who’s muscles seemed to be relaxing now, as he took deeper breaths, the sweat on his face began to dry and disappear. You weren’t sure what to do at this point, you’re so used to every minute counting to fix someone, and this guy just healed himself in seconds!

And by god, he was so handsome. You thought that already, got to stop thinking about that. Turning away from his face, you went to examine where the stab wound used to be, gloved fingers gently pressing on the area- before the soldier- Logan, practically yelped- and sat up rushed on the table, startling you even more so than him, as you jumped back, hands in the air in surrender- as if you did anything wrong.

He was panting, the cold wet cloth you had placed on his forehead fell into his lap, as he looked around with wide eyes, pupils dilated, his nostrils flaring, he almost looked animal-like in this state. He turned to look at you. His eyes took you in, and suddenly you felt embarrassed by your army clothes you were sporting, green cargo pants, and a green collared button up shirt, tucked into your pants, making you feel less than girlish in them, despite their comfortability, your forehead was covered in sweat, and your hair pulled back in a bun neat bun with baby hairs sticking out everywhere. At least you had lipstick on to give yourself a little bit of a pop in your plain looking outfit. That should be the last thing you should be worried about.

“You’re okay-” You finally found your voice, holding your hands out to him, “You got ambushed, but you’re okay now.”

He blinked, then let out a small sigh, his whole self seeming to relax, his expression turned more human-like, as he faced forward, then looked down at himself. His hand went over where he had been hurt- seeing that there was no longer any injury there, although something in his expression told you he could still feel it. He swallowed, jaw tensing, before realization struck him, and his head snapped to look at you.

“You saw- You know, don’t you?” He asks, his voice was deep, but sounded a little dry and scratchy. Still, it was enough to make your knees weak.

You turned, going to a cabinet that held medicines and various other supplies, but on the counter was a pitcher of water and a few glass cups. Pulling off your gloves, you poured a cup from the pitcher, turning back and handing it to him.

“Yeah. I saw.” You say cooly, holding it out for him to take. He looked at you, his deep and should you think gorgeous hazel eyes felt like they were piercing your soul; as if he was trying to decipher what was going on in your head, which you wish you knew as well because his stare was making your brain fuzzy; then glanced at the cup and finally took it from your hand, your fingers brushing together, making your heartbeat just a little faster, and you could feel a small heat blooming in your cheeks.

Jesus christ, pull yourself together

You thought to yourself. You cleared your throat while he took several swigs of water, dropping his hand with the cup to his side as he took a moment to breathe once more.

“Got anything stronger?” He asks, his low and smoother now, quirking a brow at you. You smiled,

“Sorry, anything alcoholic you may want to drink in here, I gotta save for the guys who can’t heal themselves within minutes.” You say teasingly. “Supplies are low enough already.”

You could see a small quirk of his lips, in something resembling a smile. He was still tense though, his eyes seemed to be somewhere else. He looked at you again,

“Does it…scare you? Me being a mutant?” He asks, his voice low

“Um….No?” You responded, confusion on your face, a small shake of your head, “Why would it?”

He seemed relieved- and surprised by that answer, his shoulders finally relaxing, and he took another drink of water, eyes closing as he finished the cup, and handed it back to you, where you set it back on the counter. Wiping his mouth with his arm, he sat up more confidently, bending his leg as he brought his knee up to his chest, and propped his forearm over it, and leaned back on his other hand, taking a few deep breaths as he lowered his head down, then looked back up at you, his expression suddenly stern.

“You gonna tell them?” He asks. You knew he was referring to the army. Mutants weren’t well accepted in the world- much less the US army. The American government is actually sitting comfortably in the capital and writing out bullshit laws on mutant regulations, rather than trying to figure out a solution for the war here in Vietnam. You, a mutant yourself, albeit your powers were easy to hide and conceal, you still feared of a day that someone somehow discovers your secret. You’ve heard stories of American soldiers revealed to be mutants being killed, due to some bullshit excuse that they “lied” about who they were, and couldn’t be trusted. Whether those stories were true or fearmongering to keep mutants hiding their true identities, you didn’t know, but you certainly weren’t gonna find out yourself. You definitely wouldn’t put another fellow mutant, just trying to survive like you, in any sort of danger like that, even if he could probably just heal if he got put in front of a firing squad.

You pursed your lips together. Then smiled. “No. I’ll keep your secret.” You say. “All it means to me is that I have one less person to worry about around here. I was actually wondering why I hadn’t seen your face in this tent yet before, and now I know why.”

He softened at that, but his face quickly fell back into something more serious and stern once more, which you’re starting to think might be his baseline.

“You okay?” You asked, your voice was soft, and sweet, and borderline angelic for a man like him, who’s been in wars almost his entire life- which you don’t know about that. “That probably didn’t feel good, what happened.” He nodded.

“M’ fine….Thank you.” He grumbles lowly, looking down at his hands. “I heard about you- actually I-I seen you around. You’re the only nurse on camp?” He asked, looking back up at you, there seemed to be a bit of curiosity in his voice.

“Yeah. I’m pretty popular.” You say, in a teasing voice, blushing at the thought that he’s noticed you. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, you are quite literally the only woman around, save for the women in the village not far from here.

“Must be busy.”

“Oh… Nah-” You playfully wave him off. “Some days are so slow, I’m actually bored.” You say matter-of-factly, but you both knew you were kidding. Another quirk of his lips. You smiled softly at him, but there was a voice in your head telling you, that since he doesn’t need your help, you should probably get back to helping the ones who do. Not that you want to leave, he was so damn handsome, you could stare at him all day. It wasn’t just his good looks though, his whole self drew you in with just a few words, and you find yourself wanting to get to know Logan, because the look in his eyes told you that he was someone worth knowing. Or maybe that was just your hormones talking. There was just this energy between you both, some type of unseen connection. His eyes trailed down you again, this time fully taking you in, stopping at your chest, and for a moment you were about to be completely turned off by this man being a pervert, but he nodded towards it.

“Your necklace?” He asked. You looked down, oh, you thought to yourself. You pulled the string of your necklace, lifting the small coin that it held, string carefully wrapped around it so it doesn’t fall off.

“It’s a prayer coin. A priest gave it to me.” You explained. “It’s the archangel Raphael. A protector, patron saint of medical workers, like doctors, nurses.”

“Like you?”

You nodded. He examined it, before you tucked it back under your shirt. You usually keep it hidden, but it must have fallen out while you were rushing. Now it was silent again, and you both weren’t sure what to do or say.

“Well….” You took a breath, you glanced down at his abdomen, and suddenly your brows creased in concentration.

“What?” He asked, by your sudden change in demeanor.

“You can’t exactly walk out with no injury. Those two privates were pretty worried about you.” You say, putting your hands on your hips and pursing your lips together. You clicked your tongue.

“I can figure something out-”

“No no-” You held your hand up and looking around the room. “Those privates brought you in, there’s probably an incident report written right now, not to mention I have to write a report on your injuries too-” you explained. “I mean, how are you gonna explain it if you walk out, completely A-okay?”

Logan shrugged simply. “I can think of something, it isn’t the first time this happened.” You rolled your eyes. Men.

You rather not waste bandages on a pretend injury, but you need someway to get his injury to look believeable, thats when you spotted your answer. His white tank top that you had drop to the floor, it was good enough to wrap around him, making him look as if he’s been all fixed up from his stab wound. The shirts cotton texture looked similar to the pattern of a bandage, and was good enough, especially considering no one would be looking hard enough at his wound anyway.

After a few minutes of “fixing him up” with your solution to keep his regenerative abilities a secret, you stood back examining the fake bandage/shirt that you tore up and wrapped around his torso, using bandage pins to hold it in place. Then shrugged.

“It’s good enough.” You say. “You’re not going anywhere anyway, so it’s not like you’ll raise a bunch of questions. It looks like you have an injury, it’ll match the incident and medical report. You won’t get found out.”

“I’m not going anywhere?” He raised a brow.

“Nope. You were injured, which means I gotta keep an eye on you. So you’ll be sleeping here, and you’ll have to pretend you’re in pain, whining and moaning and all that. Give it your best performance.” You encourage. “Take it, not many around here get a chance to get a break like that.”

He looked at you, pondering what you were offering him- well, you weren’t offering, he was going to have do it because you weren’t gonna risk him revealing himself as a mutant, which for some reason you were now more concerned about than he was. A small smirk appeared on his face, “That mean you’ll be waiting on me then, hand and foot?”

You smiled, “Don’t get ahead of yourself soldier.” You say teasingly. “You can stay in here a little longer, rest up, maybe shed some tears to make it look like you’re suffering tremendously.” You added a little flair as you brought your hand up to your forehead, pretending to faint, before turning and walking away to leave the room, now knowing you really needed to get back to work.

“I don’t think I need to shed any tears.” He mutters, but there was amusement in his tone though. “Hey bub” He called after you as you were about to leave the room, lifting the tent flap, but you stopped to look at him. “Why are you seen keen on helping me out? Making a plan to make sure people don’t find out what I am…Seems like too much trouble to go through for you.” He frowned.

“Well…” You dropped the flap of the tent, “Us mutants gotta stick together, right?” Logan looked surprised at first, eyes widening a bit, and jaw slacking, but then a soft, genuine smile stretched across his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling, leaving you thinking that was a smile you never wanted to go without again. Smiling back at him, you winked, and turned back before stopping and looking at him again, “Plus, you seem worth the trouble.” You add, before finally leaving him to himself.

Maybe it was too much trouble. You could leave Logan to figure it out himself. You two didn’t know each other, you weren’t friends. Yet you, the compassionate self you are, and also slightly bull-headed, was not going to leave Logan hanging alone. Maybe it was the fact that you were both mutants that urged you to help him, let him know that someone like him out there has his back, even if he had many brothers at his side watching his back too. Or maybe it was because you felt an undeniable pull towards him- and him towards you.

While he stayed in the medical tent with you for about a week, the standard time for stitches to stay in. While staying, you both got to know each other better. You found a deep friendship with Logan quickly, both of you having an understanding of each other, not just as mutants but as individuals as well. You were able to laugh, usually at his snarky remarks to the other privates and even his comments to the higher-ups, surprising you in how he likes to occasionally challenge authority despite how quiet and reflective he can be some moments. You saw him as brave, smart, and he was protective, always going first in patrols, and keeping an eye on the younger privates. He’d hid it well, rarely making it seen, but he had a compassion that made your heart swell, especially when you came across him comforting a young private who was homesick and scared. He had a good instinct that seems to attest to his mutation- which he later revealed the full aspects of it to you later on, claws and everything- which did nothing but fascinate you, leading to a full acceptance of him he hadn’t felt or seen in a long time. He’d visit you in late nights when he wasn’t assigned guard patrol, bringing you something to eat or drink, and you’d both quietly talk about your lives, and how’d you ended up there. He listened to you complain about the lack of supplies, and how you got into medicine in the first place. You’d learn of his brother Victor- another Private First Class there at the camp, who you quickly learned a distaste for after meeting him, and how old they both really were- leading you to bombard him with history questions, that he simply answered “I wasn’t there bub.” There was an unspoken yet mutual physical and spiritual attraction between you both, but before anything could have gone further in your relationship, down in the thick muddy jungles of Vietnam, you suffered a similar fate as your mentor Doctor Jones. A stray bullet having shot through your shoulder while you were out, attempting to help a young private who’s leg unfortunately got caught in a dirt trap. You were okay, but orders sent you home on a medical discharge, saying you fulfilled your duty to the States.

You missed Logan, and you also found yourself struggling to find your place back in civilian life again, the stress and the trauma of the things you saw weighed heavy in your mind, not to mention the worry you felt over Logan's safety while he was still over there. The only thing easing your worries was the letters you wrote to each other, until one day his letters stopped coming, and your own got returned back to you with no explanation, leaving you in fear of the worst….

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett fic #wolverine x f!reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine x men #i know the title will throw you off but TRUST ME #especially with the vibes of this fic #also like i said my first reader fic SO PLEASE BE GENTLE #vans daydreams

114 notes · View notes

sunday-bug · 3 months ago

Text

I write for Sebastian Stan characters only.

Inbox is open for blurb requests! Click here for more details about blurb requests.

Message me if you'd like to be added to a tag list for any or all characters.

Bucky Barnes

Congressman Barnes smutty oneshots:

Riding Bucky (NSFW 18+)

Five Minutes in Heaven (NSFW 18+)

A Cure for Jealousy (NSFW 18+)

Stress Reliever (NSFW 18+)

Congressman Barnes steamy oneshots:

Sweetest Juice (PG-13)

Congressman Barnes fluffy oneshots:

Husband Bucky (PG)

Congressman Barnes x pregnant girlfriend series:

Happy Accident part 1 (PG-13)

Happy Accident part 2 (PG-13)

Happy Accident part 3 (NSFW 18+)

Happy Accident part 4 (PG-13)

Happy Accident part 5 (PG-13)

Congressman Barnes x female assistant series:

Assisting Congress (PG-13)

Assisting Congress part 2 (PG-13)

Congressman Barnes blurb requests:

Bucky has an adorable nose scrunch when he laughs

Bucky gets a an Easter basket from his assistant

Bucky x female assistant hookup (NSFW 18+)(Bucky’s POV)

Bucky goes to a smash room to let off steam

Bucky snaps at you for telling him to take a break

Bucky explains why a policy proposal about PTSD is important to him

Random Bucky oneshots:

What’s the Magic Word? (NSFW 18+)

Don't Move (NSFW 18+) (Bucky’s POV)

Not Yet & All At Once (PG-13)

New Dad!Bucky Headcannons (PG)

Random Bucky blurb requests:

Bucky is there for you after a tough day at work

Bucky takes you on a nature walk to comfort you

Bucky is anxious to tell you about his arm

Bucky x protective girlfriend about his arm

Bucky gets jealous of you flirting with other men

Bucky has a cold and you take care of him

Bucky has a nightmare and you take care of him

Bucky admits he wants to get married

Bucky takes you stargazing in Delacroix

Bucky is super ticklish

Bucky’s authentic laughter x reader

Bucky fixes your car with his metal arm

Bucky x nurse reader at brunch

Bucky x girlfriend go on vacation (NSFW 18+)

(Bucky’s POV)

Bucky’s cute nose worship

Bucky x reader go candle shopping

Bucky forgets to wear his wedding ring out

Bucky is grumpy in the morning

Bucky takes care of you while you're on your period

Terry the Terrific

Terry x original female character series:

The Magic of Yearning part 1

The Magic of Yearning part 2

The Magic of Yearning part 3

Terry blurb requests:

Terry the Terrific goes on first date with you

Terry goes to the fabric store and walks out with her number

Terry loves edging (NSFW 18+)

Terry etc:

NSFW Alphabet

SFW Alphabet

Steve Kemp

Steve Kemp blurb requests:

Steve Kemp dinner date

Steve Kemp carnival date (NSFW 18+)

Steve Kemp etc:

NSFW Alphabet

Lance Tucker

no works yet

Nick Fowler

no works yet

Edward Lemuel/Guy Moratz

no works yet

Frank from Endings, Beginnings

no works yet

Mickey from Monday

no works yet

Max from Sharper

no works yet

Chris from Destroyer

no works yet

VERY RANDOM STUCKY SECTION LOL

Stucky fluff blurb (Steve x Bucky)

Their Little Spitfire part 1 (Steve x Bucky x you) (18+ NSFW)

Their Little Spitfire part 2 (Steve x Bucky x you) (18+ NSFW)

Their Little Spitfire part 3 (Steve x Bucky x you) (18+ NSFW)

#sebastian stan #terry the terrific #the magic of passion #masterlist #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #fan fiction #frank endings beginnings #edward lemuel #guy moratz #nick fowler #lance tucker

91 notes · View notes

peggyao3 · 4 months ago

Text

Relic - Pt. 18 "Universe"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: This chapter is dedicated to the quantum spirits.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: It's a Christmas miracle! 🎄 The final chapter is ready just in time. And, my God, I'm so emotional about it 😭 It hurts to let it go.

After finishing this chapter, you might want to re-read a certain part of a certain other chapter, because of reasons 🤭

If there ever pops up a 19th "chapter", don't be surprised! If it happens, it's going to be a bit of art for this fic 💖💖💖

My biggest thank you goes to @/ClockworkSiren, once again, for beta reading this whole thing and letting me borrow our lovely babies Alyth and Michael and turn them into Lilia and Mikhail ❤️😭

Reposted from my Ao3💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter

"So, this is it?" She gazes out the window, engines rumbling under their seats. "The Maldives of Giedi Prime?"

"What was that, darling?" Feyd's hand is heavy on her knee, the coolness of his wedding band seeping pleasantly through her gown. His bald head thuds softly against the back panel as he follows her gaze.

The black, oily waves of the svart valta lick at the pale coast of the peninsula below. White sand stretches between tall, chalky cliffs that stand out of the landscape like the unearthed bones of an ancient beast. According to her interface, they're still 150 meters above the ground.

"The Maldives," the relic mutters pensively. "They were an archipelago on Earth, a popular honeymoon destination. Never been there. They were flooded around the time I was born."

"Honeymoon," Feyd repeats the foreign word that lacks a proper translation in Galach, but with the individual words grafted together, it sounds cute. He likes it. "M'gonna drink your honey as soon as we touch down. Until the moon comes out?"

His wife snickers warmly and her breath fogs up the window. Feyd's hand slides to the inside of her thigh, squeezing the soft flesh above her knee.

"Not if I drink yours first," she teases, though her musing gaze remains on the lurid landscape below, abyssal wave hungrily trying to scorch the peninsula of Telkel. From the tasu aurinkosesti, they had flown east to reach one of the most remote Harkonnen settlements on Giedi Prime. Looking at the undulating mass of radiation, she wonders: "What color do you think it'd have under a yellow sun?"

"Don't know," Feyd hums. "You're the scientist. Green, maybe? Or brown."

He had explained to her earlier that the settlers had tried to reintroduce fish to the sea here in Telkel. The giant, corroding basins along the shore remain, but their filter systems have been shut off for decades. To cultivate fish that can not only survive but thrive in the heavily polluted waters would take some serious scientific effort that the late Baron Harkonnen didn't think promising enough to chip his budget for.

"We could have gone to Lankiveil," his woman briefly pouts, though her eyes betray her fascination as the village below increases in size. "I would die to dip my toes into an ocean without having them singed off. Or for some fresh air and a walk among pines. I never had much of that on Earth either."

Feyd hums, contorting his torso to press his cheek against hers as they both gaze out of the same window. Long, pale fingers play along her ribs. "The waters on Lankiveil would freeze your toes off, but… We'll go there," he promises with a low whisper. "Or any other planet you want. The universe is practically ours now."

Practically. Perhaps after a week of writhing on top of each other in damp sheets, their thirst for revenge will return.

The conversation between Feyd and his brother after the ceremony had been brief, but Glossu had formally invited the both of them to Lankiveil, the snowy, tranquil home of Feyd's early childhood and a place full of emotional debris. But he would rather not elbow his way through the wreckage on their honeymoon.

The aircraft touches down on a bleak landing pad between low buildings that look like matchboxes among the unforgiving landscape. A small committee of a dozen Telkelis awaits the daunting visitors from Barony, their massive aircraft ink-black and shiny, factory new, among the dusty grey architecture and pale hills. The sharp wind of rotor blades makes the Telkelis' drab trousers whip around their legs.

Lilia quickly maneuvers to the other side of the passengers' cabin after prying the hem of her Lady's travel mantle out of Glugo's many finger-toes. The garment has the same functionality as her wedding down, but simpler and more practical.

"You'll get your plushies back when we're inside," the handmaid tries to soothe the wistfully glugging creature. "They're in the suitcase— Oh! Not that one."

But Glugo has already wrapped four out of eight hand-feet around the handle of Mikhail's personal suitcase that the guard had refused to deposit in the cargo department because old habits die hard. As a former resident of the slums of Ganpolis, he prefers to have his belongings where he can see them.

Feyd-Rautha clicks his tongue while Lilia helps his wife into the shiny mantle and gloves, concealing her from head to toes.

Outside, scalding wind carries the sound of distant, crashing waves and the scent of bitter salt. The relic has to hold onto her husband's arm as she sways on the iron footsteps of the aircraft. Behind them, guards spill out of the second cabin, half of them heading straight to the cargo compartment where her cryo pod is stored. She is quite like Mikhail in that regard.

The committee bravely keeps a stoic face and doesn't flinch at the disturbingly cute sight of an eight-arm-legged creature toiling away with a too heavy suitcase and refusing a desperate guard's help.

Leaning towards his wife, Mikhail whispers: "My chair's inside that thing!"

Feyd's nostrils flare as he struts towards the gathered dozen with heavy, leisured steps, clutching the hand of his wife. His other hand lifts to shield himself against the glaring sun and the tip of his thumb subconsciously slides against his ear where an inconspicuous black button pierces his antihelix. To the unsuspecting eye, it looks not too different from a regular transponder with an unconventional placement, but what it really contains is a tiny loudspeaker and a chip with just enough memory to run the script that detects the voice.

"Welcome to Telkel, my Lord, my Lady." The committee bends their knees and salutes. The clumsy tension in their limbs gives away that they didn't have to salute to authority often in their lives out here in the godforsaken wilderness.

"Thank you for having us."

If it weren't the young Baron's very own raspy drawl speaking, the Mayor of Telkel would have never believed that 'thank you' would be the first words coming out of Feyd's mouth. The Mayor's daughter had cried in the morning, certain that Feyd-Rautha would behead her father for something as mundane as the driveway to the villa being too crooked or the bad condition of the weather-beaten landing pad.

"It's an honor. The entire village is ecstatic, my Lord." Still hunkering down on one knee, the man's smooth brows suddenly shoot up in horror. "Congratulations!" He blurts. "On your marriage!" He'd meant to say this in the very beginning. Helplessly, his pale eyes snap from Baron to Baroness.

"Thank you," the Lady speaks from behind the curious veil and her voice sounds kind and human. "Why don't you stand up. Don't hurt your knees."

Feyd-Rautha casts a threatening glance at Mikhail, so the guard doesn't blurt out that 'the Lady could print y'all some chairs.'

The Mayor and his people shuffle, straightening their bodies into the sharp wind.

"Oh, my Lady, our knees and backs are used to it." The older man points a scarred thumb behind his shoulder, where the inkvine plantations are beyond the village border. This is how Telkel gets by now, hovering over the maws of poverty at the whims of Giedi Prime's rocky soil and erratic volcanoes.

The Lady lets out a sympathetic sound and the Mayor can't help himself. The next words just come tumbling out. "It'd be an honor to show you around the plantations and the old basins, if you'd like. Never seen them in action, but my father did. For a year or so, they had a relatively stable population of Tilapia in there."

"I'd love to see them. Actually, if I could have some water samples, maybe I could—"

"Not now, sweetling," Feyd's grating voice chastises and he squeezes his wife's gloved hand, compressing her wedding ring between her fingers. "The villa is prepared?"

"Yes, my Lord. The maids and workers you sent have been very thorough. Radiation-proof window panes, fresh paint. Even got some imported plants. My daughter picked them." The renovated villa is now considerably more homely than the Mayor's own residence. "Shall we head there?"

Despite its forlorn ugliness, the relic finds Telkel and its grey, flat buildings among chalky hills oddly charming. Even if she'll be covered from crown to toe in her lead-painted mantle, she swears she will go to the beach — if Feyd lets her out of the bedroom — and feel the sand underfoot, hear the massive waves trying to swallow the shore. Compared to Barony and the roiling industrial trenches that stretch across most of the northern hemisphere, this is a natural paradise.

"Guess we won't be seeing ya for a while, eh?" Mikhail leers, freshly painted teeth brilliant in the glaring sun as he leans lopsidedly against the grey pillar of the villa's roofed porch. Lilia harshly pinches his side, between the plates of his armor, but the apples of her cheeks round up with laughter. Sometimes it still scares her how openly her husband jests with Feyd-Rautha, a man who used to be known first and foremost for his quick blades and unstable outbursts.

The welcome committee has left them ten minutes ago and the guards currently come shuffling out of the building, having deposited the Baroness' priceless sarcophagus in the room adjacent to their honeymoon suite.

"You may join us for meals," Feyd concedes, grinning.

"Meals as in…?" Mikhail cocks a hairless brow.

"Oh, absolutely not!" The relic gasps and her guard breaks into raspy laughter, lungs expanding in crunchy hops.

"Dun' worry. I wouldn't share my woman anyways. Not even with you, m'Lord. Aight then, see ya in a week, eh?"

Wiry arms curl around Lilia's thighs and the scrawny guard hauls his wife quite easily over his shoulder. She calls him a prat between giggles, and a mongrel, but Mikhail already makes a sprinting beeline for Glugo who still stubbornly drags his suitcase down the freshly paved pathway to the guest house.

"They'll be fine," Feyd-Rautha soothes his wife's veiled, lingering glance. "Look at me." His gravelly timbre demands for her undivided attention and her eyes follow his magnetic pull.

Pale fingers sprawl across her sternum, urging her backwards. Even through the lead-painted layers, she feels his possessive touch singe her skin and bones. Unwittingly, her feet pass the threshold of their holiday abode and the door closes at her husband's back.

Inside, silence embraces them. This place is only for them, where they need to be nothing but lovers. Color provided by golden glow globes fades into Feyd's pallor, the softest notes of pink on cheeks and lips, and blue framed by dark blonde lashes.

The building is brutalist in its arches and pillars, but less suffocating than the palace. The welcoming range of non-colors and sharp angles creates actual depth and contrast, not like the bulbous pyramid interior that reminds of a termite burrow, or the innards of a giant insect. Bright daylight streams through the thick windows, fading into glowglobe haze.

Something about this place evokes… Nostalgia.

"You're blushing, husband," she teases, though her hammering heart under his palm betrays her own butterflies.

"Off with that thing." Feyd-Rautha has already mapped out the buckles that keep her mantle fastened and strips it off her frame quicker than she would have ever managed. Her gloves land on the same shiny pile and she hooks her bare fingers into Feyd's belt loops, turning her husband around his tall axis to walk him up the curved stairs. Those pretty eyes could eat her alive, oozing lust like blue honey.

Neither of them take note of the gentle, green fern that line the staircase in tasteful pots.

"Off with that thing." The woman's fingers glide under Feyd's lapels and over his smooth shoulders, slipping his ornamental jacket off his arms. The expensive garment flutters over the banister and he remains in a sleeveless tunic and trousers.

"So, now that you're my wife, will you stop taking that potion?" Feyd leers at her stomach once they've reached the top, his tone playful. The hand that lunges to smack him atop the head is one that he had predicted, and so he dodges it masterfully and dances behind her. Hard, strong arms curl around her middle, lifting her off the ground until she breaks into gasping giggles and demands to be let down with kicking feet. The hem of her gown slides up her shins.

Feyd grins, feeling the plushness of her breasts against his forearms. "What a rare pleasure to have you in a gown, my darling" he purrs.

"For this special occasion, I thought I might as well," she huffs with laughter, accepting her airborne fate.

"I like it. It's practical."

"Practical for you, not for me."

The garment is a classic cut worn by Harkonnen noblewomen, flattering and intricate in the way it curls around her bosom and hips in obsidian black, nothing like the stiff latex and see-through plastic of the former Baron's palace servants.

"Don't worry, you won't have to wear it for the rest of the week, my darling. You'll wear nothing but sweat and cum on your pretty skin. Or maybe some blood. I didn't bring a coffer full of toys for nothing."

"I hope some of them are for you."

"More than you'd think," he purrs, pink lips pressing against her neck. "And some of the blood will be mine."

"Oh? We could start now." The woman twists out of his grasp, turning and grasping his lapels. Her lips find the crescent scar on his clavicle, pretending to delve for a kiss when she really pinches the thin layer of skin over the bone between her teeth. Feyd grunts, shamelessly pressing his confined erection against her navel.

"Let's go, my darling." He seizes her hand, his whole universe, and opens the door.

🎶🎶🎶

"Look, doesn't this remind you of something?" His wife's voice whispers to him excitedly and Feyd-Rautha tilts his head, brows furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"Look!" Her ringed hand slides out of his grip and he chases after it viscerally, nearly overwhelmed by the sudden discomfort of having no soft palm against his own. She shouldn't be slipping away from him at all on their honeymoon.

But then, recognition carves into him, serrated blades that tear his guts open with a monstrous sense of deja vu. His head spins as he advances into the room.

Feyd's feet step on polished parquet and his gaze swivels around, scanning the surroundings which he thought he would never see again. There are white curtains fluttering by the window, a king-sized bed carved out of white marble, a black comforter tucked around the mattress and blue pillows are lined up against the headboard. A real fern grows in a terracotta pot in the corner.

Horrified, Feyd's head snaps back to his woman, suddenly recognizing the Harkonnen gown wrapped around her curves. He finds her eyes brimming with meaning.

She clutches his wrist hard, nails digging into tender skin, and it is like some sense of frantic, mutual understanding settles upon wife and husband. Her features soften and she looks at him, seemingly confused.

"I don't recognize this place," he lies. His heart clamors like a captive beast.

"Me neither." She pulls her hand away and takes a step back, her cheeks hot and her head dizzy as the universe's mysterious gears rotate around them. But she masks it well.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Feyd rumbles, tracing his fingertips over the cool, smooth marble bedpost. It feels so real. It is real and always has been real.

"I don't know. I feel so awake."

A flash of warmth blossoms in Feyd-Rautha's chest as he regards the woman he has seen so many times before, in visions and reality. Curiously, she moves around the light-flooded bedroom. Sunlight filters through the curtains, temporarily robbing her flesh of color. A frown decorates her brows and she turns back to face him. Years of comfort reside in the way she moves and Feyd chases after her with measured steps.

"What's your name?" He asks. She tells him only a forename, no House, because she has none, unfamiliar sounding, because the name was given to her 24,000 years ago. "I've never heard that name before," Feyd confesses, standing mere inches away from his wife. Her pretty face is craned upwards to meet the alluring gaze of his eyes. She would describe the color as baby blue. The prettiest shade in the world.

"And what's your name?" She breathes. No matter what this is, she has no reason to be nervous. It already happened.

He hesitates at that. Feyd-Rautha Rabban. But ultimately, he stays true to the script. "Feyd."

The name sparks no judgment on the woman's features and he remembers the flood of immense, stupid relief and how he had concluded that there is probably more than one person in the universe named Feyd, that Harkonnens all look the same to foreigners. To talk to a person who only knows Feyd, not Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had been his lifeline out of the gluttonous maws of death.

"Feyd," she repeats, suddenly giggling.

He too is in the mood for giggling, but he didn't giggle then, so he doesn't giggle now. Feyd leans an inch closer, eyes rapidly dancing across her mirthful face.

"Feyd as in you will fade away when I wake up?" She covers her mouth now, still laughing. Something compels him to laugh as well because all things considered, this is still a funny joke, even though neither of them will wake up.

Or will they?

No. No, they won't.

The pressure against the apples of his cheeks doesn't feel so unfamiliar anymore, as the corners of his mouth lift into a wide grin. His lips part and what escapes him is a small haha.

Suddenly, the woman flinches and her smile drops. Perhaps she had the same thought as he did. She catches herself quickly and remembers: "Sorry! I just—"

"What? Oh, the black teeth? People usually find them very pretty where I'm from, desirable even.” Feyd closes his mouth. He's still unsure if laughter suits him, but his woman seems to like it. Always has.

"Oh, no, please keep laughing!" She wraps her hand around Feyd's wrist. So smooth, every part of him. She wants to curl against his body and rub her cheek against his pallid flesh. Even now, his features are still outlandish to her, strikingly pretty. The pale skin, so light that it almost looks translucent, the entirely bald head and lack of brows.

She should have always known that he's not a figment of her imagination, because she couldn't have imagined someone so pretty.

Encouraged by her touch, Feyd smiles once more and it has never been easier. It feels so good. He looks away from his woman who still holds his wrist and finds a mirror on the far wall. He looks foreign to himself, his cheeks not in the right place, but he's gotten more used to it.

"If I pinch you, will you wake up?" She teases, pinching his skin without waiting for his answer. She seems fascinated by the small blotch which decorates his wrist where she poked him with her nail, twisting and turning his wrist and hand like he's an interesting specimen. Of course she would look at him like that — his little scientist, life saver, love of his life.

Even though this is not a lucid dream, Feyd knows he doesn't have to worry about what he does, not with her. She has loved even the most unlovable parts of him. He feels compelled to do things he would have never done before her, such as dismantling the walls around his soul with laughter.

Even though this is not a lucid dream, she knows she doesn't have to worry about what she does, not with him. She also feels compelled to do things she would have never done before him. Such as getting married to the apocalyptic soundscape of an erupting volcano and adopting a lovely freak of immoral genetic engineering.

"So, Feyd…" She purrs his name like an exotic, amusing thing. "What would you like to do?"

Feyd pretends to be taken aback by the question, because no one ever used to ask him that. Not like that. "What would you like to do?" He coos, slinking closer with rolling gait and a small smirk on his serpentine features. He knows the way her pupils dilate well.

"There's a bed in the room, so…"

Feyd leers, smile turning wolfish. Yes, he will fuck his wife senseless. He might even fuck her so good that his own climax jostles him awake and out of whatever the fuck this bizarre simulation is. Which, upon second thought, would ruin his life.

She speaks again, moving her lips closer to his, pretty lashes lowering so they almost kiss her cheek bones "...So perhaps that means we should sleep."

Feyd acts baffled, then rumbles: "I won't sleep in my sleep."

"I meant sleeping with each other."

Of course she did. Feyd's hairless brows shoot up and something light flutters in his stomach when she starts giggling again, attempting to turn away as if suddenly bashful about her own words.

"To the bed, you confusing woman," he orders with a low growl and there is not even an ounce of resistance when his hands wrap around his wife's shoulders, nudging her backwards, so her knees bend around the mattress of their honeymoon bed and she sinks down.

Her husband's face hovers directly over her and she admires the dip of his cupid's bow and the soft curve of his jaws. So pretty. She reaches up and cups his cheek and the way his bone structure slots against her palms feels just right, always has.

Feyd pounces on her like a tiger and the strength and weight of the hard muscles concealed by a black tunic and slacks becomes evident. Heat pools into her abdomen instantly, caged under the man of and from her dreams who is made of flesh and blood, smells like it too. A familiar note of something leathery and metallic clings to him.

There is no need for a prelude, because they've loved each other a thousand times, in the past and the future. Feyd's lips kiss her decolletage before they find her throat and by the time they've found her lips, the hard ridge of his cock is pressed against her core which is only covered by the fabric of her dress, ridiculously easy to access.

Practical for him, as he said.

Why not, she thinks. It's not like the world is going to come collapsing down on them. Right?

Why not, he thinks. Even if the world comes collapsing down on them when they're done, it would be worth it.

Her hands curl around the back of his head gently and Feyd wants to weep at how soft her touch is, almost like she's worried of hurting him. He loves her nails in his scalp as much as he loves the loving dance of her fingertips.

She rolls her hips against his pelvis, ever amazed how hard his body is. A small grunt escapes her husband's mouth and mingles with the sloppy kiss which is all soft lips and saliva, leaving her open-mouthed and softly moaning for more as her core yearns for friction.

Feyd-Rautha is ever amazed by how soft and pliant her body is, breasts and stomach like a pillow for him to snuggle. And her little cunt is already grinding against his crotch. Under different circumstances, he might have had his fun right away, but that's his wife and her squirming hips are too tempting not to spoil her rotten before he fucks her. He reaches down, long fingers gliding up the curve of her thigh where the dress has pooled around her hips. Instinctively, her leg curls up higher, knee pressing against his ribs. Feyd works her underwear halfway off her rear, needing to get up to slide it off fully.

"If this is a lucid dream, I should be able to make myself wet with a thought," she muses as Feyd scoots down and freezes halfway, before he can settle down between her thighs, hard cock straining against his trousers.

The brief moment of hesitation is all it takes to throw him off the track of time that has carved its way through the universe.

"But it's not a lucid dream. They were visions all along, weren't they?" Feyd blurts, deviating from God's wicked script. For a moment, they both stare at each other in terror, as if expecting the universe to disintegrate and crush their souls into one smoldering singularity in space-time.

But nothing happens.

Nothing at all.

The relic shuffles up slowly, tugging her dress down her legs and sitting back on her haunches.

"What is going on?" Feyd hisses, scared that the quantum spirits in the walls are listening. "What the fuck was that?"

He has never been so grateful to see the spark of knowledge in her eyes.

"That was our past, present and future."

"So, are we in a— a fucking time loop? Are we gonna wake up and go through hell again? Will I have to wait another eternity for the Guild to pluck you out of space?!"

"No!" She curls her arms around his shoulders and lays her forehead against his. No, my love… But it is a loop of sorts." Rapt fingertips glide slowly to the crescent scar on Feyd's pallid clavicle, inflicted by herself a few months back, first noticed by her 24,000 years ago, when Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was not even a spark among the stars. "We could have never ended up together if we hadn't already seen us be together in the past, but what we really saw back then was our future. Weren't we the greatest actors? We were so good, we convinced even ourselves."

The terrible, beautiful Ouroboros has finally come to devour its own, cosmic tail and a shudder of awe passes through the two souls who straddle the starry serpent's undulating neck. From the macroscopic cosmos to the microscopic one within their bodies, it makes even their molecules tremble, even the quantum particles that make up the endless void of every ounce of matter, every brain, every soul.

"But I messed it up," Feyd insists. "I said the wrong thing. Why didn't we see ourselves having this conversation during our first dream? Why didn't we wear our wedding rings then?"

"There's never just one future." She kisses him on the lips, stealing his anxious breath for but a moment.

"How many?"

"Many." The engineer laughs, hands trailing up Feyd's neck to cradle his jaws. Panic fades from his gaze and flows into blue-eyed petulance. "Are your scientists aware of the many-worlds-theory?"

"Do I look like I know?" Strong hands hold his wife's face in a gentle vise.

"In quantum physics, a particle always has two states at once until it is observed. Then, its waveform collapses and it becomes one of the two states. But what happens to the other state?" She pauses, closing her eyes. "It exists too, but in another world. That is the many-worlds-theory.

With every decision we make, every beat of a butterfly's wing, every quiver of a molecule brushing against another, a new world branches off. That makes a tree with infinite branches or a delta with infinite rivers, rolling onwards and onwards since the birth of the first atom. Among this… infinity—" Her breath shudders in trembling reverence. "—there are branches in which we said it just right, because we knew what to say. Branches in which we saw exactly this conversation, or never found each other at all."

"So, why are we in this one where every vision of us acting was aligned perfectly? How probable is that?"

"As probable as any other nexus of visions. One infinity can't be bigger or smaller than another." A small smile plays around her lips. "Some say, the entire universe in itself is a simulation. For all we know, we could just be figments of someone's imagination, or pixels on a computer screen. Perhaps it would have been a less exciting story to tell, if it happened any other way."

The relic briefly turns her head to look at you — yes, you — quantum spirit in the walls.

"And why us?"

She is so happy that her husband's spark for science has finally been ignited, even if just for a few heartbeats — or a few beats of a butterfly's wings.

"When I was with the Bene Gesserit, they called it prescience. They said it's genetic and that my genes allowed me to survive millennia in cryo sleep." She sighs with bitterness. "If my own family has an aberrant sequence in our DNA, we might as well be the ancestors of— of everyone versed in prescience."

And the cause for so much suffering.

Feyd sees it in her eyes, that flame of intrigue followed by the need to explore and sink into the inland empire of her mind and the ancient technology that's fused with her, a place where he can't follow. So, he tilts her face upwards in both loving hands and kisses her hard before breaking away with a coy grin.

"Are you saying you're my great great great aunt?"

"Yeah!" She blurts out laughing. "I think I am."

Giggling, she goes back in, throws her arms around Feyd's neck and topples him on his back, tangling her legs with his like their threads of fate.

In their angry daydreams, they have pictured themselves in red and gold as the king and queen of a new, better empire, handing out guns and bombs to the revolution.

But in their hearts, they're just a girl and a boy. An astronaut lost in space and a man who has yet to discover his destiny beyond being the unwilling prince of a noble House.

From now on, their future is theirs, and despite all the rights and wrongs, it boils down to a single question.

What do they want? A war to make the universe anew as they see fit? Or maybe just a universe as big as they are. Maybe just—

Peace.

Caught in the riptide I was searching for the truth There was a reason I collided into you Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Nobody knows (nobody knows) why (why) Nobody knows how, and This feeling begins just like a spark Tossing and turning inside of your heart Exploding in the dark Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Oh, inside me I find my way Back to you, back to you Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Two words In your hands, in your heart It′s one (whole) universe You are always here with me

- Here With Me (Two Worlds) by Susie Suh

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

A/N: Thank you from the bottom of my heart for accompanying me on this writing journey ❤️ I'm a little heartbroken that it's over 😭 I had expected to be more relieved, but I'm actually so sad right now. Proud and happy but sad 😭

If you enjoyed reading this labor of love of mine, please do let me know in a comment, if you can find the time 🫶🏻 No matter if you have or haven't commented before, I'm going to be so grateful about every thought, every reaction. Comments are genuinely the most rewarding thing when publishing my stories, much more so than hits and kudos, because fanfics (in my opinion) are to be relished and not consumed 🫶🏻

I'm not ready to say goodbye to the Dune universe. I have more stories in mind. The idea that I've been mulling over would be the largest, longest and most complex work that I've ever written. I'm talking about heavy world building, an entirely original planet and population, a much more depraved Feyd-Rautha and female protagonist. I've already been teetering at the border of an OC with the reader character in this one. For the next one, I would cross that line for the first time and go for an OC, make the FMC as fleshed out as Feyd is. The story would have a heavy emphasis on religion, corruption kink and cannibalism. It'd be a dove that's almost dead. Basically, all the world building would be my excuse to write deranged, blasphemous, messy smut. It definitely wouldn't be everyone's cup of tea. However, I wouldn't wanna start posting before I've written the entire thing, which might take a long time, so as not to put too much pressure on myself. Can't disappoint anyone if I'm only writing for myself for the time being ❤️

I also have a smutty F/M/M threesome oneshot cooking in my brain, one of the men being Feyd, the other being a surprise 🤭

Annndd I also have two other Feyd oneshots (that have been on ao3 for ages) to upload here, which I'll probably do within the next weeks.

If any of this sounds like something you'd enjoy, feel free to subscribe to me as an author on ao3 to receive email notifications, or follow me here on Tumblr 🫶🏻 I would be so happy to see you again, all of you 💕

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd #feyd rautha x reader #austin butler #feyd x oc #feyd rautha x oc #peggysuave fanfics #peggysuave;relic #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd fanfiction #feyd rautha fanfiction #feyd smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd imagine #feyd rautha imagine #dune part two #dune part 2 #dune fanfiction

115 notes · View notes

otherone12 · 7 months ago

Text

High School Stuff

Basement!Gerard Way x Reader

-> Masterlist

A/N: Hey!! I recently realized that I had never written a Basement Gerard fic, so I made this one. I also never did a DD era too, but soon I will… idk if i really liked this one, but I hope you like it! <3

(If u have some suggestion, idea, or request, just drop it! )

Summary: Gerard alwas has a crush on you, but you're part of "popular" world, so he didn't get any hope to be with you. Little did he know that you liked him as much as he liked you. (I know that canonically basemant gee would already be an adult, but in this fic he is like 17 years old.)

- Word Count: 2.850

- Warnings: None, but this fic is a teenage cliché, and swach from the 1st person to the 3rd person POVs a lot.

- Ps: I'll not use y/n…

- Ps2: I'm brazilian, so english is not my first language ... sorry if i wrote something wrong.

___________________________________________

3 Person POV

- They're so perfect! - Gerard sighed, daydreaming, and drawing them in his sketchbook - Like... all pretty, and so kind, so smart... fuck!

It wasn't the first time he did this, everytime they passed through him in the school corridors, he spent the morning talking about this. In the beginning, it was cute, but it turned out to be a bother.

Spending lunch listening to him talk wouldn't be a problem if the topics were different, but before he could continue declaring himself to his own drawing, Frank couldn't contain himself.

- Gee, we know that you're in love. - He began, still chewing his sandwich - Hm... But can you shut up about this for once?!

Without Stopping looking at what he was scribbling, Gerard sighed once more.

- Sorry...

His sad voice made the boys exchange glances, a little regretful for cutting off their friend. But that didn't last long, because he went back to talking as if nothing had happened.

- But I could literally kill for a kiss! - Gerard growled - Nothing is ever gonna happen,I know, but I can dream, can't I?

Frank huffed, burying his face in his hands, while Ray found himself in need of interfering before they ended up being rude to Gerard.

- Sure you can, dude. - Ray's comforting smile didn't mask the fact that they couldn't take it anymore. - But I think Frank is right... you talk too much about them.

- But the draw is pretty cool, by the way. - Mikey smiles, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder.

- Thanks, Mikey... - An awkward smile filled his face - I'll stop talking about this... I didn't mean to bother you, guys.

- That's fine, Gee. - Mikey said, while he chuckles - We know you can't help it.

It wasn't long before the bell rang, causing each of the boys to go to their respective classrooms. Before going to the classroom, Gerard needed to stop by his locker to get the right books.

1st Person POV

- Want me to go with you? - My friend asked me, after we heard the bell rings. - I'll skip the next class anyway...

- No need, I'll manage. - I chuckled, getting up - Thanks... if you get bored, text me!

Walking through the school's corridor, going to my locker, I couldn't help but stare at Gerard, who was in the middle of the crowd of teenagers, walking to his locker too. He always looks so cute...

I never had the chance to talk to him, but, discreetly, I've heard him talking about comics, movies, rock bands... but whenever I had the opportunity to talk to him, my friends ended up stopping me in some way.

They say he's weird, he stinks, his locker is gross... Once, my friend said he has a dungeon in his basement. Still, I think he's interesting.

I made my way towards him, thinking that would be my chance to talk to him, but I wasn't fast enough, and he got in the classroom. It's been months trying, but something always goes wrong.

Well, my class went smoothly, but I still couldn't get him out of my mind. I think if something was going to happen, it would have already happened. If he had any feelings, he would have told me, right? Or is the lack of opportunity mutual? Anyways, the next class is my favorite... Gerard sits in front of me, but his science partner doesn't stop talking for a minute.

The teacher arrived in the room, and the noise of the conversations stopped. Nobody really likes her, but she sure is scary.

- Good afternoon, class! - she starts, with a fake sympathy - Well, today we're gonna do something different. I'm gonna change your partners.

The whole class booed, but soon the noise stopped.

- Calm down, everyone! It's just for today. But... I'm gonna choose.

She started to separate the pairs, in the end I think I ended up without one.

- Are you left without a partner? - She asked, with the least kindness a human being could have.

- I guess so... - I responded, I won't lie, the feeling of being alone is bad, but I faked confidence - But I can do it by myself.

She took a quick look around the room, and her gaze landed on the only person who was oblivious to the whole situation, with his headphones on full volume and his head buried in a sketchbook.

- I think mr. Way has no partner too... Well, now you both have.

Finally it was my chance, I didn't take long and got close to his table, I didn't know exactly how to get his attention, Gerard seemed to be in his own world, very completely distant.

My body ended up casting a shadow over his drawing, causing Gerard to look in my direction. His eyes widened, and he quickly took off his headphones.

- Hey! Gerard, right? - Obviously I knew who he was, but since we never talked, it would be weird if I said I knew a lot about him.

- Y-yes - His face turned light red, and he swallowed hard.

- I'm-

- I know who you are - Panic took hold of him, turning him even more red, as he realized what he had said without thinking. - I-i mean, you're one of the p-popular ones, so e-everybody knows you and-

- I got it - I smiled at him, taking a seat in the chair by his side. - good thing, I didn't waste time with introductions.

He stared at me, his eyes were even more beautiful up close... well, if I didn't speak, he wouldn't either, so I started

- Well, I think we're partners for the class today...

- A-are we? - A shy smile appeared on his face - That's n-nice...

Gerard put a lock of his black hair behind his ear, damn he's so strangely handsome... That shy way of his, I've actually never heard him stutter, could it be because of me?

Not giving a damn about the work the teacher had given, and realizing that he wasn't paying attention either, I started to bring up a subject.

- I saw you were drawing... - I looked towards his notebook, but unfortunately he had already quickly closed it when I sat down next to him. - May I see?

- I-i don't know... - Strangely, he turned the notebook over, handpicking the drawing he was going to show me. - M-maybe this one-

Before he could turn the notebook over, a sheet fell out of it, gliding delicately to the floor, right next to my foot.

In an effort to help, I bent down and picked up the sheet from the floor. As soon as I did it, I couldn't help but look at the drawing on it.

- I-is that... me? - I stared in disbelief at the drawing, then back at him, who was about to pass out, trying to hide every inch of his beautiful face in his hands. - What's wrong? That's fucking awesome!

- Y-you not supposed to see this... - he whined, shaking his mug in disappointment

- Why not?! - The more I looked at the drawing, the more I loved every detail... but I didn't understand why he didn't want to show it to me... or why he chose to draw me... among so many people. - The drawing is perfect!

- D-do you think so? - Little by little he was digging his face out of his hands.- D-don't you think it is c-creepy or something?

- No way! I'm even flattered! - He let out a proud smile, but his shyness was still visible. - I was thinking... maybe we could-

Before I could say anything, and finally make plans for us to go outside this damn school, but it turned out that the bell rang right on time and my friend came running and grabbed me by the arm.

- 'Cmon, I have a million things to tell you.

It all happened so fast that I didn't even get to say goodbye to him. But I don't plan on telling anyone about his drawing... if he got nervous just because I saw it, imagine if other people knew.

Even though they told me a million things, I couldn't absorb anything, my mind was still lost in the science period I spent with Gerard.

3 Person POV

Gerard stood there, Sitting in class and putting materials in the backpack. He was taking in everything that had just happened. It was a mixture of joy, at having finally talked to them, and fear that they would find him even more weird.

Knowing where he would find his friends, Gerard left the room and ran to tell them every detail.

- ... And then they saw one of the drawings I made of them.

The boys looked at each other, already expecting the worst, then Mikey asked the question that was on everyone's mind.

- So now they think you're a perv?

Gerard was embarrassed, remembering the exact moment it all happened, but a small, hopeful smile appeared on his slightly flushed face.

- I-i don't think so... - the excitement in his voice was becoming more evident - They said they were flattered, so...

The worried expressions soon turned into smiles, and Gerard sighed in relief.

- Man, that's a great thing... - Ray put his hand on Gerard's shoulder, encouraging his friend. - I don't want to get your hopes up, but you should talk to them.

- You think? - His hazel eyes glowed.

- I'm sure! - Ray almost screamed, but he didn't care.

Before they could celebrate, Frank raised an extremely important point that none of the others had thought of.

- But you have to find them alone - He suggested, seriously - 'cause their friends are jerks and gonna humiliate you.

- Frank! - Mikey widens his eyes, afraid that this would make his brother give up.

- But it's true! - Frank defended himself - I already heard them saying shit about you, about us, actually...

- You're right... I should meet them alone... - Gerard took a deep breath, pausing for a moment to think about when he could actually have a conversation without their friends around. - But it's almost impossible... they're always with a friend.

1st Person POV

A few days have passed and I still can't get him out of my mind. All I want to do is chat about him to someone, but my friends definitely won't take it easy. Sometimes I wonder if they're really my friends, or if we just decided it was socially appropriate for us to hang out together. Like, I disagree with almost all the things they do, the way they talk about people is just not nice and once in a while I ask myself if they talk shit about me too.

Well, my parents aren't a good option either, they think that dating at my age is a waste of time or whatever. So I have to keep it to myself... I wish I had asked him to give me the drawing he did, y'know, just to make sure i didn't make it all up in my head.

Well, the days went by, one more boring than the other, until one ordinary morning, I was in the corridor again, and I saw Gerard approaching, I couldn't help but let a smile grow on my face

- Hey! - He said a bit shy.

- Hi! - I smiled at him, excited that we were finally talking again - How’s it going?

- I’m fine! How ‘bout you?

- Better now - He took a deep breath and scratched his hand behind his neck - i…hm… i wanted to ask if you wan-

I wanted to hear it, but then a couple of my friends showed up, interrupting, like always. They looked at us, trying to understand the situation and expressing their annoyance that Gerard was there.

- Does he really think he can talk to you? - He chuckled, pointing to Gerard with disgust.

I saw Gerard's gaze change completely, one second ago I saw the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, and now he was looking down, avoiding any eye contact, embarrassed.

- Dude, you have no chance here - She said threateningly, stucking up her nose - so why don't you just get away, you freak!

Gerard gave me a brief look, making his way to leave, and before he could really do it, thinking I would act like my "friends", I didn't help myself back and stared at them in an unafraid way.

- I was actually talking to him, so I think you guys really should leave. - I was calm, but ready if they wanted to discuss.

Gerard's eyes wide, unexpecting me say that. A light smile appeared in his face,

- Are you trading us for this thing?! - She was shocked. Her eyebrows furrowed, and almost screamed in the hallway.

- Yep, - I wrapped my arm around Gerard's waist and he gasped. I keep eye contact with my not-friend-anymore and mocked- it's that hard for you to get it? I thought you're smarter than that.

- So now you're dating this? - He curled his lips, looking at the top from the bottom of us. - How gross.

Carried by the heat of the moment and wanting them to leave, I held Gerard's face, pulling him close enough for me to reach his lips. Damn how I wanted this kiss. I got drunk on the taste of coffee and cigarettes in their mouths, for a second I even forgot that they were looking at us.

Surprisingly, he kept kissing me, so I didn't break it until I really needed to breathe. The soft skin of his face in my hand and the feeling of his lips on mine was so perfect, I wanted this never to end.

Letting go of his mouth, I smiled at him, which was clearly still holding his breath, and didn't know how to react. I ignored the disgusted looks our audience were giving us, just smiling at him, as he did the same, blushing hard.

- I am - I answered, confident - Right, Gee?

When I looked at him, Gerard passed his hand behind my back, not even looking at the idiots in front of us.

- Y-yeah! - He was still stunned, but in a good way, I think.

they exchanged looks, chuckling, i was supposed to feel embarrassed or something like that, but being by Gerard made things seem different. Is not like he was confident, but at least I wasn't alone.

- Don't you ever talk with us again. - He said, and they walked away.

I waved at them, playfully, trying to have fun with the situation , but I knew that they wouldn't leave Gee alone, quite the opposite, now I was a brand new target. Anyway, at that moment, the only thing I could think was "what if he didn't want me to kiss him?!".

- I-i'm, sorry for the kiss. - Desperately and not wanting him to think I was weird or he saying that he didn't like me that way, I started to apologize - I didn't mean to. Like, i did, i want it really bad, but i shouldn't have-

Without warning, he cut me off, kissing me with his soft lips, his two hands holding my face. The kiss was not delicate, but messy and inexperienced. My hands went up to his greasy hair, and I could hear little moans coming from his mouth as my tongue made its way over his lower lip. There were people in the corridor, but I didn't care, and neither did he. Again, we ran out of steam, slowly separating from each other. I licked my lips, absorbing the situation.

- Don't worry, i wanted it too, you can't even imagine how much - He admitted, without any sort of shame - and thanks for defending me. I am used to them doing this kind of thing, you don't need to worry...

-You shouldn't have to get used to this. - I sighed - The least I could do was be by your side.

I turned my attention to the materials in my locker, picking up the things I would need for the next lesson, but he didn't seem completely satisfied. His eyes remained on me, not a bad feeling, but I was curious to know what he was thinking. Gerard snorted, and I closed the cupboard, looking at him again.

- So... you said we were dating - He sounded confused and innocent, so fucking cute - Were you serious? I mean, I know we're not dating, but would you?

- Well, I really like you, but before we could properly date, I think we should hang out, if you wanted to, of course.

With every word that came out of my mouth, I saw his eyes shine brighter and brighter, he looked like a child who just got a new toy

- Yes! I want, I always wanted! - He cheered, trying to hold his enthusiasm - Are you up to get to starbucks after school?

- Sure! - my joy was cut off by the school bell - But I really gotta go now... math test.

- May I accompany you there? - He let out a shy smile

- Yes, please. - I giggled.

Gerard extended his hand, and I held it. I'm not gonna lie, it was weird at first, 'cause his hands were sticky, but after a couple steps, i didn't mind anymore.

He was practically jumpping, and I followed suit down the corridor, taking advantage of the company I could get from him in that moment.

___________________________________________

~Soo, that's it! hope u enjoyed. ;)

#my chemical romance #mcr #gerard way #gerard way x reader

108 notes · View notes

absifofhws · 24 days ago

Text

JUST COULDN'T RESIST (FWB¡MATT STURNIOLO X READER)

mdni warnings: slight fluff, oral (f¡recieving), fingering (with rings), basically no use of y/n, split pov wc: 780 (intended lower case)

matt's pov

somehow, i convinced the girl i had been sleeping with for the past couple of months to come out to maine with me just before the summer, i knew she was kinda obsessed with the whole forest, nature vibe. she thought it was pretty weird for someone you're sleeping with to ask you to go on a trip with them. i kinda just wanted to see her in her element, almost, where she was most relaxed, most at home. right now, she was sitting in the backyard of this airbnb i had rented out for the both of us, reading a book as the sun set. it was basically by the ocean, there were a couple of chairs out to watch the waves crash and fall. i had been watching as i leaned up against the door frame of the door to the backyard.

she was wearing a cream coloured dress, the exact same one she had been wearing on our first day here almost 3 days ago. i was reminded of the walk we had taken around the stretch of land, where we had come across a herd of ponies in a field. i think i was falling for her. i mean she was perfect, she loved the area which i had dreamed of living in when i was younger. she liked all the same things as i did. fuck, if only i knew how she felt. i hated this stupid guessing game.

i walk over to her, laying down on the ground, resting my head against her stomach, she moves her book and looks down at me, "you good? i'm trying to read," she says jokingly acting annoyed, as she put her book down on the ground. "i'm great," i respond, looking up at her, my hands gently trace over her thighs, over the fabric of her dress. "you're looking at me like you want something, what do you want, matt?" she asks, i know she can tell just by looking at me what it was that i wanted. i wanted her, i wanted to taste her on my tongue, "i don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart," i say with a smirk, gently pushing the fabric of her dress up so it's bunching up by her waist.

y/n's pov

"seriously, right now, here?" i ask with a smile, looking down at him, "yeah, is that a problem?" he asks as his fingers run over the lace fabric of your panties. "no, no problem, can i keep reading though?" i ask jokingly, knowing there was no way i was going to be able to concentrate while he was knuckles deep in my sopping cunt. "you know what, actually, just for that, i want a whole ass book report once we're done," he teases as he moves the now damp fabric of your panties to the side, using his fingers to spread your folds. "f-fuck," i let out a light mumble of curses, as he circles my bundle of nerves with his thumb, i could feel the cool metal of his rings against my sensitive flesh, i don't even attempt to look over at my book, instead one of my hands moves to his hair, gently pulling at the strands.

he starts to press open kisses down my abdomen, leaving small pink marks, from my stomach down to my inner thighs, before i feel the warm, wet, tip of his tongue against my clit. his thumb moving from my clit to my folds, before he thrusts it into my drenched cunt, "fuck, just couldn't resist," he hums against my clit, the slight verberation of his voice sending a tingly feeling to my core. he pulls his thumb out of my hole, pushing his ring and middle fingers into my pulsating cunt, with basically no resistance, curling them inside of me, hitting the spongy flesh inside. "feels so good," i say as i let my head tip back against the grass, "so close," i mutter, as he sucks my highly sensitive clit as he continues the ministrations of his fingers.

"shit, you taste so good," matt says as he feels me clenching around his fingers, "come on, just let go, sweetheart." he mumbles, his voice muffled as he sucks and licks my sensitive nub through my high. my back arching closer to him. "n-ngh, too good, fuck," i say as i feel the waves of pleasure all through my body, my mind clear of all thoughts. "now, about that book report," matt says jokingly, looking up at you, his mouth covered in your arousal. "i hate you," i say jokingly, letting my head fall back against the ground, cushioned by the grass.

(no notes today because this came right off the dome, but i feel like i read something like this from isa / @sweetshuga dividers by @bernardsbendystraws)

46 notes · View notes

macfrog · 2 years ago

Text

if i had a gun cowboy like me chapter 12.5 (joel's pov)

long-awaited, pain-packed, and sealed with a bow by yours truly. i love y'all. thank you for being so patient and kind with me on this one. this chapter is joel's experience of the end of illicit affairs and all of hits different. you might wanna check those chapters out before you indulge in the angst-fest that is this one. hope you enjoy 🧡

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: walk a mile in joel miller's shoes. see if you'd do anything different

warnings: more heartache, more angst, lois, alcohol + drug consumption, mention of reader being roofied, very brief mention of joel punching knox, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing

word count: 9.8k

terrible news! there is no more taglist! make sure you're following @macfroglets w notifs on if you wanna be buzzed when i post 🤍

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.” It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks – “Where is she?” “We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –” “’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

You’re still fast asleep when he lifts his head.

You’ve had this argument plenty before. I do not snore. Yes, baby, you do. I’ve heard you. I don’t! It’s alright, it’s okay that you do. It’s a cute snore. Joel, I don’t fucking –

Right now, he’s pretty certain you’re snoring. He just wishes you were awake to hear yourself.

He thinks about pulling his phone, taking a video so that once you’re up, you can hear the little bursts of air, the tiny rasps from your nostrils as you snooze. But if he ever did record anything like that – just like the Hillcrest pictures, until you’d found them last night – he’d keep it for himself. Wouldn’t offer it up so easily.

Just something for him to have, for all the time he spends without you.

Your hair’s still all over the place. Tangled in Joel’s right arm, still smelling of chlorine and sex. Your head rests softly on the crook of his elbow like it’s a pillow; your lips and eyes are puffy, tired. You have this ridiculously strong vice grip on his left arm; during the night he felt you wrap your wrists around it and pull it into your chest, tucking it gently under your chin until your entire upper half was drowned in his.

His chest snug against your back, his arms encasing you safely, and his hips…his hips lined with yours. His now semi-hard cock buried between your legs – he’d slept inside you last night, and it was like, after forty-eight years, someone finally took him by the shoulders and said: This is how you do it. This is how you rest.

He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow, soon as his eyes fell shut. He stirred only to feel you maneuvering his arm, and then fell straight back asleep.

He felt comfortable. He felt safe. Big, old, tough guy Joel Miller. Never let anybody in since Sarah’s mom left. Alone for almost seventeen years, and fine with it. His cheeks heat at the idea of needing – of wanting to feel that. Safe. But then you came along, and he realized he’d been waiting his whole life to feel it. Didn’t even notice he’d been missing it.

That’s how these things go, right? Can’t miss what you don’t have, and all that.

But now he has it. Now he has you.

And you make him feel things he’s never felt before, or if he has, it was so fucking long ago that he’s forgotten. You drive him fucking insane. Keep him up at night, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Make him do stuff that his reflection glares at him over. Are you being serious right now? Make him…different. New.

The night before last, when he’d picked you up from Frank’s after rodeo night, he promised to make you a big breakfast in the morning. Compensation for not swinging by McDonald’s on the way home. But then your dad called, and you had to take off before Joel had even properly woken up.

When he eventually rose from the bed, he went straight to the store. Stocked up on eggs, flour, sugar, bananas. He’d printed a recipe from his computer while you were gone. Marked the items off as he meandered through the store. Stood for ten minutes deliberating over which gluten-free flour would be best, before an assistant asked if he needed any help.

I’m good, he muttered, and then, as the kid wandered off, cleared his throat and said, Actually –

Greg – the kid assistant in question – had suggested the red bag. Said it’s corn flour, instead of wheat. Joel can’t pronounce the brand name. He just knows it’s tucked behind a box of cereal in the cupboard downstairs – he hid it there so you wouldn’t find it and snuff out his plan.

His plan, which he now has to put into action. Without waking you. He’d lie here forever just staring at you, if he hadn’t sworn to himself to make good on his promise and cook you some damn pancakes.

So he slowly pulls his left hand from between yours, loosening your death grip, and steals it back across your waist. He does the same for his right arm – more careful, though, so he doesn’t tug on your hair. Like some kind of wild cat creeping through the jungle, every moment calculated and careful.

He bunches the comforter up a little at your back, so that if you do stir, it might feel like he’s still there. Still a weight, curving around you. He takes a good five minutes just to travel the length of the room – the lightest he’s ever walked, dodging the spots on the carpet that he knows make the floorboards squeal.

When the door gently clicks back into place, he heads downstairs. Cracks out his frying pan – non-stick, obviously – and all his ingredients, pulls the printed recipe from its hiding place between two cookbooks and lays it out on the counter, flattening the creases and unfolding the corners. And gets to it.

His first egg cracks messily over the lip of the bowl. The yolk runs down the outside, and he curses before swiping it back up with his index finger. The second egg empties fully inside the bowl, but drags with it tiny fragments of shell. Joel spends five minutes focusing on picking every single piece out of the mixture. He crouches to make sure he’s poured the exact amount of milk, eyes level with the top of the liquid, and he double checks every step before he follows it.

This has to be perfect. Has to be. For you.

The entire time, all he can think about is you asking to sleep with his body inside yours. Wanting him closer than you’d ever wanted him before, as close as he could physically be. Your sleepy voice circles between his ears on loop – want somethin’ else. That safe feeling creeps up on him all over again.

He knows he shouldn’t. He can’t. He’s spent the last month purposefully pushing those feelings down, dampening them anytime they rose to the surface. Only allowing himself to feel them, to acknowledge them, when you’re around. Because he can’t fucking help but acknowledge them when you’re here – they stare him straight in the face.

So he’d been making peace with letting the floodgates open just a little bit at a time – one quick rush whenever you’d give him one of your meaningful glances, when your hot skin would brush against his, when your mouth would fall open at the feeling of his first deep thrust inside you.

And then he’d bolt them back up.

Except that, now…he’s not sure the dam can hold much longer. There are cracks he’s not repairing quickly enough. Unintended consequences hammering against the other side of the stone in the form of angry white waves.

He’s staring at the beige circle of batter in the pan, swept off with the waves into someplace far from his kitchen, when the sound of your voice draws him back.

“Joel? You down there?”

The floorboards at the top of his stairs creak. You’re leaning over the banister.

“Yeah, darlin’, I’m here.” He slips halfway out of the kitchen door, closing it over his body in hopes you won’t smell the pancakes. You ask what he’s doing, and he says, “Just makin’ a coffee. You want anything brought up?”

“I’m good,” you reply. “’m gonna take a shower.”

“Alright, baby. There’s probably some stuff in Sarah’s bathroom you can use.”

He listens closely as your footsteps recede, waiting to hear the hum of his shower before he relaxes again, flipping the pancake over. It sizzles away as he runs one thick finger along the inside of the bowl and tastes his handiwork. Pretty damn good, he thinks. He’s sucking his finger clean when his cell goes.

Joel swipes to answer, and before he can utter a Hello?, your dad’s voice is screaming down the line to him.

“Mornin’, pal! You in? You up?”

He figures this is the infamous speakerphone you rambled for ten minutes about last night. Like a fucking foghorn, man. I’m deaf in this ear now.

He doesn’t wait for Joel to respond. “I was just passin’ by, remembered you got that leakin’ pipe, or whatever it is. Under your sink, right? You good for me to drop in ‘n take a look?”

“Uh – uh, I’m –” Joel stammers his way through a sentence he doesn’t know the ending of, slotting the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and giving the pan a rattle against the stovetop. He slips the spatula under the mixture, and when he flips it over, the pancake is charcoal black. “Fuck.”

“What’s that?” you dad roars, deafening in Joel’s ear. Fuckin’ speakerphone.

“Nothin’, it’s…” He sighs, accepting his new-found position: backed into a fucking corner. What’s new these days?

“Yeah, I’m up. See you in a bit.”

He hangs up the phone midway through an Alright, buddy from your dad, and whacks the chargrilled pancake on top of the pile. His phone surfs across the counter in a blur of blind panic, before Joel’s taking the stairs two at a time to get to you.

The door’s ajar. He can hear you quietly singing to yourself. Same song you’re always fucking singing, always trying to coax Joel into singing along with you. You’re humming the guitar solo when he whips the door open.

“Hey, hey,” he’s panting, taking your towel in one hand and reaching for the shower door with the other, a blur of movement before his eyes like he’s not in control of his own body. “Out.”

“Huh?” you reply, blinded by the soap suds running down your forehead and into your eyes.

“Baby,” Joel whispers, desperate, “you gotta get out. He’s here. Your damn dad’s here.”

He drags you over to the first place he spots: his closet. He knows it’s no fucking good, but he can hear your dad’s car squealing to a halt in his drive, and he’s in a blink panic wondering what artefacts, what evidence of your being here lie dotted around his house. Your bikini’s hanging up out back, there’s probably a hoodie still strewn over the back of his couch.

He doesn’t have time to think, though, because in the midst of his mental scan of every room whilst explaining to you what’s going on, your dad’s heavy boots just thudded onto his doormat.

“Miller?” he calls up the stairs. And Joel closes the closet over.

----------

He stands by the front door watching your dad’s car purr off down the street, waiting until it turns left and disappears behind the Dawsons’ back fence to shut the door. When he turns back into his hallway, the house is uncomfortably silent. You’re still up in his room.

The weight of your phone pulls at the waistband of his jeans. He slips his hand into his back pocket, fishes it out, and takes one step toward the stairs. The screen lights in his palm.

There’s a cluster of notifications from some film class group chat, a couple Snapchats from Sarah. A reminder to take your birth control from some pink-icon app, and then –

I’m heading over to Joel’s to check something out for him. Wanna meet me there?

He stares at it until the text burns into his eyes. Blinks, and it’s seared into his lids. His breath leaves his chest in a heavy, burdened sigh. It trembles as it pushes from his lungs. He feels something burning under his skin. All over.

He’s angry. And he’s trying to keep it contained.

Keep it where it lies, keep it beneath the surface. Stop it from pooling right behind his lips, collecting in the light of his eyes. Keep it from revealing itself. But when his foot lifts to the first step, it’s like a deadweight in the air.

He’s angry. But he’s fucking exhausted.

The bedroom is empty when Joel pushes the door open. You’re still hidden in the closet. You don’t look up at him when he pulls on the shuttered door, letting light flood across your hands, still covering your face. There are flicks of dripping wet hair peeking out from under the towel on your head.

He wants to put his arms around you. Wants to kiss you all over. Tell you, It’s okay, it’s alright. He didn’t see nothin’.

But he can’t. Because neither of those things are true.

Your dad saw the cowgirl hat. Hell of a lot like a hat my daughter has. It sent a sharpened bolt of panic through Joel’s body the second the words came tumbling out. He might’ve seen your bag lying at the bottom of the stairs. Might’ve passed your car on his drive here. There are so many loose fucking ends.

And more than that – harder to accept: maybe this isn’t okay anymore. Maybe it hasn’t been the entire time. And maybe, despite all his good efforts and the fucking way you make him feel, despite it being weeks now of tiptoeing and lying and covering your tracks – maybe you finally crossed a line.

He can’t look at you a second longer. His heart’s in his throat. If he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll probably choke. Break down. So he walks away.

You follow him downstairs a few minutes later, fully dressed and silent. Your touch sweeps across his shoulder blades, and it takes everything in him not to turn to you then and there. Come here, kiss me. Pretend none of it’s happening, just for a moment.

He sets your plate down in front of you. He’s taken the burnt pancake. He follows a pattern: cuts into the food, glances out to the backyard, and back to the plate. It’s the only thing keeping the words from rolling out onto the table in front of him. The only thing stopping him from –

You kick his leg. So gently, he barely feels it.

“You gonna eat?” he asks in response, chewing on the smoky flavor of burnt batter. Your hands hesitate, and he feels his own flinch as if to take them, rub them, squeeze them. And then he watches as you drag your knife through your own breakfast.

He wants you to yell at him. He wants to give meaning to the guilt he feels. He knows what’s coming, and he isn’t so sure that you do.

This is…impossible. It has been, from the start. Always sneaking off, coming up with excuses. So many fucking excuses, he can’t even keep them straight in his head anymore. She’s here, droppin’ my flannel off. Now we’re upstairs, I’m showin’ her my guitar. Need her to help with decorations. Your TV’s broken, did you know that? Don’t mind us, just sat in this private corner of my backyard, out of view of fucking everyone. I’ll pick her up from her rodeo night, take her home. She’s at Anna’s all day today, right?

And your dad – kind and naïve, or maybe just so fucking gullible that every single one lands like the flour did in the egg mixture. Just gracefully floats down into his brain, absorbs itself and folds perfectly into place.

So, yell at him. Get mad. Make him feel like the fucking asshole he knows he is. Leading you on, and letting you get close to him, and then when it gets too hard – pushing you away. Doesn’t matter if that’s what he did or not; doesn’t matter whether he did or didn’t mean it. He wants you to be mad at him. To justify what he’s about to do.

He slides you your phone. Motions for you to read it.

“Fuck…” you whisper, and then he thinks you get it.

But then you say, “…he didn’t see me, though. Right?” and his heart sinks.

No. He didn’t see you. But he saw so many little pieces of you, that Joel finds it impossible to consider that he isn’t already seeing the entire picture. He’s picturing your dad at home in the living room, one hand on his hip, the other running through his hair, adding two and two and two and two and –

You’re bickering. Actually arguing. He doesn’t know how to navigate it, save for letting the frustration take the wheel and drive the point home: you came too close to being caught.

You’re smarter than this, he knows you are. He knows that you can see plain as day, everything that he can. The bag, the hat, the fucking home-cooked breakfast sat on his kitchen counter. He’s watching you argue your point, hands dancing in the air animatedly, eyebrows lifting, eyes widening. Hear me out. Listen to me. Hear me out.

“I didn’t fucking mean to let him see the b–”

“That’s not the point,” Joel says, before he has time to stop himself.

“Then what’s your point?”

He feels his voice carry off into the air with the images racing around his head. Hank’s shadow under the door. The roar of voices downstairs as you climaxed. Your body pinned under Joel’s on your couch. The way the morning light screamed into the house as your front door burst open.

He doesn’t sound like he has much of a point, even to himself. He’s in it just as much as you are. He’s lied and he’s hidden just as much as you have, and made mistakes that are…worse, as far as he’s concerned.

And the worst one of all sits directly opposite him. Head low, eyes boring into the wood of his kitchen table. He can see the tears swelling across your waterline. Can feel the heat from here as it spreads across your face. Anger thrums through his chest again, and his teeth grit.

He murmurs, pushing himself up from the table and away from you. Tells you there’s some stuff he needs to see to. You’re mad about it, like he knew you would be. Like you should be. He promises he’ll be back in a couple hours; promises you’ll talk when he gets home.

And then he leaves.

----------

Clark’s is on the other side of town. It takes him nearly forty minutes to get there, and more than half of that time is spent staring at the tail lights of a Honda in front of him. Some accident up ahead. His eyes bore into the burning red strip of brake light until it’s singed into them, a blur of blue when he finally rips his glare away and stares up at the white sky.

He thinks about calling you. Saying, Hey, I’m stuck in traffic, talk to me, but he doesn’t. He just…doesn’t.

Instead, he wonders what you’re doing. Whether or not you’re still at his place. He wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. But if you are – and he hopes you are – what are you doing?

He thinks: She’s on the couch. Bundled in blankets. Grey’s is on TV. She’s rewatchin’ her favorite episodes.

Least, that’s what he wants you to be doing. Wants you to be making yourself feel better, because he knows he was a complete ass earlier. You didn’t deserve any of it. Nothing that he didn’t deserve himself, just as much, anyway.

He thinks about coming home, and you hitting pause, pushing yourself off the couch and sauntering around to him. Wrapping him in the blanket until your bodies are pressed together under the woven red, and kissing him. Kiss me kiss me kiss me.

And the thought of you, standing on your tiptoes to press your soft lips to his, your fingers sifting through his hair, is like a cold pack on a searing wound. Dulls his anger, even if it’s just for a second.

His wide tires crawl silently across the smooth lot of the plant hire, parking right in front of the wire fence. The truck door slams shut when he gets out. He doesn’t mean it. Maybe he does. But he does it without thinking, and with a hot head, a temper sharper than nails, he strides over to the glass-paneled door and swings it open.

She’s sat behind the desk, same as always. Dark, deep auburn hair, groomed and set to perfection so that when she looks up, it doesn’t move an inch. Curls around the sweetheart shape of her face, smooth and shining. Her blue eyes twinkle in the glaring light from outside, and she stands.

She tugs lightly on the hem of her white blouse. You’d probably elbow him and say, That’s cream, not white. She smiles at him and it doesn’t look a thing like your smile. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw your smile. Fuck, he thinks, when did I last make her smile?

And he’s still wondering, when Lois says, “Hey, stranger,” and puts a gentle, pale, red-nailed hand down on the desk. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” Joel grumbles, clearing his throat and glancing at the man in a pair of thick, steel-toe boots, sat in a waiting area to his left. He thinks it’s probably polite to ask how she is. It’s been seven weeks since he blew off her hint for a date.

“Good, thanks,” she replies, cheeks swelling even more. They’re lightly shaded crimson, a soft shimmer to them against her snowy skin, dappled with light freckles. “You?”

He nods once. “Good,” he echoes, not sure what else to say. He’s lying, and she doesn’t seem to figure him out the way you would.

No. Instead, Lois steps back, straightens up, and twirls the pen in her fingers. “What can I do ya for?”

“Got some equipment I’m after,” he mutters, hand slipping into his back pocket for his phone. Lois’s eyes flit up and down his body as he taps his passcode in with his thumb.

She asks him something, but it sounds like she’s speaking through a closed door. He’s elsewhere.

The phone unlocks, screen lifting to reveal the last open app: his camera roll. His thumbs hover over the screen, tracing where yours would’ve tapped last night.

The video’s muted, she won’t hear it even if he let it play, but he swipes away the second he recognizes the tangled mess of your hair, his fist locked tight in it. His own hair, salt and pepper buried deep in the crook of your neck.

Something in his chest aches. Pulls tight, hurts his heart. He takes a deep breath and scares the feeling away. He’s staring at his camera roll. Staring at twelve little square thumbnails – couple of them work stuff, couple of them lists of supplies he has to remember to pick up – and then. Then.

You. At the Hillcrest. Dimples in your cheeks. That’s what made him take his phone out. The soft dips in your skin that appear anytime you smile, laugh, sometimes even just when you talk. He’d first noticed them when you had a mouth full of pizza, chatting animatedly about Meredith and Derek, and he’s noticed them every time since.

He’d seen them, as you posed with Sarah for a selfie at lunch. And his hand had slipped into his pocket before his brain even had the chance to finish the thought.

His quiet way of marking how he felt in that moment. How his chest seemed to fill as if with air, or something thicker. Sweeter. Like it was trying to push words up, a comment to tell you how beautiful you looked. Trying to make him move, run his thumb light as air across that tiny valley in your cheek and look at you with eyes that translated the words hammering behind his eyes.

But you had company. And all he managed to do was take two fucking photos.

Lois talks again, and this time, there’s no closed door.

“Huh?” Joel’s head snaps up, takes a few seconds to focus on the red hair in front of him. “Sorry, Lois, sorry.”

“’s alright. You okay?” She’s smiling so warmly, so sincerely. And there are no dimples in her cheeks.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “just checkin’ for the address.”

She holds out a pad, a stack of hire agreement forms hovering between her body and his, but he’s not looking. He’s still scrolling through his phone, thumbs searching your dad’s text thread for the information. Lois lowers the pad to the counter, places the pen on top. Fiddles with it until it’s lined up with the top of the form perfectly.

Then Joel looks up, and she smiles again.

“Not for you, then?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Just the messenger.”

“Got it. Well, you know what you’re doing. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lois takes a step back, eyes still on Joel, who smiles politely, then swipes the form from the desk and takes a seat between Steel-Toe Boots and some tall, leafy plant that he has to bat away when he sits down. He’s copying the site address, phone resting on his thigh, when the receptionist speaks again.

“How’s Sarah doin’? She home yet?”

“Yeah,” Joel replies, “been home a couple weeks now. She’s been in Nashville this weekend.”

Lois lifts her head, blinking slowly. “Nashville. Nice. So, you’ve had a weekend to yourself.”

He scoffs. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“And what does Joel Miller get up to when he has an empty house for a few days?”

His fingers squeeze around the pen, pushing deeper into the paper. His expression hardens. “Nothing excitin’ enough to share. Sat by the pool yesterday. Was nice out.”

She agrees. “Sure was. You have company?”

Joel shakes his head once. Blinks the image of you and your red bikini from his vision. Focuses on dragging the pen one digit at a time across the line labeled Phone Number. If he cared enough, he’d give the obvious hint a couple seconds’ consideration, even just to protect Lois’s pride a little.

But he doesn’t care. And right now, he ain’t interested in protecting anyone but you.

“Nope. Just me ‘n a few beers.”

“Better off that way,” a hoarse, forty-cigs-a-day voice rasps from his right. “Less fuckin’ problems.”

Joel’s jaw rotates a degree towards the work boots; notices the folds of dry, leathery skin piled atop the raised gray eyebrows of their owner, and then turns back silently.

Lois clears her throat awkwardly. “Well, I spent the day with my book. I’m readin’ a Colleen Hoover. Adam’s at camp, so – quiet house for me, too.”

Joel finds himself nodding. Autopilot. He’s pretending he’s listening.

You’re still in his sight, wandering over from the sliding kitchen doors, a bottle in each hand. He can hardly see you when he looks up, the sun’s so bright. You hold a beer out, condensation dripping down your fingers towards Joel’s when he takes it, and then you slump down in the sun lounger next to his.

His arm reaches across, and your small fingers wrap and then unwrap around his, running across his knuckles, nails lightly scratching his worked hands. And he’s smiling, and he doesn’t even notice it until his eyes meet yours and you laugh, and he asks, What? through a chuckle, and you say, Nothin’, you just look happy.

Your dimpled blush blurs back into checkboxes and scrawled handwriting. You’re gone again. He’s in a white office, and the gentle lapping of the water on the pool’s edge fades into the headache noise of a fan humming, and he feels the warmth of your gaze on his skin turn into the cold, harsh spotlight glare of Lois’s eyes on him.

He looks up. She’s still smiling. At this point, he finds it fucking unnerving.

He rises from his chair, swings a wandering leaf from that ugly green plant out of his way and paces back over to the desk, sliding the pad back across to her. Their hands brush as she takes it from his grip, and he pulls his wrist close to his body. Lois doesn’t seem to notice.

She’s running the pen down the form, checking everything he’s filled in. Her tongue moves around the inside of her cheek, sucking on a hard candy. “Delivery on Friday?” she double checks, and Joel nods. “Alright,” she says, tearing away his copy, “we’ll call ya.”

“’ppreciate it,” he mumbles, folding the paper into his back pocket.

She turns, reaching to slip the form into a blue tray, and Joel pauses. Thinks to say something – he hopes Adam has a fun time at camp, or that Lois enjoys the rest of her quiet week. But then he sees you sat opposite him, staring fixedly at the plate before you, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. He feels your hand laced in his, hears your laugh still ringing in his ears.

He misses you. He should never have left you. You matter more to him than some equipment for a site. Matter more to him than anything. He should’ve never fucking left.

Joel nods. Reaches for the handle of the door. Glances back to Lois. “There a florist anywhere near here?”

----------

He pulls the truck in alongside the florist. Teal window frames, a little pink door. He can hear you now. How fucking cute is that store? Give me your phone, I gotta get a picture. Mine’s is in my bag in the back. Look, the traffic’s movin’, Joel, give me your phone – quick!

His fingers hook around the silver door handle. He pats his jeans once – wallet’s right there – and goes to pull, when his cell vibrates from the center console. He can see himself in the glass screen, your dad’s name written across the reflection of his forehead.

He bites down on his lip. Hard. Glances up to the road ahead. Blinks. And decides to answer.

“Joel,” your dad chirps down the line. “Sorry, buddy, you’ll be sick a’ the sight ‘n sound of me today.”

Joel manages a convincing laugh. “What’s up?”

“Just makin’ sure you’re rememberin’ to put Friday’s date down for delivery on that order. We’re gonna need the stuff over the weekend, so.”

“Yep. Just been to do it right now. Friday’s date, Harvey’s site, your card details ‘n everything.”

“’attaboy. Good job. You’re all grown up.”

“Funny.”

“Thanks, pal. I appreciate it. There wasn’t no chance I was gettin’ time to do it myself,” he lowers his voice, “I’m still stuck here with Kelman.”

Joel’s fingers trace around his steering wheel. “Oh, yeah? He keepin’ you busy?”

“You bet. Had to haggle with ‘im just to get a lunch break. Speakin’ of – I swung by the house and that daughter of mine wasn’t home. Haven’t seen or heard from her since yesterday mornin’. I’m just checkin’ she ain’t stop by to see Sarah or som’?”

His fingers lock tight around the leather. “Sarah’s still in Nashville, she gets in tonight. Couldn’t tell you where yours is. I’m not home yet, so.”

It’s a half-truth. He could wager a pretty good guess, but he can’t be certain, can he?

Your dad chuckles down the line. “She spent the night at Anna’s. My house must be like prison to her – she’s never around anymore. I’ll hear from her soon, I’m sure. Alright. Thanks, again, Joel.”

He drops the phone back into the cupholder with a sigh, leaning back against the headrest to stare at the roof of the truck. He’s still picturing you in his living room, head turning to the street at every sound of a car door, or tires rolling by. And then the image is marred by your dad, peering in the window back at you, catching you wrapped up in a situation you shouldn’t be in.

He doesn’t want your dad to find out. For obvious reasons. Because it would mean the collapse of their friendship, the collapse of the world they built between them – for you, for Sarah, for themselves. Comfortability, and normalcy, and routine and order all thrown to the wind on account of some month-long fling.

But more important than all of that: it would mean dragging you into all of that, too. Fucking up your relationship with your dad. Making things weird between you and Sarah. Ruining whatever’s left of what you and Joel had, before you both took it too far.

And if he doesn’t want all that – if he doesn’t want your dad finding out – then something has to change. Something’s gotta stop.

His fingers wrap tight around the key and turn, and the truck jumps to life. He turns away from the teal-colored florist as he pulls off.

----------

You take it about as well as he reckoned you might. About as well as you should, given the circumstances. He isn’t surprised, and he doesn’t blame you. He’s probably on your side, when you argue back with him.

“You’re not serious, right? Joel. You’re not –”

“Kid, I…”

“No. What? Because of a fucking bag?”

He lifts his gaze and pleads with you. “Because of the lying.”

You’re right, with your response: it’s never been an issue until now. He’s been more than fucking happy to sneak off, take you as his own, and then return with a satisfied grin and a mouth full of excuses to feed your company. He almost agrees.

It’s just: this time, your dad’s at your heels like a bloodhound. A little less sharp, maybe. Blind as a fucking bat, sure. But he can smell something’s up. And he’s circling it, nose to the ground, drawing nearer and nearer to the pair of you with each step.

You ask if he wants to tell the truth. That thought scares him just as much. Knocks him back a few steps. No, he doesn’t want to come clean.

The words fly back and forth like a tennis match. Too fast for him to keep control of what he’s saying and how you’re hearing it. He wants to break it off – is there anything to break off? – but he doesn’t want to lose you – how can you lose something you never had? – and then: did he ever have you in the first place?

You’re standing over him, between his knees. “End it,” you tell him. “I’ll go.”

There’s a casualness in the loose shrug of your shoulders that scares him more than the prospect of you actually leaving. How easy it looks like it could be, for you to just wander out. Sling your bag over your shoulder and revert back to the start of the summer, when he was just a ride home after a rainy day at work.

Forget how to touch him the way he’s certain only you can, forget the secret language between you, forget every stolen glance and whispered word and every thought that ever translated from your brain to his as easy as they would pass between your lips.

“You don’t mean nothin’ to me? That what you think?” He’s laughing. Disbelief, fear, shock. Whichever one it is, it pulls across his cheeks painfully. Somehow, you’ve ended up at the foot of his bed.

“Well, what else am I supposed to take from this, asshole? That you’re fuckin’ in love with me?”

It’s cold water over an already-dying fire. The words smother into ash on his tongue. No more come to the front. He just stares at you. His phone starts to chitter out into the silence between you.

You take a step forward. Your voice is low. “You don’t get to do this, you know. You don’t get to pull me in and then drop me…once you’re done with me.”

“Don’t.”

It’s not much, but it soars from the pit of his stomach, through his throat and past his lips like a final arrow. All he can muster up.

“Don’t.”

There’s a weight where the words originate from. Something deep in his gut, an ache pulling its way upward, swelling across his chest. His ears are screaming.

Of all the things you might think – he’s an asshole, he’s a liar, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing – the worst one would be that he spent this entire time leading you on. Making you feel special. Making you think you were something to him.

You are something to him. You’re – you’re fucking everything to him. It’s why he’s doing this, right? Going against every instinct, every gut feeling. To protect you. To do what’s right by you. He’s not fucking done with you. He wonders if he’ll ever go another day in his life without thinking about you.

“I can’t read your mind anymore…” you whisper, and his lungs steal a breath. His lack of response flattens your expression.

Joel might not be done, but you are.

He can feel you slipping from his grasp like sand through his knuckles. Each grain rocking itself loose, choosing to throw itself to the depths below rather than spend another second wrapped in his clutch.

He’s trying so desperately to hold onto you. Listen to me, he thinks, and he knows you can’t hear him anymore. Because now you’re really going – you’re tripping out of his room. Your heel catches on the threshold, like one last-ditch attempt from fate to pull you back into him, but you stop yourself and spin, fleeing down the hallway.

He takes a loose grasp of your wrist, fingers barely meeting on the other side of your skin before you tear it away from him like he’s scalded you. The look on your face makes him think for a moment that he might actually have done it – burned you. Pained you. Raised the skin below your gentle palm in a furious, red glow.

He’s swapping words out like they’re tools, each one immediately breaking and being flung back into the box. He’s trying any combination, any useless, futile order of words to make you stop in your tracks. You know how much I care about you, ‘s why I’m doin’ it, baby, come back, we can talk about this.

And he opens his mouth to give voice to the only words he knows would stop you – the reason why he’s doing it in the first place, the only thought he’s had anytime he’s looked at you for the last couple weeks. He opens his mouth to say it, or say something like it, when the machine silences the ringtone and the pair of you, too.

Her voice is like ice down the back of his shirt. He stares at the machine, red light blinking like a rag to a bull. He could walk over to it and smash the ever-loving fuck out of it with his fists until it’s dust on his coffee table. Until it shuts the fuck up, stops interfering with his fucking business.

And then he thinks about Lois, and her cream blouse, and her red nails, and her big, blue eyes, and her soft drawl and everything about her that is so entirely opposite to everything about you.

And how much – despite how nice and friendly, or funny and good-natured she is – how much he hates her right now, and how much he fucking loves you.

But you’re gone, now. Washed away by the tide. No more sand in Joel’s palm.

He tries to stop it. Tries to wind back a little, tries to make the sea cough up what it just stole from him. Give her back, you fuck. His eyes are stinging like salt water. Why are they stinging? There’s a roaring in his ears – the waves laughing in his face. Sickly and deafening.

He’s doing his best to keep a hold on his trembling voice. He knows he sounds pathetic. But yours is louder, stronger, steadier. And when you talk, it’s with an air of finality. Like you’re turning over the horizon. The last time he’ll ever see you again.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Joel.”

----------

He doesn’t call or text you that night. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Doesn’t even know where he’d begin. You’re mad, and Joel figures you got every right to be. This entire thing – today, this weekend, the whole month you’ve been together – is one big fucking mess.

He spends the afternoon hunched over his kitchen table, trying to distract himself with work. Twirling a pencil between his fingers, reading three, four, sometimes five times over the same building plans before deciding that the words and numbers won’t fucking sink in. He leaves them strewn across the table, wanders aimlessly upstairs and takes a cold shower.

Sarah’s flight gets in at 8PM. Joel’s sat curbside, truck engine humming, scanning every single figure that walks out of the airport building. When he spots the gray hoodie, the brown hair tied back with a pink scrunchie, the much-too-big-for-four-days-away suitcase rolling at her heels, he gets out.

She hugs her friends, they nod in passing greeting to him, and she skips over.

“Hey,” he breathes as she wraps her arms around his waist. “How was your flight? Saw you comin’ in.”

She shrugs in response. “I’m hungry. Wanna go get McDonald’s?”

Joel grumbles, slotting her case in the back of the truck. “You don’t wanna get home? Take a shower first? You smell like plane.”

“Ha! No.”

She opens the passenger side door and hoists her foot up on the seat, retying her sneaker. Joel’s already in and buckled up, hands on the wheel, watching her blue nails loop the laces.

“There’s one, like, ten minutes away.”

He’s shaking his head. “We got food in the house.”

Her gaze lifts. Her foot drops. “Oh, c’mon, it’s on the way home. We’ll be, like, five minutes. I just got off a two-hour flight, dude, right through dinner. I’m starving, I –”

“Would you just get in the damn truck, Sarah?”

It’s shorter, snappier, angrier than he meant. But he’s parked in the middle of the packed pick-up area, and the rattling of suitcase wheels and the whistling of cab drivers and the fucking roaring of planes overhead are making the headache behind his eyes worse.

Sarah freezes, one arm still leaning on the doorframe. “Jesus. What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, shaking his head. “Sorry. Just – get in.”

“No need to be an asshole about it,” she murmurs, pulling herself up into the passenger seat.

Joel’s face is in his hands, elbows atop the steering wheel. “I’m not tryna be an asshole,” he says into his palms.

His daughter looks at him. Concerned. “Somethin’ happen? While I was gone?”

He shakes his head again.

Nothing happened.

He’s quiet the rest of the night. The rest of the week. Sarah notices, he knows she does, because she pries. In her own way. She’s smarter than he is. Less obvious.

She’s already up and in the kitchen when he rises on Tuesday morning. Spins around at the toaster, tells him the machine’s ready for his coffee. Asks if he wants her to make it. Asks if he wants any breakfast.

Thanks, kiddo. No, I’ll get it. No, you’re good, thanks.

They sit opposite one another in silence, save for the crunching of Sarah’s toast. He can feel her eyes on him, same way he felt Lois’s. Trying to burrow deep inside, take a look at his brain. Catch a glimpse of the words he’s thinking over and over and over.

There ain’t no words, though. It’s just images. Video replay of your back as you strode down his driveway, the way the wind caught your hair and brushed your cheek, the way your hand came up to wipe your tears. And the way he stood there, like a fucking idiot, and did nothing.

His chest hurts any time he thinks about you. Pulls in, knits itself together in knots. He’s good at pushing feelings down, good at turning them away from the sunlight like faded pebbles. But this is different. It’s a different kind of hurt.

It’s unresolved, it’s an open wound. It’s you. And it’s every time he hears REO Speedwagon, every time he pulls a flannel over his shoulders and catches the scent of your perfume on it, every time he’s flicking through the TV and catches a flash of a hospital setting, it’s a pair of hands deep inside the wound, pulling it a little wider.

It aches. It stings and it aches and it winds.

And then he turns the pebbles around. Back to the shade. Over and over and fucking over.

On Wednesday night, he caves. Asks Sarah if she’s spoken to you.

She’s chewing on a slice of pizza; licks the grease from her fingertips before she answers. “Not really. She’s been quieter than usual. Why?”

“She’s been quieter than usual?” he repeats, playing off the way his head shot up by looking straight back down at the pizza box.

Sarah narrows her eyes. “Yeah. I figure she’s working a lot.”

“Right. Right.”

“She gets tired of being in the house all the time, I think. Getting treated like a kid still. So I guess the more time she can spend outta there, the better.”

Joel nods slowly. He already knows that much.

Sarah studies him. Watches his hands as he dabs a pizza crust into the dip. When he tosses it in his mouth, he looks back up at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “You want the last slice?”

“You take it,” he mutters, sitting back and wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’m stuffed.”

She hums, reaching forward. “Whatever it is,” she says, pulling the dough apart, “that’s got you this down –”

“Ain’t nothin’ got me down, kiddo.”

“– whatever it is,” she continues, “I bet it works itself out.”

Sarah stands up, taking her water with her, and wanders out of the kitchen.

----------

Joel struggles through another sleepless night, Thursday through Friday. His eyes don’t close over once. He hauls himself out of bed early in the morning, forces a black coffee down his throat, and heads off to work.

He’s up at some new client in Waco. Andrew Curtis – or, well, Andrew Curtis’s father, but Joel’s been dealing primarily with the son, and the guy’s a fucking imbecile. Doesn’t know his head from his ass, probably. And he has a voice like nails on a damn chalkboard, and his shirt’s untucked around the back, but Joel ain’t got a tone kind enough, or half the wordsmanship, or an ounce of energy to tell him.

Anyway – he spends all day at this dusty site, trying to work and instead, thinking about whatever the fuck you’re doing. Wherever you are, whoever you’re with. It’s almost seven by the time he’s leaving, packing up his truck and watching Andrew Curtis across the yard. He’s spotted his own shadow; he’s twisting around to reach the ducktail poking out from above his belt loops.

Joel thinks to call you about it on the way home. Tell you all about the guy: his dry conversation, his flannel, the fact he kept calling Joel Joe all day. He figures it would make you laugh, least the way he’d tell it, and he reckons that’s exactly what you need right now. That’s exactly what he needs, right now.

When Clark’s call him, he dials your dad. Has his ear blown half to hell by the speakerphone. Learns midway through the conversation that you’re right there in the car, too, and bites back a stream of incoherent, senseless words. Settles for a quiet reminder: he’s right here if you need him.

He doesn’t expect you to take him up on it. Knows you got better things to do than deal with some asshole who’d rather break your heart than have a few difficult conversations. You’re probably having fun, probably finally feeling good again. You’re probably fine.

But still. He doesn’t sleep that night, either.

It’s just gone two when Anna calls. He’s lying in bed, some shopping network on loop on the TV. His tired eyes bore into the screen, defocusing over the pixels, not watching nor listening and barely fucking breathing until he picks up the phone. Her voice is panicked, shrill, and shaking so much he wonders if his own phone is trembling with it.

“Mr. Miller?” she asks, and Joel sits up. “Got your number from Yelp. ‘m sorry it’s so late, it’s…oh, fuck – it’s, like, 2AM.”

“Anna,” Joel says hoarsely. Get to the fuckin’ point.

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.”

It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks –

“Where is she?”

“We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –”

“’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

In one long, drawn breath, she spills. “She was fucked from the second we walked in here; she drank too much too quick, Mr. Miller – Joel,” she says when he corrects her, “and then she just – I dunno, she just – fucking disappeared with these guys, me ‘n Kara never saw ‘em in our lives – and they went upstairs we think, and she came back smelling like weed, and then this guy – he just, like, scooped her off, Mr. M– I mean Joel, like, totally dragged her away, and then –”

“Who–? Anna – Anna, wait,” Joel says, shushing her between her rambling, trying to rein in what she’s saying. When she finally shuts up, he speaks slowly and calmly. “Who dragged her away?”

“We don’t fuckin’ know!” she almost shrieks down the line. It cuts out for a second and Joel’s heart stops dead.“– so we don’t know,” she says when her voice filters back through into his ear, “but Sam said he saw the dude drop something in her bottle when he turned away. A pill or something.”

Joel’s body tenses. Freezes solid, with the blood in his veins. His eyes fix on one spot on his dresser: the loose handle that sits a little squint. He stares at it until his peripheral starts to blur.

“He – say that again?”

“He roofied her, we think. But we can’t fucking find them. Sam and Kara are in there just now looking. The guy pulled her away, that’s what I’m tryna say!”

“Right,” whispers Joel, nodding. He drags a heavy hand over his eyes, tries to push the image of you in danger out of his head for one second so he can figure out what to do.

Anna doesn’t hear him. She keeps talking. “…and then Sam said she told him not to call her dad, but I had to call someone, y’know? You’re the only person I think she wouldn’t – I think she wouldn’t mind me callin’. Please.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs, arms pushing through the sleeves of his shirt. He keeps the phone against his cheek when he bends to reach for his boots, ties them loose and grabs his keys.

“You call me as soon as you find her, you hear? I’m on my way,” he tells Anna, and hangs up.

He’s panicking. Fear, transferred between her cell and his, creeping over his shoulders, wrapping long, cold fingers around his throat. He’s panicking. He’s panicking. He never panics. Where the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you with?

There’s barely any traffic on the road, but the drive takes for-fucking-ever. The lights at the side of the road blur into long, thin streaks of orange. His hands are tight around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. Your name lies loose on his lips.

He pulls up right outside the bar. There are small clusters of people, congregated tight together under the streetlights; cigarettes hanging from lips, bottles loose in hands. He shoves by them on his way to the door. Some guy shuffles out of his way, looking up to cuss Joel out and quickly dipping his head again when he locks eyes with the grizzly expression.

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, and spots you instantly.

----------

His knuckles are throbbing. Skin stretching anytime he moves his hand, searing hot and sharply stinging across the bone. Your touch is the only thing soothing them right now.

He got two good punches in. Just two. Burst the guy’s nose. He would’ve kept going, had he not been in a bar full of people – people who knew who he was – and had you not been stood behind him, body liquid-like from how much you were swaying.

But he has you home now. Up in your room, settled in bed. You’re safe. You’re with him.

You’re fucking wasted. Like, can barely lift a glass of water to your lips unaided wasted. He spent the entire drive watching over you, stealing glances when your head turned or your eyes lulled closed, checking you were still awake, still talking, still fucking breathing.

Whatever that asshole gave you, you don’t seem to have had enough for it to do too much damage. The alcohol is the real culprit. Though you were cognitive enough to yell at him over Lois in the kitchen, which relieved him for a second before it fucking crushed him. He’s lying awake right now – listening to the sound of your snoring – replaying the argument in his head. Over and over.

You’re an asshole and a liar. Just stringing me along this whole time.

He’s some awful cocktail of angry and terrified and fucking heartbroken. You’re lying inches from him, your hand resting softly on top of his, and yet – you’re miles away. The space between you both – fragmented, treacherous.

In a perfect world, he’d have wrapped his arms around your shoulders. He’d have pulled you against his weight, against his strong, steady form. And he’d have walked you, as slow as you needed, out of the bar and to his truck. Maybe laughing. Maybe singing.

He’d have told you everything was fine, told you he loved you, told you he was gonna get you home, make you feel better. He’d hold you until the sun came up, and then hold you until it went back down.

He’d love you. And you’d let him.

Maybe that world doesn’t exist, Joel thinks. And maybe that’s for the better.

It fucking hurts, though. Stings like a hot blade through his chest. All this time, messing around, pretending there was nothing more to it. Letting his feelings through like water in a fucking dam. It was bound to break eventually.

And maybe he really thought, even just for a fleeting moment, there could be something here. Something worth holding onto. More than two idiots messing around, more than sex and secrecy.

He didn’t even realize. Didn’t notice the shift. When did he start feeling…more? When did it cross that line?

He’s staring at the end of your bed. Thinking about you under him, gripping onto his shirt, his hand between your legs. The very first time. And every other fucking time since then. Which one was the threshold? Who pushed who?

His ringtone bursts through the silence, making him jump. His arm swings to fish it from the nightstand, swiping to answer before he’s even read who’s calling, just to shut the thing up.

“Hello?” he murmurs.

“Hey, Joe? Uh, I mean, Joel? It’s Andrew Curtis here.”

He rolls his eyes. For fuck’s sake. “Mornin’, Andrew.”

“Hi. Sorry, I know it’s super early. I’m just checkin’ we’re still good to go. I got my guys ready, we’re rarin’ to get goin’ whenever you are.”

Joel clears his throat, pushing slowly off the plush mattress, resting your hand on the sheets. “Yeah, uh…” He slips out of your room, hopping over to the bathroom and closing the door over. “…I had a, uh…a family emergency durin’ the night. I’m gonna be a little late, but I’ll be there.”

“Oh, gee, I hope everything’s alright?”

He phrases it like he wants Joel to clue him in. He considers for a second actually saying, Yeah, my best friend’s daughter – who I’ve been sleeping with for the last month – got plastered at a bar – Frank’s, local place, you heard of it? – because I broke things off with her – but I didn’t want to, I was just tryna be fuckin’ noble – and I went and picked her up, punched a guy who was tryna hurt her, because guess what, Andrew – I’m in fuckin’ love with her.

He sums it up with: “Yeah. Everything’s fine now. Thanks.”

“Alright, well, great news! Call me when you’re twenty minutes out, I’ll have the guys here for you arrivin’. Safe journey, Joe!”

Joel breathes an Uhuh and hangs up, holding the bridge of his nose. He has a headache, like he’s the one who’s been drinking. It’s only going to get worse, too, heading off to go spend his Saturday with Andrew fucking Curtis and his loose flannel.

The sun’s rising slowly, lighting the hall in a warm glow. Joel pads quietly into your room and pulls the cover back over his side of the mattress. You stir; your head jerks only to move some hair from your face, and then you sigh, sleep pulling you back into its arms.

He watches you for a second. Wishes he could run a light hand down your cheek, kiss your head. Whisper a goodbye, the same way you did to him almost a week ago.

He shakes the thought, collecting his boots from the floor. His hand hovers over his shirt for a moment. And then he lifts it by the collar, lays it neatly on the pillow by your head, and leaves. You can keep it, trash it, burn it. But it’s yours. Everything about him is yours.

In the kitchen, he stands by the sink, nursing a cup of coffee. It’s a quarter to six. This early on a Saturday, he figures he’ll be in Waco by seven, seven-thirty latest. His eyes fix on the spot you two stood last night, yelling back and forth about Lois. She seems so far away, now. He can barely remember the shape of her face, the sound of her voice.

His grip tightens around the mug. He places it in the sink, and grabs his keys. As he passes the stairs, he pauses. Leans on one foot, head tilted to listen out for any sound of life. Any fucking sound – the creak of a floorboard, the squeak of a door handle. Anything to keep him here. Anything.

Nothing comes. No sound, no movement, no you.

He closes the front door gently on his way out.

----------

taglist: @yvonneeeee @subconsciouscollapse @leahlovestwd @peqchsoup @whorror-s @k1ttybean @whichwitchwanda @abuttoncalledsmalls @anner--nanner @jpbplvr @laysmt @ankhmutes @bookishhella @cannolighost @luvrking @mellymbee @yourwinchesterbros @nostalxgic @scottstotts @daiseygriffithx @letsgroovetonighttt @huffle-punk @unbotheredbeeeee @iluvurfather @wildcat116 @godisawomansblog @55vvaa55 @koshkaj-blog @initforthebooks @theywhowriteandknowthings @thatgirljayy@sasakipsposts @casa-boiardi @milla-frenchy @aim-formyheart @taeslarityy @lxstbxyscave23 @joelmillerxapologist @capt-rex @giixo @capricorngf @feministfanboi @fifia-writes @darleneslane @theplumsoldier @sharp-cheekbones-locked @suzmagine @endlessthxxghts @ivebeenflagged @blognametakenn @jessahmewren @nobodycanseeinsidemysoul @ranahx @pedropascalsbbg @dindjarinsbeskarbunny @cartoon-garbage04 @caatheeriinee07 @kngslayr @dissentientss @hopplessilse @annagraceevanss @lucyeyelesbarrow @faceache111 @vickywallace @lelifesaver

@slvbl @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @casa-boiardi @msjarvis @acornacreacure @totallynotastanacc @alejaa-a @aphterthoughtt @pedroluver @earthtogrogu @sexygaypalpatine @cool-iguana @serenaxpedro @lizzyervs @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @patti7dc @pattwtf @atticrissfinch @pascalpvnk @lizzyervs @jediknightjana @jessie8605 @iknowisoundcrazy @caitispunk @vickie5446 @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(psst! after this weekend my taglist is no more! follow @macfroglets + turn on notifs if you wanna be in the know when i post!)

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #dad's best friend #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #fic: cowboy like me #smut #fluff #angst

819 notes · View notes