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cavillscurls · 5 months ago

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hold me, heal me | aemond targaryen x f!reader

summary: he comes to you in the dark of night, seeking solace, when mistakes are made and lives are lost.

warnings/tags: MDNI. post S1E10, pre S2E1. dual pov. minor age gap; reader is 5 years older. angst. mentions of death, murder, and war. depictions of grief and panic. mentions of past sexual assault. misogyny and period-specific gender roles. hurt/comfort. mommy issues galore. sub!aemond, soft dom!reader. reader works in a brothel; the term “whore” is used in reference to her profession. intimacy. pet names. MD/LB undertones. cockwarming. unprotected p in v. a smidgen of dacryphilia. cream pie. pregnancy risk due to unsafe sex mentioned briefly. PLEASE NOTE: I wrote the majority of this before any S2 brothel scenes came out and did not change some of my own lore. The past trauma of this character has not been taken lightly nor do I negate it in this fic. He does, however, engage in different ways of coping than we see canonically. You are responsible for what you choose to read.

word count: 2.4k

masterlist

a/n: i’m aware the canon is leaning towards Aemond being a little off his hinges…but he’s fully remorseful in this because i said so. it’s my first time writing him so be nice or i’ll cry. you know who i’m thanking (@kiwisbell) per ush. an additional thank you to @joelsdagger for listening to me babble and sharing in my excitement. enjoy!

The knock he bestows on your door is always succinct, quiet. Tonight, it is dampened by the fall of rain and roaring thunder, which he combats with firmer, urgent strikes.

The establishment is empty, apart from yourself. A quaint corner in the wall, no more than three or four lucky girls in service, all under your watch, your care. The owner, a man you have only ever met with a mask covering his countenance, prefers to keep a low profile amid such political turmoil. He’s eager, perhaps even reckless in granting you authority in his affairs. But you handle them, have always handled them, carefully. A woman of your position, your station, no fool to pass up a trace of power.

You are roused from the chaise in the corner of the room at the abrupt sound, naked, dozing off under the low candlelight with a book in your lap. When the sound comes again, then thrice, you pull the silken robe off the back of the cushions and wrap it around yourself, bare feet a soft patter across the room.

You open the door, slowly, carefully, no stranger to what lurks in the dark at these hours. Though the thing you find through the crack worries more than it frightens you.

He’s not quite sure how he found himself here. How he willed his limbs, sore from dragon-back and pellets of rain, to land on your doorstep. The hood of his cloak is pulled over his forehead, blocking the rain from his eyes which cannot find the strength to look at you. He’s been here, this very spot, many times before. Always in a similar fashion to now, when the whole of King’s Landing is deep in slumber—but, despite his fatigue, sleep continues to evade him. He is, always has been, unlike his kin in the ways of sex. A whorehouse the last place he cared to find himself, averse to their nature, still slave to the experiences no child as young as he should have endured.

But that all changed when he met you. A woman five years his senior, with warm eyes and a sparkling smile, whose first encounter with the Prince came in a tavern. And while the rest of the men drank and fucked and drank some more, keen to end the night with their cocks stuffed in the women of their choosing, Aemond Targaryen found himself in the back rooms with his head in your lap, your nimble fingers gracing his locks of hair, humming and nodding along as he relayed in great detail the misfortunes of his life.

And whilst the experience of seeking your solace is a familiar one, tonight feels ineffably different. Something looms, substantial and altering, an invisible hourglass signifying impending consequences.

“My Prince.” You had not been expecting him this evening, and it translates through the airiness of your tone.

There’s a terror in his eyes—eye, though you’ve come to ardently understand just the way of his brows—and you are quick to usher him inside, leaving no room for onlookers to watch a man unravel. This man in particular, royalty, with silver hair too recognizable, too imperiled to risk being seen.

But he is seen by you. In some ways, only you.

He stands there, just before the closed doorway, looking like nothing more than a lost little boy. His breath is audible, a staggering inhale through his nose followed by the shaky release of his lips that begin to tremble.

“I’ve done something,” he finally rasps, in that sort of far-off voice, the one that’s given you unease time and time again. “Something unforgivable.”

And the truth is, you know him. You know the whole of him, in his various roles, and in the shape of Prince Aemond Targaryen, an unforgivable deed, a cruel one even, is foreseeable. Perhaps that makes you an accomplice, an enabler in all his unsavory behaviors for the sole reason of never admonishing them.

But in your own life, your own truth, you are reminded that it is simply not your place to critique. Your place, your role, is to serve. To provide a paying customer with their needs most neglected. And if you are to be entirely forthright, the needs of the Prince—a mere man, just another man when in your company—are unlike that of the others. So much so that your place, your role, somehow becomes innately you.

You had gotten good at playing pretend, as the needs of most men often required. Leaning into the subservient nature, allowing them to take, and take, and take. Your arrangement with the Prince couldn’t be any more different. Here, with him, you give. You cultivate, you lead, and he is eager to receive. It’s the very truth that maintains your affections, making it far too easy, despite his wrongdoings and whatever they may be, for you to reach out and cradle his face within your palms. Press your chest up against his, and with it, a chaste kiss to the apple of his cheek, just below where the silken patch covers marred flesh.

“Oh, my darling boy,” you coo, running a tender hand down his cheek. “Come.”

He heeds your gentle command, as he always does, taking you by the extended hand and following you to the chaise. This part of the visit is routine, and you cannot help but display a bit of showmanship in the sultry way you undo the knot of your robe, letting it ripple over your shoulders and down to the floor like steady waves. His gaze follows over your bare figure, nothing but admiration. You step back until your calves hit the upholstery, never tearing your eyes off of him when you splay yourself across the cushions, propping your elbow up on the armrest.

He stands in place, admiring, lips slightly parted and hands flexing in and out of fists at his sides, for some time. This too is a part of the routine: what pieces of himself he chooses to reveal to you when you’re together. You, always bare, free to his needs. He, given the choice, to be as concealed or as vulnerable as he wishes. Tonight is an extreme of the latter, as he eventually breaks from his silent trance, moving to strip himself of his damp cloak, his tunic, his trousers. You hold your breath when his fingers linger at the hem of his breaches, sighing a wistful sort of sound when they join the rest of his clothing.

You await him, limbs spread and inviting, and the Prince shudders at the sight before him. A cacophony of thoughts, emotions, some he’s chosen are better off never to scrutinize. Because he does, in his own twisted way, feel safe with you.

Safer than he feels in his own home. Much safer than he’s ever felt alone.

He crawls himself up between your legs, letting them engulf his torso, resting his cheek upon your bare chest—as is practice. He can hear your heartbeat beneath the flesh, drowning out the sound of thunder and screaming in his eardrums with its steady thump, thump, thump. He wraps his wingspan around your rib cage, cradling himself against your pillowy breasts that act as a comfort in his time of distress. It’s perhaps the very reason the Prince maintains you in his company—you quickly understood the type of nurturing he required, and you were, and remain, eager to provide.

Wetness falls from his cheeks and coats your breasts, silent tears. He nuzzles into your skin and squeezes his eyes shut; despite his body's betrayal of him, trembling in your hold, he refuses to make a sound. He wishes to maintain a semblance of dignity, of manhood. Even if it is you who has seen him in all his shame, when he feels most worthless in the position he was born into.

“I forgive you.” An eventual whisper after moments of wordlessly tucking silver locks behind his ear with your fingertips, swirling gentle shapes along his temple. “Whatever you’ve done, I forgive you.”

And he aches at your sentiments; inside and out, his heart heavy in his chest and his cock straining between his legs, coming to life under the prospect of your enveloping heat. A vice well utilized in aiding him to forget, to let go. You wouldn’t forgive him, he thinks, if you knew the truth of his blunder. You’d despise him, a traitor to his kin. You’d refuse to service him, perhaps even refuse to see him again. It’s for that very reason that on this visit, selfishly, he does not indulge you in his strife.

Instead, he takes. He takes what you have always freely given him, and for a while, he doesn’t feel a thing. He cries, and squeezes you, and mouths at the exposed skin of your breasts, but his brain is blank, his body numb. It is only when he goes scarily silent and still for a long while that you begin to worry.

“Tell me what I must do to help,” you whisper against his earlobe, breaking the silent seal and watching his body tremble at the tickle of your breath.

He’s quiet for another moment, and then:

“Make me forget.”

It isn’t often he asks for this, to take the extra step. You’re never bothered, quite liking the change of pace in his company. Gradual and serene, limited expectations placed on either party, and the opportunity to be something other than a body. But you cannot deny the flutter of excitement the proposition elicits in your belly now, a deep-seated ache searching for a remedy, eager to comply with his wishes.

Your limbs move in unison, choreography, unwinding from one another until he’s seated upright on the chaise and your thighs straddle his lithe hips. His hands dig solid into the plush of your hips, and thrilling is the thought of what they may leave behind come morrow. You feel his breath on your face and hear the way it hitches when you reach between your bodies, carefully wrapping your fingers around his hardening cock. The tip kisses your entrance, and you hiss at the initial stretch of it as you descend the length of him.

He’s long and slender, a comfortable fit, nestling up, up, up to that sweet spot inside of you that makes your body sing. And it feels good, so good to seek pleasure in the one who derives it from you. You stay like this, relishing in the fullness, the scent of him so close. Withered roses and iron.

Your hands cascade his arms, up his solid shoulders, until you’re cradling his face, porcelain, between your palms.

“May I look at you?” It is a question, as this is a boundary you dare not test. Who are you to upset the balance where he seeks asylum?

You run your fingers carefully along the strap of his eyepatch, over the spot it disappears behind his ear. You’d seen it before, mostly in passing glances. When he’d wash up in the powder room, or on the rare occasions he slept beside you, just before you gave way to slumber. Crystalline sapphire, nearly as striking as the blue of his given eye that beholds you now.

There’s admiration for the sight of you, fireplace flames reflecting off your perspired skin, and a glaze over your half-lidded eyes. You really are a sight to behold, and so, he trusts you with this.

He nods once, and your nimble fingers sink under the band of the patch and delicately remove it from his face.

It’s only when you see him, all of him, that you begin to move. The initial rhythmic grinds of your hips—so that you may adjust and he can experience your silken walls suffocating him—eventually turn to a gradual rise and fall. Your thighs slap down against his with each descent, an angelic little whine passing through your lips every time he reaches your cervix.

Your lips are agape and your brows are pulled in focus, but your bright eyes remain firmly planted on him. The sudden urge to cry again surges through him, but he sinks his teeth painfully into his bottom lip to avoid it. Here lies an intimacy he is already unsteady with, and yet it is the prospect of losing it altogether that tears him asunder.

He concentrates, first on the rise and fall of his breathing, of yours, of the pulsing of his blood through his veins. Then, the pliancy of your body, the way it wraps around him like a glove, sparks a sharp twisting in his gut from how tightly your cunt milks him. Made for him, made for you. How your sultry, collected countenance starts to falter the closer you are to release, dragging him down with you. His gaze falls briefly between your bodies to see the white ring of slick left around the base of his cock when you rise, the evidence of your arousal making his abdomen grow taut.

“I won’t last,” he warns you, a broken excuse of a voice.

You flash him your dazed eyes. “I don’t care.” And he’s groaning.

He knows it’s a risk, one that he likely wouldn’t be around to face the consequences of. But he doesn’t care. He can’t. Not when you begin to increase your speed, squeezing him from tip to base in tantalizing strokes. Not when your nails dig into his shoulders, and your head is thrown back in ecstasy, heavy breasts on full display for him to bury his head into again. Not when you’re coming undone around him, crying out his name, his real name, and he’s all that he is in his simplest form.

His thighs tremble and his vision goes dark from squeezing his eye shut, a glorious crescendo oozing into release. The sticky ropes of seed paint your insides right as they start to clench feverishly around him. Oversensitivity is mistaken for pain and pleasure, but there is a calmness in the way his body goes slack once you’ve slumped against him. Drained, in all senses, he welcomes your guiding touch that cradles his face into the crook of your neck. A state of rest he will preserve for what’s left of the evening.

Tomorrow, he will wage war. Tomorrow he will front stone cold, pledge his loyalty and conduct his duty to his family. Forget the woes of the life he once imagined he deserved and bind himself to the reality of the one he’s been given.

But tonight, he will rest. Rest under the comforting hands that could not be dealt by his kin. And perhaps, once morning comes, never to be dealt again.

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halfwayhearted · 2 months ago

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I Miss You — Spencer Reid.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: You missed Spencer a lot while he was away on a case, and you both can’t wait to share the same bed again.

Word Count: 570+

Disclaimer/s — Established relationship, and fluff!

A/N: SEASON 4 SPENCER REID, YOU ARE SO DEAR TO ME. Is clingy!spencer canon or nah… just let me know. Lmk.

It was late. Literally ‘three in the morning’ type late. But you couldn’t sleep. You just couldn’t.

Not when you received that anticipated message informing you that your boyfriend was finally on his way home after an entire week spent away on a case. To pass the time and keep your… thrill in check, you immersed yourself in various small tasks—washing dishes, doing laundry, and even catching up on some reading. Anything that would keep you occupied and awake, ensuring you were ready and waiting for Spencer’s arrival.

You were engrossed in your book when the sound of the door unlocking and opening reached your ears. Instantly, you jerked upright, a bright smile spreading across your face as if it were second nature. Whipping your head around to look, your eyes were met with the sight of the tall brunette.

“You’re home!” You chirped, rising to your feet.

Spencer’s tired gaze finds you, “I’m home. Why are you awake? It’s three-forty in the morning.”

Making your way toward him, you help him shrug off his coat and messenger bag, hanging both on the rack beside you. “I missed you,” was all you had uttered, placing a small peck to his lips.

The second you pull away, he leans in once again for another. Giving him exactly that, you look up at him with a smile, asking, “Are you hungry?”

He shook his head, “Nope. ‘M just tired.”

“Sleep it is,” you countered, “I did laundry, too.”

“You didn’t have to do that. But, thank you.”

Your smile widens as you start to turn away, his eyebrows furrow and he gently grasps your elbow, making you look at him. “What’s wrong?”

Spencer’s voice is quiet when he replies, “Are you not coming to bed with me?”

Oh, you could’ve crumbled right then and there.

And… well, you do!

“Right. Yes, I am. Let me just turn off the lights.”

“Oh,” the man nods slowly, “I’ll go change.”

You let out a soft hum, “Mhm, you go do that.”

After he turns away and enters your shared bedroom, you do what you said you would. You grab your book, close it properly, and set it on the coffee table before flickering off all the lights.

Making your way to the bedroom, Spencer is about to exit, and you find yourself face-to-face with him, which makes you tilt your head and laugh. “What’re you doing? Did you forget—”

He interjects sheepishly, “Went to go get you.”

A loving smile graces your lips at that, and you guide the both of you toward the bed. Climbing into it, you watch how he lifts the covers and slides under them, facing you. You do the same, brushing one of his loose strands away from his eyes. “I really like this hair. Long hair suits you.”

“Does my short hair do the opposite?” He teased.

“Hey, no. I think you look good with any hair,” you start, a short, silent moment passing. “However, I do think this hair specifically might take the win.”

Spencer acknowledges your answer, moving his hand to tenderly grab your own, his thumb rubbing back and forth against the pulse of your wrist while you feel your eyes fluttering shut.

You loved this man more than you thought was possible, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.

DT(s) — @planetpedri ! ౨ৎ

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pedrospatch · 1 year ago

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fall into temptation | one

Jackson! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter Reader

series masterlist

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56, i know, i know but this is self indulgent because my birthday is next month idk just let me have this one) canon language, canon violence, several mentions of religion, terms pastor and preacher are used interchangeably here and there, mentions of the bible and religious symbols (cross), innocent/virgin reader, very brief scene of attempted sexual assault, no explicit smut (yet). asshole Joel, protective Joel, hints of softish dom Joel (if you squint). reader has two sisters, the only physical description for them is their hair, which they can also braid as well as their style of clothing.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 8.4k

Jackson, Wyoming

Fall 2024

Joel had seen him around the community before.

He’s an older man in his late sixties or possibly his early seventies with thinning, snow white hair and silver, wire rimmed glasses that always seemed to be perched on the tip of his pointed nose. He was a good, kind man from what Joel could gather—offering up warm smiles and friendly waves to anyone who happened to cross his path, stopping to greet and say hello to familiar faces. The hem of his starched white shirt is tucked into pressed black slacks and even from where he stood across the road near the horse stables, Joel noticed the book clutched in his right hand, old and bound in supple, worn black leather with the words Holy Bible etched into the cover in flaked gold lettering.

Jacob, he thinks his name is. Or was it Josiah?

Something biblical—a name fit for a man who was so fucking clearly devoted to the big man upstairs.

Joel knew his own name was a biblical one, but he was the furthest thing from a man of God. After all that he’d done in the past twenty years, there was only one place he was going and that place wasn’t exactly known for its pearly gates or sweet cherub angels playing harps.

Joseph? Was that it?

He couldn’t be certain.

Not that Joel really even cared to know his name.

It’d been a couple months since Joel arrived back in Jackson with Ellie after Salt Lake City and the truth of the matter was that he preferred to keep to himself whenever it was possible. Joel had zero interest in getting to know the people of this settlement, not unless he had to for the sake of patrol duties—and that’s only if he hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of getting assigned with a partner who wasn’t Tommy or Maria, the only two people in the whole fucking community Joel could stand being around. Minus his kid of course, but even he and Ellie could really only take each other in small doses lately. Perhaps it was their tense, strained relationship that was to blame for the fact that Joel Miller walked around this place with a standoffish attitude and a permanent scowl plastered on his face.

Most people were smart enough to scamper off in the opposite direction when they saw him coming. He was never offended by it. It’s what he wanted. He wasn’t here to make friends.

In fact, the closest thing he had come to a friend outside of his brother’s wife was Esther, the woman Maria and Tommy had tried setting him up with when he first got back to Jackson. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her a friend, either. That’s a little too generous. Friend? No, more like a good fuck when he couldn’t drown his bitterness with Seth’s barrel aged bourbon and he was in need of a different kind of distraction.

But there was a reason this particular man piqued his curiosity. Actually, there were three reasons he managed to garner Joel’s attention and all three of those reasons were trailing behind him in an orderly, single file line, each one more fucking gorgeous than the last. He was positive he’d never seen them around before—because how could he possibly forget the faces of the most beautiful women in this town?

They’ve gotta be sisters, Joel thought to himself, his hand resting on the neck of the horse that he’d ridden out to patrol that morning, a dark, chestnut mare named Willow. Although he was supposed to be walking her inside the stables and back into her stall, he found himself far too distracted. While the three women weren’t identical to one another, the similarity in their traits such as hair color and their skin tone confirmed his suspicions that they were related. They all styled their hair in neat halo braids and wore slightly different color variations of the same getup—pressed, long sleeved blouses tucked into knee length floral printed skirts and worn, leather oxford shoes.

Clutching the brown leather strap of his rifle in his opposite hand, Joel leaned himself against Willow and squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight in an effort to get a better look at them.

The first two were slightly on the older side. If Joel had to take a shot at their age, he would guess the women were in their thirties—a man of fifty six, he still had about two decades on them, easy. Joel let his gaze shift, his dark brown eyes flickering to the last one. His breath audibly hitched in his throat and part of him wondered just how fucking dumb he had to be to be drawn to the youngest one of the three. It couldn’t be fucking possible—you couldn’t be that much older than your mid twenties, if that.

Joel’s grip on the strap of his rifle tightened.

All three of you were beautiful beyond words—why the fuck did it have to be you who held over his interest?

“Take a picture,” Maria remarked with a tiny laugh. She dismounted her horse and peered at Joel over the black stallion’s back. “It’ll last longer.”

She’d led that morning’s patrol, her first time back on duty since she had given birth to her son in the spring. Joel had returned to Jackson right on time to meet his one month old nephew, Noah.

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Just tryin’ to figure out what their deal is, that’s all.” He paused, then remarked, “Didn’t know polygamy was a thing around here.”

His comment must have struck a nerve in his dear sister in law—fiercely protective of the people who were under her leadership, Maria hadn’t found the sister wives implication the slightest bit amusing.

“Watch it, Joel,” she admonished, shooting him a warning glare. “He’s the town’s pastor and those girls happen to be his daughters. So let’s keep our wise ass cracks to ourselves, shall we?”

His daughters? He almost couldn’t believe it. Surely the girls must have taken after their mother because they sure as hell didn’t get their good looks from their old man. They hardly looked anything like him.

“Pastor,” Joel repeated with a small hum. He then remembered her pointing out an old church house back during the winter when she’d given him and Ellie the grand tour of the community. “So he ain’t got a real job like the rest of us?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “His job is a real job, Joel. It might be hard for you to believe, but there are still a lot of people of faith around here,” she explained to him. “He provides them with comfort and with hope—”

He snorted sharply through his nose. “Hope?”

“Yes, hope,” she snapped at him.

“Hope for what, Maria? That things will go back to fuckin’ normal? That the end of the world is temporary?”

Maria crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin. “Some people never lose hope, Joel. There’s a lot of people who need this man and he serves a much bigger purpose than what you’re giving him credit for.”

“And what about the girls? They have it easy too? Do they just stand there lookin’ pretty on Sundays while their old man reads verses out loud from the most useless fuckin’ book known to man?”

“If you must know, they work in the schoolhouse,” she answered, tossing him another glare. “They’re teachers. The oldest one, she teaches Ellie’s class. The middle one, she teaches the primary school aged children and the youngest? She takes care of all of our little ones. She prepares our preschool kids for her sister’s class by teaching them numbers and basic literacy. Shows them how to start counting, reading and writing, things like that. She also helps run the commune’s daycare.”

“At least they have real jobs,” Joel mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

He feigned innocence. “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.” Maria pointed her finger at him. “Come on, let’s get these guys back into their stalls. It was a long ride this morning, I’m sure they could use some rest.” Taking her stallion by the reins, she started leading him over toward Logan, one of the stable hands who helped take in the horses coming back from patrol.

Joel took Willow’s reins in his hands—but before he could even think of moving another muscle, he glanced up and saw the preacher leading his three daughters past the stables and right past Joel. His self control faltered. All that he could do was stare at you, his eyes fixed on you so blatantly that one of your sisters had taken notice. Grinning, she turned back towards you and lifted a hand to her mouth. She used her palm to shield her lips from Joel’s view and whispered something to you over her shoulder.

Shit.

He’d been caught gawking.

He thought about making a beeline for the stables but it was too late.

Perplexed by whatever it was that your older sister had just said to you, you gave her an odd look, but then followed the subtle nod of her head.

Glimpsing over in his direction, your lips parted in complete surprise and you came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt road when you found your gaze meeting that of the much older, rugged man standing there with a gun slung over his shoulder.

Unsure of what else to do, Joel simply offered you a polite nod of his head. The gesture was innocent enough but it startled you. He could tell by the way you let out a small gasp and turned away from him, your eyes falling to the ground as you scurried to catch up to your father and sisters like a spooked little mouse.

Joel couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.

“Is the preacher aware that his precious little daughters pay frequent visits to The Tipsy Bison at such late and ungodly hours?” Joel quipped. He gestured to a booth nestled over in a corner of the dimly lit bar with a subtle jerk of his chin. “S’gotta be the third or fourth time I’ve seen them here in the last couple of weeks.”

Tommy’s eyes followed his brother’s gesture. “Oh man, not again,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He shook his head. “Those girls, they ain’t got no fuckin’ business hangin’ around this place and much less at this fuckin’ hour. But the middle one, she’s a whole lot of trouble.” He paused, just long enough to nod at one of the three sisters, the one who was wearing her hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a lock of it around her finger as she made flirtatious fuck me eyes at the group of drunk patrolmen sitting a few tables away. “She’s somethin’ of a rebel, that one. Likes to drink a lot, get herself involved with things that she ain’t really supposed to be messin’ with. She’s the one who convinces the other two into sneakin’ out and comin’ to the bar when their old man goes to sleep.”

Joel chuckled in disbelief. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“As a heart attack. And then there’s the older one. I know she likes to drink too, but she’s a lot calmer than the other one. Ain’t gotta worry about her all too much, y’know? She tries to be the chaperone—it don’t always work out that way, though. Her halo ain’t exactly perfect either.”

“What ‘bout the youngest one?” Joel asked in the most nonchalant tone he could possibly muster. “Where does she fall on the scale between angel and devil?”

You’re carefully perched on the edge of the booth, your pretty features twisting in disgust with every sip of the rich, amber colored liquid in your glass. Unable to stomach the burning alcohol, you set it off to the side, abandoning it in favor of a glass of water instead.

“Her?” Tommy grinned, leaning back into his chair as stated, “Oh, she’s an absolute angel. She’s just ‘bout the sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ll ever see in your whole damn life, big brother. She’s gotta be the kinda girl who all the little birds and woodland critters sing to when there ain’t no one around,” he laughed. “She’s real good. Too good. Wouldn’t surprise me if the lord sent her down from heaven himself.”

Joel tossed him a skeptical look across the table.

“She really as innocent as she seems?”

“I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to hold another man’s hand,” his younger brother laughed again and reached for his beer, taking a generous swig.

Joel hummed softly and lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips. The mere thought of you being so pure and so innocent—untouched by anyone else—caused something to stir deep in his lower belly.

“She’s the old man’s pride and joy,” Tommy continued, breaking into his train of thought. “Kind. Polite. Behaves. Doesn’t get herself into any kinda trouble—I mean look at her, she can’t even choke down a glass of whiskey. She’s just too good of a girl.”

Joel proceeded cautiously with his next question. “Any of them taken?”

Surprised, Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Joel, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”

“No, I ain’t interested,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Just a curious motherfucker, that’s all.”

He didn’t seem too convinced by Joel’s answer. “They’re all single from what I know. To be honest, there ain’t a whole lot of men around here their old man would approve of,” he remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man and all, but when it comes to his daughters, he’s real strict. Not that controllin’ has done him much good, though.” He lowered his voice as a fellow patrolman walked past their table. “The middle one’s fucked her way through this entire town and then back again. She even made a pass at me while Maria was pregnant with Noah, if you can fuckin’ believe that.”

Amused, Joel snorted into his drink. Ballsy. “How goddamn drunk was she?”

Tommy ran a hand through his jet black curls. “Wasted. Oldest one ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, either.”

“And the old man doesn’t know?”

“Nope. Ain’t nobody gonna snitch on grown women in their thirties.” Noticing the amused expression on Joel’s face, he adds, “By the way, just in case you haven’t figured it out, this stays between us, Joel.”

He smirked. “Which part?”

“All of it. And take it from me, those girls? S’best you keep your distance from them,” he warned as he stood up from the table. He picked up the blue denim jacket draped over his chair, shrugging into it. “Don’t go gettin’ any dumbass ideas, alright?”

“Look, if the wild one makes a pass at me, I ain’t gonna turn her down. S’not like I’ve got a pregnant wife at home.”

“Joel, I fuckin’ swear. If you even think ‘bout it—”

He held up his hands to stop him. “Relax. Was just a joke.”

“Right. M’sure it was.” Tommy snorted. “Listen, I gotta get back home. Don’t wanna leave Maria on her own with the baby for too long.”

“How’s she been holdin’ up?”

“She’s been so tired. Jugglin’ motherhood, runnin’ this place, and bein’ back on patrol duty. I keep on tryin’ to tell her to slow it down, but she just won’t listen to me.” He let out a small sigh and waved a dismissive hand. “But anyway. If you’re all good to head out, I can walk you back to your place since it’s on the way to mine?”

Joel looked down at his glass, still half full. “I think I’m gonna hang back for a while longer. I’m on the roster for evenin’ patrol tomorrow, s’not like I’ve gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Suit yourself.” Clapping him on the back, Tommy bid him goodnight and started towards the door.

As soon as he was gone, Joel looked over towards your booth. He watched as you whispered into the ear of your eldest sister who nodded her head in understanding. You stood up and said something else to her, then spun around on your heel, long skirt flowing along with the movement. Head down, you hastily made your way across the bar, being careful so as not to bump into anyone along the way.

You were leaving. Alone.

In the middle of the fucking night? While drunk morons poured in and out of the bar?

She’ll be just fine, he tried to convince himself.

Joel frowned to himself, gripping his drink tightly in his hand as he scanned the room.

Sitting at a nearby table was Kent, some idiot he’d been stuck with a time or two for patrol. He clocks the smirk that crossed the younger man’s face, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Leaning forward over the table, he whispered something to his buddies, his smirk widening. His comrades, all who looked and behaved more like teenagers rather than grown men, lifted their beers to him, nodding in encouragement. Drunk off his ass, Kent drained the rest of his own beer, slamming the glass bottle down onto the table before clumsily stumbling to his feet.

Joel momentarily froze as soon as he realized what was happening.

Kent was going after you.

Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line.

Setting his drink down, he stood up from his table and slipped on his jacket before following suit.

Joel stepped out of the bar and into the night, the chilly evening air nipping at his face. He took a look around.

You were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kent.

That couldn’t fucking be good.

“Where the fuck did you two go,” he muttered to himself under his breath.

That’s when he heard it.

The sound of muffled screaming coming from the side of the building. Joel didn’t hesitate. Following your smothered cries for help, he whipped around into the dimly lit alley nestled in between the bar and the commune’s mess hall. You’re pinned underneath Kent with your skirt bunched up around your waist. One of his hands was covering your mouth while his other hand clawed its way up your bare thigh.

“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” Kent slurred his words together. “It’d be a fucking shame to let someone as cute as you stay a fucking virgin. Don’t be coy—I know you’re just like your stupid slut of a sister. She’s got no trouble spreading her fucking legs for me, y’know.”

Red.

It was the color that flashed in Joel’s mind. It was all he could see as he went up behind Kent, letting his hands reach for fistfuls of his leather jacket. He lifted him off of you with ease, slamming him hard against the brick wall of the mess hall. Pulling him forward, Joel slammed his body into the wall once more, knocking all the wind out of his lungs.

“Miller, what the fuck are you doing!” Kent gasped out, frantically pawing at the older man’s hands in an effort to break free. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Takin’ advantage of an innocent girl?” Joel hissed at him, tightening his grasp on the collar of Kent’s jacket. “Think that makes you a fuckin’ man?”

Though he was still intoxicated, the sheer terror of being caught in Joel Miller’s hands sobered him just enough that he started sputtering an explanation. “I wasn’t fucking taking advantage of her! Her and her whore sisters were making eyes at me and the guys all fucking night! She fucking wanted it! She asked me for it, couldn’t even wait long enough to get back to my place—”

The lie came straight through his chattering teeth. The same teeth he would be picking up off the ground in the next minute or two.

Joel knew he didn’t need to ask. Still, he turned to you, his rage only intensifying when he took in the sight of you lying there on the ground, the hem of your light blue floral skirt hiked around your waist.

“That true?” He questioned you. “You wanted it?”

You stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.

A single tear slipped down the side of your face.

“Answer me, darlin’,” he prompted. “You wanted this?”

“No. I didn’t.” Your voice was small, barely audible.

But he’d heard it loud and clear.

“She’s lying!” Kent tried to tell him. “She’s—”

Joel delivered the first punch, a blow so hard he’d felt the younger man’s nose crack underneath his curled fist. He struck him again and again, the blows coming in harder and harder, turning Kent’s face into a bloodied pulp.

If Joel didn’t get a grip, he would kill him. Part of him wanted to fucking kill Kent for putting his hands you—and more so for accusing of you wanting it. Pathetic fucking bastard.

Holding Kent up by the throat with one hand, Joel pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans with the other. Fingers curled tightly around the hilt, Joel held up the knife into Kent’s view. He had left his eyes purple and swollen, but judging by the pitiful little pleas for mercy, it was clear that he could still somehow see the sharp blade being held an inch or so away from his face.

“If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ generous,” Joel growled warningly. “I ain’t gonna let you walk away next time, boy. That understood?”

He nodded. “Un—Understood.”

“Good.” Joel released him, stepping backwards as he fell to the ground. “Get the fuck outta my face. Now.”

Kent managed to scramble to his feet and staggered off, disappearing from the alley.

Chest heaving, Joel inhaled a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled it through his mouth before turning to you once more.

Petrified, you still hadn’t moved a single muscle.

You looked fucking terrified. Whether it was from Kent’s assault or the way Joel had nearly beaten him to death right in front of you, it was hard to tell.

Crouching down beside you, Joel caught your subtle flinch. He proceeded to move slowly as he reached for the hem of your skirt. Delicately, he gripped the soft, flowing fabric and pulled it down into place. Joel then held his hand out to you.

You hesitated for a split second, but accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet.

“You alright, little dove?” The nickname had fallen from his lips before he could even think to stop it.

“I think so,” you replied, nodding your head. You’d started to tremble and even though it had nothing to do with being cold, Joel took notice of it and he shrugged out of his camel colored jacket. He gave it to you, draping it over your shoulders. The scent of him instantly enveloped you—a mouth watering masculine mixture of clean soap, woodiness, and musk. It was far more intoxicating than the scotch you had tried back inside the bar. He didn’t utter a word to you as he wrapped his jacket around your body, both of his hands pulling gently at the lapels to bring them together in front of your chest. That was when you glanced down and saw he’d injured his hand. You gasped lightly. “Are you okay?”

Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Joel hadn’t even noticed that he’d split his knuckles wide open. Giving it a light shake, he assured you gruffly, “M’fine.”

Without thinking it through, you gingerly grabbed Joel’s hand, holding it in both of yours. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” you countered. You inspected it as best as you could in such poor lighting. “You’re bleeding.”

“Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse,” he deadpanned.

Ignoring his remark, you asked, “Can you move all your fingers for me? Just to make sure that it isn’t broken?”

Joel felt a strange warmth radiate in his chest.

Fucking hell, Tommy had been right about you.

You really were too good.

“Darlin’ I already told you m’fine—”

“Please?”

That word, and the way you’d said it, sent a shiver up the length of his spine.

Joel started wiggling his fingers in your palms. He winced slightly at the soreness. More than that, he knew his cuts and bruises would be all the fucking proof Tommy and Maria would need to know that he had been the one who rearranged Kent’s face.

“See?” He spoke after a minute as he continued to move his fingers up and down. “Ain’t broken.”

“Let me clean you up,” you offered. Looking up at him, you cradled his hand as if it were a fragile baby bird you wanted to take home and nurse back to health.

“That really ain’t necessary.”

“You just saved me from—it’s the least I can do for you,” you insisted. Seeing him open his mouth just to protest again, you cut him off. “Please?”

There it was again.

Christ. That word sounded too good coming from those plush, pretty lips of yours.

Joel sighed out in defeat. “Alright then,” he relented. “I s’ppose there ain’t no harm in lettin’ you clean me up a bit, little dove.”

Pleased that he had finally accepted, you carefully let go of his hand and took a step back, beckoning for him to follow you. “Come with me,” you said to him. “I know somewhere private we can go.”

When you came to a stop at the old church house, Joel shook his head and took a step backwards.

Puzzled, your brows knitted together. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

He backed away further. “I ain’t goin’ in there.”

You tossed him an amused glance. “It’s a church.”

“Yeah, I know that. I ain’t exactly a man of God.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “So? What does that have to do with me taking you inside to clean your hand up for you?”

Shuffling his weight from boot to boot, Joel shrugged. “Just don’t think I belong in there, that’s all.”

“Do you think you’re going to melt if you step foot inside?” you teased him. After a minute, it became apparent that he was being serious about it. Joel’s discomfort about going inside the church wasn’t some kind of joke on his part, it was real. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a man of God. That doesn’t mean that you’re going to explode or burn into a pile of ashes for going inside, you know.”

“After all the terrible shit I’ve done?” He looked up at the building, shaking his head again. “I just might burn, little dove.”

You bit back a small smile. You’d already grown to be quite fond of his sweet nickname for you.

“There’s a first aid kit inside I can use to patch you up,” you told him. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

His lower lip rolled in between teeth as he thought it over. “I ain’t too sure about this—”

“It’s only going to take me five minutes to get your hand cleaned up and then you can leave. Okay?”

You were as stubborn as you were sweet. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?

Reluctantly, Joel finally agreed to it. “Okay.” He followed you up the creaking, wooden porch steps towards the double doors. He’d just started to wonder how the two of you were even supposed to get into the building after hours when you leaned down, lifting the old mat on the floor to reveal a set of keys. Unable to help himself, he scoffed, “Serious?”

“Doesn’t everyone keep a key under their mat?”

“Yeah at their fuckin’ house. Not their church.”

“Well to be fair, this is kind of like a second home. I spend quite a bit of time here,” you confessed.

Joel raised an eyebrow at you. “So much time that you’ve decided to keep a set of keys under the mat?”

Sheepishly, you nodded. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll come here alone and sit with my thoughts for a while.” You shrugged. “Maria let me have the spare set of keys. She knows I come here and so does the rest of the council. I trespass with their full permission,” you kidded with a small grin.

Unlocking one of the two doors, you stepped over the threshold and waited expectantly for Joel. But he stood there, making no move to join you on the other side.

“This place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he admitted.

You laughed. “It’s only the outside that’s creepy, I promise.”

Grimacing, Joel finally walked inside, his back and shoulders stiff with tension as he stepped into the place of worship.

You closed the door and flipped on the lights, then opened a second set of double doors with another key from the ring.

“Whoa.” He was pleasantly surprised. For as old as this place was, the interior of the church was quite nice. He could tell that it had been well cared for in its lifetime—the former contractor in him had little choice but to appreciate the high ceiling, the large windows, and the satin finish of the white paint on the rustic, wooden panel walls.

There were a total of twelve pews, six on each side of the church. There was an older, antique piano in pristine condition nestled over in one corner of the room and in another, there was a large chalkboard propped up on a wooden easel, biblical verses that had been the focus of the congregation’s previous gathering still scribbled across it in white chalk.

“See?” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “This isn’t so awful, right?”

“S’ppose it ain’t all that bad,” he muttered.

Your eyes twinkled with pure amusement, adding, “And you didn’t burn into a pile of ashes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joel grumbled out in response. “Can we just get this over with so I can get outta here?”

You tossed him a playful little eye roll then nodded towards the pews. “Go ahead and just have a seat anywhere,” you instructed him. “I’ll be right back.”

You disappeared down a short, dimly lit corridor.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel slowly made his way down the aisle holding his injured hand against his chest. Now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, it’d started throbbing with pain.

There was an altar at the front of the church—if he could even call it an altar.

It was a plain oakwood table with a white fair linen cloth draped over it and nothing else.

Above it, bolted onto the wall, was a wooden cross.

He averted his eyes, turning away from it.

Of all the shit to be intimidated by in this world.

A fucking slab of carved wood.

Joel’s attention shifted over to the chalkboard. He squinted at it, silently reading the verse to himself.

God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. 1 Corinthians 10:13

“But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it,” you recited the rest of the verse from behind him.

“No offense darlin’, but it sounds like nothin’ but a whole lotta gibberish to me,” he remarked to you over his shoulder.

“No offense taken, Joel.”

Whirling around on the heel of his worn boot, Joel blurted, “How did you know my name?”

“You’re Tommy Miller’s brother. Everybody in this town knows your name.” You held up the white tin box in your hands. A big, red cross had been spray painted onto the lid. You sat down in the first pew and patted the seat right beside you. “Come sit.”

He sauntered over and dropped down next to you, watching as you opened up the box and started digging through its contents. “You know my name,” he stated after a few seconds of silence. “Sure would be nice for me to know yours.”

Smiling politely, you told him your name.

Joel repeated it. It rolled almost too sweetly off his tongue.

“S’real pretty, little dove. Just like you.”

His compliment nearly knocked all of the air out of your lungs and for a split second, you have to remind yourself to breathe.

Cheeks burning, you murmured a small thank you and plucked a bottle of saline solution from the kit along with a piece of clean cotton. You tried not to think about the way his eyes were fixed intently on you as you unscrewed the cap and poured a bit of the liquid onto the cotton. “It shouldn’t sting,” you reassured him, reaching for Joel’s injured hand. It was rough and calloused, a stark contrast against your own soft and smooth. You set his hand down on your knee, a strange sensation fluttering in the depths of your lower belly when the warmth of his skin seeped right through the fabric of your skirt.

Comfortable silence fell over the both of you like a curtain as you started cleaning the blood off of his knuckles and his long, thick fingers.

“You really believe in all this stuff?” Joel spoke, his question echoing off the bare walls of the church.

You continued dabbing at his cuts, thinking it over in your head for a moment.

“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted.

Your answer took him by complete surprise.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I have always been taught to believe in God, Joel. It’s all that I’ve ever known. I grew up in a religious community,” you explained to him, making sure to keep your eyes focused on his hand. Tossing aside the bloodied wad of cotton, you picked up another piece adding more saline to it. “After the outbreak, things changed, of course. I couldn’t imagine how He could let something like this happen. When we lost our mother to infection about five years ago, I stopped praying. I finally stopped holding onto the ounce of hope I had that He would make the world right again. I refused to believe in God. Sometimes I still do,” you confessed quietly.

“You said you spend a lot of time here. Why come to church if you’re not even sure you believe in any of this shit anymore?”

“I’m always here because there’s still a part of me that thinks there’s a chance for me to believe again. When I told you I come here when I can’t sleep at night, it’s true. It’s my time to be here completely alone, the time that I use to mend my broken relationship with God. Or at least, I’ve been trying to mend it.” Taking a little glass pot of homemade antibiotic ointment one of the women in the town made and traded, you took off the lid and scooped out some of the salve with the tip of your finger. You applied it carefully to his cuts and continued, “But lately, the more that I try to pray and talk to Him, the more foolish I feel. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been working for a long, long time.”

“Then why keep tryin’ if it ain’t workin’ anymore?”

“Because I don’t really have much of a choice.”

“Your old man?” Joel guessed, wincing slightly as you went over a particularly sore spot on his hand, right over the torn up knuckle of his index finger.

“Mhm.” You nodded. “My father never lost faith in Him. He knows how I feel, but he refuses to let me give up on God. He won’t ever let me miss church or go to bed without reciting my nightly prayer. He won’t let me abandon our faith. Not until the day he is cold and buried in his grave.”

“So what I’m gettin’ is that he forces you?”

You finished applying the ointment and wiped the remnants lingering on your finger off on your skirt.

“Force is such a harsh word. I wouldn’t say that—”

“He’s forcin’ you,” Joel said, flatly.

“Joel—”

“You can twist it however the hell you want, sweet girl,” he cut you off. “But if you’re tryin’ this fuckin’ hard to make yourself believe in somethin’ just for the sake of appeasin’ your dad because he can’t or won’t accept how you really feel ‘bout all this, well I hate to break it to you, but you’re bein’ forced.”

Your eyes widened ever so slightly at his words.

You had never thought about it like that before.

Placing the lid back onto the pot of ointment, you put it back into the first aid kit and then set the tin box down onto the floor. You sat back and clasped your hands together in your lap, not knowing what else to say to him.

He was right, after all.

Joel’s fingers lightly squeezed your knee. “Hey.”

You brought your gaze over to meet his. “Hm?”

“Can I ask you somethin’ ‘bout your dad?”

“What is it?”

Joel chose his words carefully. “Has he ever—he ain’t ever done anythin’ to hurt you, has he?” he asked you, earning himself a perplexed stare. He continued to elaborate. “What I mean is, he ever put his hands on you or anythin’ like that?”

Oh. That’s what he meant.

“Never,” you assured him quickly. “He would never lay a single finger on me or my two sisters.”

He gave your knee another squeeze. “Just needed to make sure of it, sweetheart. Back in the day, I used to hear and see awful things on the news ‘bout—”

You were quick to cut him off. “Look, my father isn’t perfect, but he’s not like that. He’s a good man who only wants what is best for us. He’s strict and he can be tough, but it’s only because he cares. He just doesn’t want us running down the wrong path.”

“The wrong path?”

You shrugged. “Life here in Jackson is decent, but there’s a lot of temptations he doesn’t want any of us falling into. He wants to protect us.”

“By controllin’ you.”

It had been a statement, not a question.

Giving him a wry smile, you assured him, “Joel, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it sound. I could be a whole lot worse off than this, you know.”

There was another short bout of silence.

Joel’s dark eyes fell to your blouse, noticing how a couple of the top buttons had come undone.

He caught the slightest glimpse of the soft curves of your breasts—all it had taken was just a peek at them for his cock to twitch against the zipper of his jeans.

Don’t you get hard in a fuckin’ church, Miller.

His gaze wandered down a little further and that’s when he caught sight of the cross hanging from a delicate gold chain clasped around your neck.

Joel expected the sight of it to calm the straining in his jeans. Somehow, it only made it worse.

“Earlier, when we were standing outside,” you had started to say, “You said you might burn if you came inside the church because of all the terrible shi—things that you’ve done.”

“S’right.”

You peered at him with curiosity. “So what exactly have you done, Joel?”

Joel leaned back into the pew, shaking his head at you as he finally pulled his hand from your knee.

“You really don’t wanna know, little dove.”

“Why not?”

His answer was honest. “Don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Angling your body towards him, you placed one of your hands on his thigh. Your fingers burned right through the dark blue denim of his jeans.

Joel’s lips parted slightly, taken aback by the bold move and the sudden shift in your demeanor.

Were you the same girl who’d nearly had a fucking heart attack a couple of weeks ago when Joel had nodded at you back at the stables?

“I’m not scared of you,” you murmured, softly. You gave his leg a squeeze, pulling your plump bottom lip between your teeth. Between that and the wide innocent doe eyes that you were giving him, it was taking every last ounce of strength Joel had inside him to keep a straight face, to pretend you weren’t driving him absolutely wild with desire.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt such an incredible need to have someone.

Want, sure.

He had wanted Tess. He had wanted Esther.

But Joel didn’t just want you.

He fucking needed you.

And he didn’t know why.

“I’m not scared of you,” you repeated, trailing your hand further up his thigh, setting a fire neither one of you would soon be able to contain.

Joel leaned forward, bringing his face dangerously close towards yours. His warm breath fanned over your lips. It was still laced with bourbon. “You sure ‘bout that, darlin’ girl?”

You tried to answer him in the steadiest voice that you could muster, but it was impossible for you to hide the effect this man had on you.

You breathed out a shaky, “I’m sure.”

Lifting his uninjured hand, he reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of your braids behind your ear. As his hand fell away, the palm of it grazed against the silkiness of your cheek.

Though brief, the contact sent an electric current through each and every last single nerve ending in your entire body.

Exhaling sharply, your eyelids fluttered closed. You nearly whimpered out his name. “Joel?”

“What is it, babygirl? What do you want?”

“I—I want you to kiss me.”

Joel leaned in even closer, stopping only when his mouth was less than an inch away from yours.

You heard him chuckle softly.

“Y’know, I’d expect better manners from a good girl like you,” he tsked lightly, his nose skimming near the corner of your mouth. Closer. “What’s the magic word, little dove?”

“Please.”

“S’much better.”

Your heart pounded with anticipation.

It was almost too much for you to handle.

Joel closed the remaining gap of space, capturing your lips with his own. He remembered his brother talking about you at the bar—how he had told Joel that you had never even held a man’s hand before.

It occurred to him that he was giving you your first kiss. Him. Joel Miller. The town’s resident asshole and a man who was well over twice your own age. He was the one giving you your very first kiss.

The guilt suddenly started to creep in, sinking into his bones.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

And what about you?

Where the fuck had your common sense gone?

Probably ran off together with Joel’s.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling away slightly in an attempt to stop it from going any further. He tried again, mumbling against your lips, “We gotta stop. This ain’t right—”

You were having none of it.

None.

Clutching fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt, you swung your leg over his thighs and straddled his lap. Your knees rested on either side of him on the bench.

“Please,” you nearly pleaded. “Just kiss me. I want it—I want this. I promise you that I do.” You placed both of your hands on his broad shoulders, sliding them around him as you slowly sank down further onto his lap. “I want this, Joel.”

Suddenly, he realized that you were asking him for more than just his kiss.

Now he knew for sure that all common sense had left that pretty little head of yours.

“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”

Desperate, you uttered one final, “Please.”

Joel bit back a groan. How could he deny you?

He couldn’t. Simple as that.

“You sure ‘bout this?”

Your fingers toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“C’mere then, darlin’ girl.”

Joel cupped the side of your face in his large palm and tilted his head up towards yours. Your mouths fused together and although he tried to be gentle, it was proving to be much too difficult—how could he be gentle when you were practically clinging to him? Holding onto him with fervor as if you’d been holding onto dear fucking life itself?

Temperatures rising, you quickly shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with a soft thud before wrapping your arms around him once again. You melted against him as your mouth molded to his in a perfect fit.

His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore the cavern even further.

Eagerly, your lips parted, granting him access. His tongue slipped past them, meeting yours in a slow and sensual heated dance.

You breathed him deeply into your lungs, a little moan vibrating at the back of your throat.

Joel’s hands went to your waist and he yanked the hem of your blouse free from your skirt.

“Can I feel you, baby?” he asked, breathlessly. His mouth abandoned yours and he began to trail hot, open mouthed kisses underneath your jawline.

Dazed, all you could do was nod in reply and utter, “Mhm.”

Joel’s hands slipped under your blouse and he slid them up the length of your sides. “Fuck, you gotta be the softest fuckin’ thing,” he cursed against the delicate, tender flesh of your neck. His lips latched onto your pulse point, suckling at the skin there as his fingertips dug into your hips. He needed to feel more, but he forced himself to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong move or move too fast and scare you off.

“Joel,” you mewled his name. “Joel, I need—”

You trailed off, moaning when his mouth released your skin with a loud, wet popping noise.

“Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you,” he promised. “Anythin’ you need or want, I’ll give it to you. Just say the fuckin’ word.”

“You, Joel. I need you.”

His hips involuntarily bucked upwards and you let out a startled gasp the moment you felt his bulge, hard as a rock, brush against your clothed cunt.

Tearing away from him, it suddenly hit you. You’re in a church, straddling a much, much older man in a pew—and if that wasn’t sinful enough, the warm and slick arousal pooling between your thighs only proved that you were ready to fall into temptation, give into the lust and give your body to Joel. But it was none of those things that worried you. It was something else.

You pulled yourself out of his arms and jumped up off his lap, nearly tripping over your own two feet.

“Darlin’ are you—?”

You didn’t even hear the rest of his question.

Knees trembling, you somehow managed to make your way up to the altar. Heart pounding and head spinning, you planted both of your hands firmly on the table and steadied yourself. Part of you hoped that Joel would just get up and leave. But a bigger part of you hoped he wouldn’t.

Joel rose to his feet. “Listen, ain’t nothin’ wrong if you changed your mind, alright?”

“I didn’t,” you choked out. “That’s—that’s not it at all.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Embarrassed, you tried to explain yourself. “I have never done anything like this before. I’m a—”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word out loud.

“You’re a what?”

Blazing heat flooded your face. “Joel, please don’t make me say it,” you groaned. “For the sake of my sanity, don’t make me say it.” You heard the sound of his brown leather boots as he walked up behind you, one heavy footstep after the other.

“Turn around, sweet girl.”

Joel’s command was firm but still gentle.

Swallowing dryly, you obeyed and did as you were told. He stood close and you found yourself at eye level with his chest.

“Look at me.”

You tried, but couldn’t.

“I said, look at me.” Joel gingerly took your chin in between his thumb and index finger. He lifted your face, forcing your gaze to meet his own, timid and submissive meeting bold and dominant in a sweet and tender exchange. “Never known the lovin’ of a man, have you little dove?”

He backed you up against the table, pinning you in between it and himself. Planting both of his hands on either side of you, he caged you in and brought his chest flush against yours, pressing your bodies together.

Close, but somehow not close enough.

Joel lifted his hand to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His thumb swept over your quivering bottom lip.

You reached behind you, clutching at the fair linen as you tried with every fiber of your entire being to remind yourself that you were standing at the altar where your father preached and delivered all of his sermons to the faithful people of Jackson.

The very same altar where your father encouraged you to kneel and pray in effort to mend the broken relationship you had with God.

You couldn’t help but to think if you were to get on your knees tonight, it wouldn’t be for prayer.

“I asked you a question, darlin’.” Joel’s voice broke into your train of thought. “Need you to be a good girl and give me an answer, alright?”

“My father loves me,” you stammered out in reply. “He loves me and my sisters—”

“C’mon, babygirl.” He chuckled and shook his head at you, lightly pinching your cheek. “That ain’t what I mean and you damn well know it.”

Sighing softly, you finally answered, “No, Joel.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’ve never known the loving of a man.”

Joel slipped the tip of his thumb between your lips and leaned into you, his hardness pressing against your upper thigh. Even through all the clothes, you could feel every inch of him. “Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? What it feels like when a man makes you his own?”

You nearly moaned around his finger. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he prompted, pulling his hand away.

“Yes, please.”

“I can show you.” Joel paused. “But not tonight.”

You stared at him in disbelief. Both of you were so clearly riled up and he was going to take a pass?

He almost laughed at your expression.

“C’mon, don’t give me that face.”

“But Joel—”

“Just don’t wanna rush it, not with you,” Joel said in a tone so soft it nearly threw you for a loop. “M’gonna need you to be real patient for me, just for a little while, alright? You think you can do that, little dove? Think you can be patient for me?”

Your answer came without an ounce of hesitation.

“Of course,” you breathed.

You would wait an eternity for Joel Miller.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller self insert #the last of us fic #pedro pascal characters #fic: fall into temptation

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awearywritersworld · 10 months ago

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do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you

sukuna x reader summary: the higher ups succeed in kidnapping you and sukuna doesn't know if he'll get you back alive. w/c: 2.85k tags/warnings: fluff and angst. reader is kidnapped and gravely injured. depictions of blood. canon typical violence. "good girl". cursing. ft gojo. aged up!yuuji. fem!reader. not canon compliant. no use of y/n. *please mind the warnings for this chapter* a/n: and finally folks, we've reached the climax of the series. there will only be one more official chapter after this one, so i hope this lives up to expectations. this could maybe be read as a stand alone, but it's certainly better when serving as a culmination to the other chapters. i'm a little nervous posting this, so i'd love to hear your thoughts :) series masterlist // masterlist

brontë

sukuna isn't sure at first why the name is familiar, but he soon realizes that a great many of the books on your shelf are authored by women of that name, including jane eyre.

though he finds your copy of wuthering heights, written by an emily brontë, tucked away in the drawer of your nightstand, the headphones you'd asked him grab lying on top of it.

he pulls the book from its spot with care, as the cover is worn and frayed at the edges. flipping through the pages, there are quite a few quotes underlined and countless scribbles in the margins.

while you'd forced him to read jane eyre, he tucks wuthering heights under his arm of his own volition. he isn't sure if it's because you've kept this one separate from the others, or because it might give him an opportunity to know you better, or because he's positive it will make you happy, but he does it all the same.

when he steps back into the living room, he drops your headphones in your lap and takes the seat beside you, wasting no time in beginning the first chapter.

"what've you got there?" you eventually question, even though you know the answer.

he doesn't spare you a glance when he responds, "a book."

"oh, yeah? what kind of book?"

he elects to ignore you, which only serves to encourage your mischievous tone. "i thought romance novels were beneath you and your refined taste."

finally looking at you, he narrows his eyes at your childish taunt. "do you want me to read it or not?"

"of course—"

"then i suggest you be a good girl and behave yourself."

your mouth snaps shut so abruptly that your teeth click as they meet, something sukuna takes note of with a raised brow. you're thankful when he returns to reading rather than saying anything more.

so without any additional interruptions, he delves into the tragic story of heathcliff and catherine. or more precisely, the pain and destruction that follows it.

the further he reads, the better he discerns that while you seem to have a penchant for the brontë sisters, they seem to have a penchant for writing about men that are wicked and callous.

the very notion makes him chuckle.

maybe it explains why he's sitting here with your feet in his lap, while you try and fail (rather cutely) to stifle your giggles at some stupid youtube video.

"what?" you ask, taking out one of your headphones once you notice he's staring at you with a small smile.

"nothing. just enjoying the story."

the way you beam in response makes his mouth go dry.

"hah! i knew it! you're a romantic at heart."

you make a big show of pressing your hands to your chest and swooning.

"settle down there," he chides, his hand patting your thigh. "you're getting ahead of yourself."

two days later, sukuna feels that something isn't quite right. it's barely perceptible, nothing more than a minute shift in the atmosphere, but it grows more palpable as time stretches on.

yuuji's mission takes him farther from home than usual, to a little town about two hours outside of the city.

the curse he exorcises upon his arrival is much weaker than he's grown accustomed to, probably only a third or fourth grade.

yuuji doesn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, or at least, he pretends not to. sukuna thinks that's the problem with optimists— they don't take action quickly enough, too busy wasting their time hoping for the best.

when he returns home late that afternoon only to find your apartment door slightly ajar, his hand hesitates before pushing it open.

he discovers that the living room is littered with residuals, but it's eerie how nothing else is out of place... save for you, who is no where to be found.

in a disbelieving panic, he begins checking all the rooms, not hearing sukuna's frantic voice even though it's coming from inside his own head. "she's not here... idiot, she's not here. we have to go. we have to go now."

he eventually finds a note lying on the coffee table, but even this he hardly processes— something about surrendering himself and sukuna to the higher ups at headquarters in exchange for your life.

"listen to me, brat... you're wasting time... idiot!"

"what?" he barks abruptly.

"she isn't far, a couple blocks to the east at most—"

"it doesn't matter. headquarters is to the west. that's where we need to go."

"have you failed to comprehend a single thing i've said about the higher ups?" sukuna sneers. "they'll kill us, then kill her too. she knows too much about jujutsu society. they won't let her live, and that's if she's not... if she isn't already..."

he can't get the word out.

"no... no, they wouldn't..."

"now is not the time for your blind faith in the integrity of others." sukuna tries again and again to assume control of his vessel, and while the force behind it makes yuuji's head pound, it's no use. "for fuck's sake— please, yuuji!"

it's the first time he's heard the curse occupying his body say his actual name or use the word please, and in a strange way, it seems to ground him to some degree.

itadori yuuji has always been uncannily fast, but as soon as he makes his way out onto the street, it's like his feet aren't even touching the pavement. he appears as a blur to the people he passes by and it happens so briefly that they more than likely disregard it as a trick of the light.

the ruby decorating your neck leads them right to you, a low hum of frequency that only sukuna can hear.

yuuji comes to a stop in front of an old warehouse building. there are several wooden boards nailed across the main entrance, which splinter and fall to the earth under the impact of his impatient fist.

although the people down the hall quiet themselves upon hearing the crash, he can still sense their energy. he just can't seem to pick up on yours.

maybe sukuna is wrong? maybe you're not here after all.

"no," comes sukuna's voice, cold and hard. "she's here."

he makes his way down the stretch of hallway and to an open door where he stops, both of his feet planting firmly on the ground. everything appears to be frozen as he stares at ten sorcerers who quietly stare back.

it's clear they were not expecting yuuji, but he knows the higher ups assigned so many sorcerers just in case he did somehow figure out where they brought you.

he recognizes many of their faces and even knows some of their names, their familiarity no doubt intended to discourage him from engaging them.

after a few moments, yuuji's eyes land on your figure— motionless on the floor.

he has to admit, the higher up have put together a fairly sound plan. it's just that there's one small detail they failed to account for.

a curious and constraining sensation erupts from the center of his chest, and yuuji doesn't quite understand what's happening until he registers he's no longer the one in control of his body.

the king of curses remains completely still as he studies you from afar with a slight tilt of his head, his mind refusing to believe the scene right before his eyes.

when the gravity of the situation finally settles in, a gut churning agony blossoms in his stomach and bleeds into every part of his body. every bone. every pore. every vein.

the entirety of him burns, both inside and out.

the air in the room is heavy, overburdened with hostility and raw power. it makes the sorcerers' knees buckle and they nearly collapse beneath the immense pressure.

as sukuna takes a step toward the nearest person, the edges of his vision turn white.

he moves with deadly precision, at a speed which very few people on earth could even begin to comprehend.

it's a joke how quickly it's all over.

some of them are in pieces. others have exploded into nothingness. a few are burnt to ash.

in his haste, sukuna nearly misses the final sorcerer. he's probably the youngest of them all, cowering in the corner of the room. his eyes are wide with horror and his body shakes with fear.

"p-please, spare m-me. i didn't touch her," he sputters out.

the laugh that follows is utterly humorless. "do you actually believe that makes a difference to me?"

"i told t-them not to hurt her! i swear. that's how i got this." he points to his bottom lip, busted open and swollen. "she even told me she was sorry that i got hurt... that i didn't have to defend her."

this gives sukuna pause and his jaw clenches as he considers what you would tell him right now were you conscious.

so even as every fiber of his being screams at him to end the sorcerer's miserable, pathetic life... he restrains himself and pins him to the wall instead, pressing a forearm to his throat.

"go back to the higher ups. go and tell them that if anyone lays a hand on her ever again, i will ruin them," he spits, venom lacing each word. "i'll slaughter every last one of them. i'll level their homes. i'll take everything from them. tell them this is a promise they shouldn't take lightly."

when sukuna takes a step back, the young sorcerer crumbles to the ground. "i- i- i will."

"then get out of my sight," he growls.

returning his attention to you, his demeanor shifts in every respect.

you're going to be okay. you're going to wake up. he's going to take you home and it will be like none of this ever happened.

but when he falls to your side, his knees meeting the ground so brutally that it cracks beneath his weight, his conviction falters.

your blood is spilt onto the concrete. your skin is cold. he can't tell if you're breathing. he can't feel your heartbeat.

he determines that the gash across your side deserves his attention first and his hands tremble as they move to cover it.

he puts every ounce of power he has into his reverse cursed technique, but your eyes don't flutter and your chest doesn't rise nor fall.

his palms stain crimson, and while blood has never bothered him before, the fact that it's yours forces the bile to rise from his stomach and into his throat.

and his face is wet.

why is his face wet?

why are his lips trembling?

why is his vision blurred?

he wipes at his cheeks, leaving a trail of your blood across his face in the process.

"no," he chokes out. "please, don't do this. you're fine. please, you have to be fine. please."

the king of curses begs, but he has no idea who his desperation is directed toward. maybe it's you. maybe it's the gods. maybe it's some entity that's unknowable to him.

hell, maybe it's just whoever will listen to him. there has to be someone out there, right? something.

unbeknownst to him, and poetic in sorrowful sort of a way, his next pleas are reminiscent of heathcliff's after he learns of catherine's death.

"be with me always"

"stay with me, angel. please don't go."

"take any form"

"hate me for this if you want, for being the reason you're in this mess. you can't hate me anymore than i already hate myself."

"drive me mad"

"i'll read every single stupid romance novel on your bookshelf. i promise i'll play all of your ridiculous card games."

"only do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you!"

"just don't leave me here without you. i don't want to be here without you.

"oh, god! it is unutterable!"

"please," he whimpers.

"i cannot live without my life!"

"you're everything. you are everything. you can't leave me with nothing."

"i cannot live without my soul!"

"i love you," sukuna laments. "i love you."

he doesn't even comprehend the words that have been tumbling past his lips, because they're coming from a part of himself that he long believed to be dead and buried.

it's the part of him that can feel suffering and regret and loss and love.

it's the part of him that you've been painstakingly unearthing whenever you send a smile his way. whenever you curl into his side. whenever you press your lips to his.

and he's so undeserving of it each and every time. he's known that. god, has he known that.

he thinks bitterly of the night you'd walked to the park together hand in hand— when you told him the universe had sent you to knock him down a peg.

turns out you were wrong.

the universe gave you to him, but only so it could take you away too.

and it won't just knock him down a peg. it will fucking destroy him. it will completely and irrevocably destroy him.

this is what he does deserve.

how is it that you can be both his salvation and his undoing?

"i love you," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

it's ironic that the three words he's never once said in his entire life are the only ones he can manage in this moment.

he hears a quiet sigh escape your lips, but he knows that it's just his imagination— nothing more than the universe playing its final sick joke.

the sun is out and its rays are peeking through the window of your bedroom. sukuna thinks it's despicable.

everything should be cold and dark today.

you're lying in bed half dead and the only thing keeping sukuna's sanity intact is the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

he should go to jujutsu headquarters and deliver a slow, painful death to every single person involved in yesterday's events. then he should turn their headquarters to ash and stand there watching until the wind blows every last bit away.

but more than that, he should be by your side, so that's where he's remained.

it's been nearly a day and you still haven't woken up, so he's taken to performing reverse cursed technique on you every few hours.

yuuji had shoko come by last night and she assured him your body just needs time, but sukuna doesn't intend on taking any chances. aside from the brat, there isn't a single sorcerer he trusts.

so naturally when gojo teleports directly in the middle of your living room unannounced, sukuna moves swiftly to his feet and blocks the doorway to your room.

gojo regards him nonchalantly, hiding his surprise that yuuji is not the one to greet him. "what are you doing... out and about?"

"that's none of your concern."

"right. well, i came to check in."

"that's not necessary."

the two men watch one another carefully, before gojo eventually chuckles. "god, you actually care about her. i guess the whole soul thing should have been proof enough, but i couldn't bring myself to really believe it until now."

sukuna doesn't respond, so the other man continues. "you should know that the threat to her has been... dealt with."

"that so?" sukuna asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"mhmmm. word of this spread to the three clans and they agreed civilians have no place in jujutsu politics if it can be helped. not to mention your little... messenger. it all caused quite the ruckus for the higher ups."

"i don't think ruckus is enough to deter them." his tone makes it clear that he feels gojo is wasting his time.

"this isn't the heian era anymore, you know. the higher ups may still be the figureheads of jujutsu society, but they have little say when all three clans concur on a matter." receiving nothing more than a blank stare, he adds, "besides, i'm rather fond of her myself, so i may or may not have made certain threats of my own."

sukuna's eye twitches. "anything else you feel compelled to share before you leave?"

"can i at least see her before i go?" gojo questions, peering over sukuna's shoulder.

"if you do not value your life, i welcome you to try."

a sly grin breaks out on gojo's face.

"eager to make good on your promise of killing me from all those years ago?" he pauses, his hand coming to rest on his chin as if he's pondering something of great importance. "as much as i'd love to see you try, we shouldn't wake our precious sleeping beauty before she's ready, so maybe another time."

with that, he disappears, leaving a very irritated sukuna in his wake.

"our," he repeats under his breath, shaking his head. "that unbearable imbecile."

when he turns on his heel, however, the malicious look is immediately wiped from his face because you're awake.

you're awake and peering at him from behind heavy lids.

"hey," you greet in a small voice.

his eyes grow impossibly soft and he sits on the bed beside you, his hand moving to caress your cheek. your skin is warm again.

"hey, angel."

taglist: @96jnie @ay0nha @sad-darksoul @bbysatoruuu @luciiferian @risuola @lirasmoon @disaster-rose @archivist-ghoul606 @creative1writings @sloppyzengarden @omismicrowave @cecesharktales @tanyeonn @hiqhkey @ruixrei @yellowsubiesdance @thefallofruins @anything-and-everything-here69 @emzalot @elusivemoon @annoyingstrawberryballoon @miabiar @hyeon-yi @iluv-ace @wineyoungie @vduxx @inflatabledinosaurs19 @harrystylesfan2686 @silentmajesticfox @am-the-renegade @certainduckanchor @moons-reblog @scarletrosesposts @th3-audac1ty @darlink-xoxo @ayeputita @nanmiik @namjooningera @hermxssaa @annieleonhardtsbitch @nugget-eater123 @integers @thefunbanshee @thepup356 @browneyedgirl22 @lantsovheiress @luckypeacevoid @kiki17483 @ruttteerr @yourbelloved @heyohalie // users in bold could not be tagged. if i forgot to tag anyone, my apologies!! just give me a heads up.

#m!writes #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna imagines #sukuna angst #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen angst #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #jjk angst #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna imagines #ryomen sukuna angst

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steviewashere · 3 months ago

Text

Working It Out

Rating: General CW: Implied/Referenced Depression Tags: Post-Canon, Future Fic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Rockstar Eddie Munson, Teacher Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Sad Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Hinted Breakup Conversation, But They Work It Out, Difficult Conversations, Talking Through Feelings, Soft Eddie Munson, Discussion of Future For @steddieangstyaugust Day 31 Prompt: "I'm not going to beg you to love me."

🎸——————🎸 Steve is happy for Eddie. Really, he is. Has the whole rockstar thing figured out. On the cover of Rolling Stone, booking late night slots on television, getting recognized in public spaces, and selling out stadiums. It’s the life he’s always dreamed of. It’s what he’s wanted since he was little.

So why can’t he be happy, too?

He thought that, by now, he’d have some part of his life figured out. Now that he’s entered his thirties. That he’s got some sort of college degree. A reasonable resume. The social connections needed to climb certain ladders. Yet, he’s not satisfied. Not pleased the way Eddie is.

The house they have is…too much. Lavish and big and bright. Hard earned, but hardly comfortable. It’s not cluttered like the Munson’s trailer was, it’s not warm and welcoming and the definition of pure and utter comfort. That was home, to Steve at least. It was a change of pace from the house he grew up in—alone and scared and desperate for attention he couldn’t find, instead sprawling between empty rooms that had too many windows and cleaning a pool too big for one person. This new house he now resides in is just that. A house.

By now, he thought that he’d be happy. That he’d be waking up refreshed and ready to greet each morning. That he’d be fine talking to Eddie over the phone, waiting around for those late night rings, trying to catch all the messy postcards in the mail. The postcards that come in random intervals and never actually reflect where Eddie is. It makes Steve anxious that he can’t pinpoint where Eddie is most of the time—left to bite his fingernails until he hears Eddie’s voice, and even then…sometimes he’ll call and won’t get an answer. And it’s no use to leave a message, it’ll be a hotel staff member or a person that’s now paying for the room.

All he does is wait and sleep and eat expensive food. He twiddles his thumbs. He’ll take a car to work, met with the smiling faces of herds of kids he teaches, and then he takes the silent drive home. Where he sits on an uncomfortable leather couch, satin pajamas that replaced old sweatpants a few years ago, staring off into nothingness that’s as ice cold as his chest feels.

He hates the waiting around, though.

Sometimes, he just wants to get up and leave. Search for something else.

But he loves Eddie too much, he knows. He’s not going to do that.

——— The front door opens and the thud of suitcases is heard. Steve leaves their bedroom, red eyed and face puffy. Wipes his nose on the sleeve of his pajama shirt, hands shaking with relief. Relief and anxiety and desperation and…terrible longing.

“Stevie!” Eddie crows, greeting. Arms open wide. Whip-wild smile on his face, eyes big, unshaven jaw. His hair is thrown up into a ponytail, bouncing with his boisterous immediate attitude. “Baby, baby…I have so many stories to tell you. It’s been such a good tour! I can’t”—he stops himself abruptly, arms falling back down at his sides. His voice that was previously so loud, echoing to their high ceilings, now softens. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did…did something happen?”

Steve shakes his head. No, he thinks, it’s not Vecna. It’s not the Upside Down. It’s just me.

He takes a step forward, then several, and the last couple until he’s five feet in front of Eddie. Oddly, he feels small. Like the kid that greeted his parents when they came home from long business trips, already angry, already disappointed. He wants to curl up into a ball and keep crying, never admitting out loud what’s wrong. Feels that innate, incredibly deep urge to climb out one of the many windows and just run away. Like he tried to do so much when he was younger, heavy lopsided backpack on his little body, discarding letters of anger under his parents�� door so they’ll know he’s gone, and his mind set on a friend’s house—typically Tommy. Sometimes Carol.

But his friend that he’d go to now, Robin, she’s several state lines over. He can’t just up and leave now. He can’t just pack up his car and go. Eddie’s money is Eddie’s money. And even though they made an agreement that the cash is shared, it still would feel wrong to take some of it just to…abandon all that he has now. Which would probably include Eddie. And he doesn’t want to think of that.

His chest is concave and heavy, yet empty—hollow. Like it’s been for months. For years at this point. He takes a deep breath, ignoring how it shutters through him, makes him half-form a hiccup in the back of his throat. “I’m not…happy, Eds,” he admits in a whisper.

Eddie’s eyebrows raise slightly. Eyes growing bigger and concerned. The corners of his mouth pulling down. “How so, sweetheart?”

Steve can’t look him in the eyes. Looking at the floor below his bare feet. The cold hardwood that resembles too much of his parents’ house. He takes another steady-ish breath, almost gasping with it. Rubs his hands together below his stomach, like a nervous kid about to be caught.

“I hate it here,” he chooses to start. “I hate this house. I hate the way it echoes when I talk into it sometimes. I hate having to…” Steve looks up to Eddie. Merely avoiding his eyes, focused on the tip of his nose instead. “…I hate trying to figure out where you are because sometimes you won’t answer the phone, or maybe the postcard you sent doesn’t come in time. I hate that I even have to call you to figure out how you’re doing.

“I can’t just turn over in bed and ask you how your day was. I can’t look you in the eyes when I talk to you because you just aren’t there. I’m so lonely, Eddie. I’m so…I feel just so…Empty.”

What follows that is a tense silence that even the sharpest of knives wouldn’t be able to cut. He doesn’t think flames would melt the tension. Nothing could get through it.

“You’re not happy…because of my work?”

He didn’t say that exactly, but it feels like the truth. Steve nods. “I’m happy for you,” he says, “I am. But your dream isn’t my dream. I honestly don’t even know what I want out of life, but I know this isn’t it.

“I’m just so tired of waiting around. Makes me feel like I’m waiting up for my parents to come home. And you know how that was. You know how I felt being there. Like I had to earn their attention, their love…whatever.” He shifts from side to side, still nervous and stomach turning. His eyes ache from drying out after all the crying earlier. He never thought that being honest would hurt so much. Steve swallows hard. Softly, he confesses, “I’m not going to beg you to love me. I don’t want to do that. But I don’t want to live like this either.” He looks back into Eddie’s eyes, finally. Met with the same miserableness that’s twisting inside of him. It makes his heart drop to his stomach. “So, if me being…if my current feelings get in the way of your dreams, I think we better…y’know.”

Steve doesn’t know, not really. Isn’t sure where he’d go right now. If all of this just falls through. He’d probably have to relocate his job, and he doesn’t want to say goodbye to his class of kids. Maybe he should’ve just waited for all of this to go down.

Instead, he’s met with a soft touch to the small of his back. Eddie leads them into their too spacious living room, on that uncomfortable leather couch, huddling in close to one another.

“Stevie,” Eddie whispers, “look at me, please.”

Hesitantly, he does.

“There you are,” Eddie coos. Soft hands envelop Steve’s right. Thumbs working into the hard points of his knuckles, nails gently tracing over old scars. “Baby,” he speaks softly, “I want to first of all say, thank you for telling me how you’re feeling. Okay? I like knowing things like this, sweetheart. Where you’re at in your head. Where you’re at with our everything. And I need you to know that none of what you said affects our relationship. None of it. If anything, it makes me understand you more. Makes me realize what isn’t working for us.

“But you are my first priority, always. Always, Steve,” he speaks firmly. “And I have to be honest here, too. I’m starting to hate the work that I do. I love creating music, I love working with smaller artists, I like getting out and seeing the world. But I hate doing it all the time. I hate that our days out sometimes gets interrupted by people on the street, or paparazzi cameras in our face. I hate that when we call, you sound so fucking tired from your day at work, waiting for me to answer the phone. I hate that I can’t get mail back from you, already gone before it’d come in the mail.

“I hate this house, I do. Even if we’ve had our fun with it”—he wiggles his eyebrows at that, eliciting a tiny snort from Steve—“it’s too big, you’re right. It’s uncomfortable to me, I gotta be honest. This couch we’re sitting on is fucking ugly and really trashy, even if it cost a pretty fucking penny. None of this us, I see that especially now.”

Steve sucks in a slow breath through his nose. Murmurs, “What are you getting at, Eds?”

Eddie brings up his left hand to Steve’s right cheek, gently cradling it in his palm. Thumb swiping reverently on the dried tear tracks there, the sticky hot skin. “I spoke with the band. With my agent. Told ‘em that this was my final tour. That I quit,” he confesses quietly, “that I’m going to sell this stupid fucking house. Move somewhere more remote, smaller, homelier. Somewhere we can be close to our real family, our friends. Maybe even somewhere we can get married one day. I told ‘em, loud and clear, that I’ve got love waiting for me back home that I know for certain I’m not going to find anywhere else.

“Being in love with you, Steve, has been more of an accomplishment, a brighter dream, and a fucking blessing compared to my first dream. You are why I keep going most days. And I don’t want to lose you over something we’ve both come to hate.”

He blinks at Eddie. Blinks and blinks and blinks. “You want to leave it all behind? Just to be here with me? Babe, that’s…that’s kind of insane, you know that?”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie hums. Eyes giddy and warm. “Guess you could say I’m crazy in love with you, sweetheart. I’d rather be with you. I’d rather stay in a home we put together with our hands rather than picking from some stupid catalogue. I’d rather water our plants while you make a classroom of kids smile. I’d rather greet you at the door, kiss on the cheek, taking your briefcase, ready to make us some warm dinner so that we can watch trashy television shows in our underwear, kiss until we’re fucking gasping, and then be able to wrap myself around you in our bed. Every fucking night. That sounds like more of a dream come true than anything.”

“You’d really leave it all behind, though? Just to be with me?”

Eddie rolls his eyes playfully. “Yes,” he swears. “Yes, sweetheart. A million times—yes! If I have to tell you every day that you’re worth staying for, then so be it. But you’re worth everything, you’re worth more than any riches I make from this crummy career.”

Steve squeezes Eddie’s other hand still wrapped around his. “Okay,” he whispers.

He lets Eddie dote on him, soft and sweet and languid.

And later that night, wrapped around each other in bed, Eddie stroking the bridge of Steve’s nose, Steve’s fingers working circles into Eddie’s hip—they’re content.

“Can we get a dog in our new home?” Steve asks.

Jokingly, Eddie murmurs, “Now you’re asking too much.” He boops the tip of Steve’s nose. But there’s a big, foolish grin on his face. Eyes too soft to mean anything malicious. “I’m kidding, sweetheart. Maybe we’ll go to the humane society in the morning?”

Steve, for the first time in a long while, smiles. “Sounds like a plan, Eds. I love you.”

“Sweetheart, I love you until the universe fucking explodes. And then some.”

🎸——————🎸

#steddieangstyaugust #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst and hurt/comfort #rockstar eddie munson #teacher steve harrington

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sl-vega · 5 months ago

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✮⋆｡ MEMORIES OF YOU

pairings: Itoshi Sae, Itoshi Rin, x [FEM!] Reader

genre: fluff, oneshot(s), drabble/imagines, established relationship (for some), implied angst if you squint (?), first love, post-u 20 arc, canon compliant

synopsis: in which their friends stumble across photos of you, their first, and only love

CW/additional tags: mild language, potententially ooc, Google translated Spanish in sae's part, English = Japanese in this, might make more scenarios with other characters if people request it

ITOSHI SAE

Sae was slumped across the cushions of his couch as Shidou rummaged through some of his storage boxes.

The other boy had been rather insistent on coming over to his new appartement, and helping him properly move all his stuff into his new living space.

"So does this mean I can finally move in with you?~"

"Keep dreaming."

Shidou pouted, giving Sae uncharacteristically begging eyes, almost like a sad lost puppy, naturally he didn't fall for this and settled for returning his pathetic look with his signature cold glare.

He simply gave him a sickeningly sweet smile in return, and continued taking objects out of the boxes, among the possessions were a lamp, a few photo frames, and an album.

Ryusei's eyes widened in surprise as his eyes came into contact with the book.

"Oh, what do we have here?"

Shidou said with a slight lilt in his voice clearly intrigued. Sae lifted his head from his phone to see what Shidou was doing, surely if something of his managed to pique the interest of Shidou's filthy mind, it would probably be in his best interests to throw it out-

Is what Sae would've said before he spotted the photo album in the taller boy's hands, Shidou fingers gingerly opening the front cover.

Sae reacted before he could even think.

"Put it down."

His voice is cold and sharp, not threatening, more defensive-scared almost, if he was even capable of fear that is.

Shidou's eyes widened momentarily at Sae's reaction before his face shifted back to his usual shit eating grin.

"Why Itoshi? Got some dirty photos you don't want me seeing? I promise I won't tell y'know."

Sae rolled his eyes and grabbed the album out of the blonde's hands.

"They aren't dirty, for your information."

He paused, as he looked at the cover of the book, dust was collecting on it, and there were a few marker stains that he couldn't get off.

"I'd just rather forget about them..."

He muttered, as he gently stroked the spine of the book with his thumb.

"Why'd you keep it then? You seem awfully attached to it."

Shidou's voice dropped lower and took a momentarily more serious tone before switching back to his flamboyant and teasing demeanor.

"I'm kinda jealous of it~."

Sae rolled his eyes, more playfully this time. He opened the book-making a point to hide the rest of the pages from Shidou's view-and took out a single photograph and handed it to him.

It was a photo of Sae and you. He didn't talk about you much, but he maybe he should change that.

"You clearly won't stop bothering me about it."

He waved the piece of paper before Shidou prompty snatched it and eyed it carefully, his eyes widening.

It was a photo of the two of you by some beach in Spain, hands interlocked, and a rare smile on a younger Sae's face. You were wearing a white sundress with a hat as you ran across the shoreline, taking Sae right along with you as the two of you stumbled across the sand together.

He remembered that day crystal clear, you brought a Polaroid camera with you and you got one of the locals to take the photograph for you. You had forced him to take a break from constant training, and before he knew it. He was far from Madrid in that moment, just you, him, and the ocean.

Shidou's eyes flickered with a brief moment of sincerity, Sae looked genuinely happy in the photo.

"And here I thought I actually had a chance with you."

Sae blushed, yet another look that Shidou wasn't used to seeing on him.

"We aren't-She wasn't-"

He stuttered, unable to express the nature of his relationship with you. Sure he had thoughts, but he never acted on them, which he regretted.

"Aww, so Mr. Itoshi Sae had an unrequited crush back in Spain? How tragic."

Shidou teased as he fidgeted with the sides of the photograph still in his hand.

"It wasn't unrequited."

Sae replied, quicker than he should have.

Shidou quirked a brow in response.

"Care to elaborate?"

Sae sighed, memories of you flooding back into his brain. Repressed feelings that he had long since left for time to slowly erode, yet a single reminder brought them all back.

"We... ran into each other a lot back when I was still in Spain."

He trailed off, recalling when you first interacted.

Sae was around fifteen when he first met you, he was at a cafe in the city, when he was on an annoyingly mandated week long break, issued by the heads of Real Madrid themselves. It just happened to align with the holiday of your school, and the cafe was a pretty popular spot among the locals. It was crowded, with students and several other adults given the day off. From what Sae remembered, you didn't come with the intention of being with a friend, but rather to spend time alone, it was rather difficult though with how many people were currently in the cafe. So before he knew it, a stranger-albeit a very pretty one-had sat right next to him, drink in hand. You only realized you were sitting next to him after you had actually made yourself uncomfortable. "Oh, lo siento, ¿está bien si me siento aquí? Hay mucha gente aquí…" You seemed to have muttered a quick apology in Spanish, while he had lived here for the past two years, he was ashamed to admit that his fluency in this country's native tongue was rather rusty. He had mainly prioritized learning all the needed terminology for soccer and for any interviews, but he could tell that you were apologizing, and probably asked him if you could sit with him. He tried to muster together a coherent response "Está bien... no me importa...?" He trailed off, unsure if what he said was right, or if you could even understand him with his heavy Japanese accent. Your eyes blinked in surprise, maybe he completely butchered that without knowing. Then your eyes widened in surprise for a moment, almost as if you just pieced together something about him. "Ay dios mio! You're Itoshi Sae! I knew you looked familiar!" You responded, in Japanese this time, almost as if it was second nature to you. "You speak Japanese?" It was more of a statement rather than a question, he sounded impressed, it had been a long time since he's actually been able to converse with someone else in his own language. You nodded, eyes sparkling, still clearly hung up on his identity. "I took some classes online, sorry if I'm hard to understand." You weren't hard to understand at all, sure, it was tinged with a slight accent, but if anything that just added to your charm. "I'm (Y/N), huge fan." You extended your hand to him, a bright smile adorning your already beautiful face. He took your hand and shook it. "Sae." He responded, his usual nonchalant tone fading. "You already know that though..." Was he blushing? You giggled at his sudden bashfulness, your laughter was a sweet melodic sound, it was almost embarrassing of how much it affected him. "You know, I'd thought you'd be a lot colder in person, you're actually really sweet huh?" You laughed once more, and this time, Sae actually cracked a grin.

Sae finished his story to Shidou, his friend had listened intently.

"Aww, so you were whipped from the start?~"

Shidou teased, smirking at him.

"Care to share more? I'd love to learn more

He asked, a slightly playful lilt to his voice.

"If you score another hat trick next time I might just tell you."

Sae responded, his playful tone contrasting his nonchalant demeanor. Shidou smirked, clearly pleased by the offer.

"And will you let me move in?~"

"Maybe."

Sae smiled, gentle and hidden. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. After all, it would give him an excuse to talk about you once more.

"If you score another hat trick next time I might just tell you."

Shidou smirked, clearly pleased by the offer.

"And will you let me move in?~"

"Maybe."

Sae smiled, gentle and hidden. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. After all, it would give him an excuse to talk about you once more.

BONUS; TRANSLATIONS (potentially inaccurate)

"Oh, lo siento, ¿está bien si me siento aquí? Hay mucha gente aquí…"

╰┈➤ "Oh, I'm sorry, is it okay if I sit with you? It's super crowded in here..."

"Está bien... no me importa...?"

╰┈➤ "It's okay...I don't mind..?

"Ay dios mio!

╰┈➤ "Oh my God!"

ITOSHI RIN

"Bachira! I swear to God if Rin kills us because of this-"

"Lighten up Isagi! He's not gonna catch us."

It was a miracle that Rin had already agreed to Isagi and Bachira coming over to his place, though it was more because his mom was constantly nagging him about "needing more friends" or "being more social with the rest of the boys from Blue Lock"

Of course Bachira took this as an opportunity to snoop around Rin's room.

"If we find anything too private, we'll just put it right back and pretend we never saw it, simple as that."

Isagi sighed, bemoaning their current actions against their teammate's own personal life.

"You make it sound like Rin of all people would actually have something incriminating to hide."

Bachira shot him an unimpressed look.

"Are we talking about the same Rin? I'm like 90% sure the guy has some kind of criminal record, I wouldn't be surprised if he had a dead body hiding around in here somewhere..."

He continued looking around the room, glancing at crooks and small gaps in-between shelves as if some hidden treasure was stuck in them.

"Bachira you aren't going to find anything-"

Isagi was promptly cut off by Bachira, who in fact, found something.

A photograph taped to the side of Rin's closet, it seemed a little old, and dusty, but it looked well taken care of.

"Rin never striked me as the sentimental type..."

Bachira flipped the photo back and fourth in his hands before actually focusing on what the picture itself was holding.

Of course before he could actually view the photo himself, it was quickly snatched from him.

Rin was back, and he gave Bachira his signature cold glare, that probably translated into "One more wrong move and I'm throwing you off a cliff in your fucking sleep." or some worse same intentioned threat that Rin would probably use.

"What were the two of you doing?"

Rin asked in a condescending, accusing tone, and rightfully so.

"Rin, we're sorry-"

Isagi was about to apologize, but then Bachira fell to the floor, gripped the younger Itoshi's leg and wailed out a far more incoherent apology than his friend.

"I'm sorry Rin-chan! I promise I won't do it again!"

He was wailing at this point, a string of even more whiny apologies coming from him.

Rin shook Bachira off his leg and sighed.

"It's fine..."

He murmured as he trailed off, his attention completely stolen by the photograph he had just took back.

It was a picture of the two of you at the beach, he was around fourteen in this photo, it probably took place during the final months of his last year at middle school. The two of you had gone on a stroll by the ocean earlier before finding a resting spot nearby. You had pulled out a camera out of nowhere and snapped the photo almost without Rin notcing. You were flashing a big smile at the camera, while Rin's face was nuzzled into your neck, clearly camera shy. If you looked closely however, you could spot the blush slowly creeping up his cheeks.

Without noticing, Bachira had gotten a little too close for Rin's comfort. The older boy's head rested on his shoulder as he ogled the picture alongside him.

"Is she your girlfriend or somethin'?"

Rin shoved Bachira off his shoulder, the other boy laughed as he stumbled away.

"Shut up... she's just a friend."

"I dunno, the two of you look awfully cozy in that photo~"

If only you saw the others...

Rin had held on to the photo for longer than he would like to admit, the two of you hadn't talked for a while, especially after graduation.

But now that his annoying lukewarm teammates had decided to scour around his room for no reason, Rin was met with a wave of memories.

All of which were about you.

The most prominent memory he had of you was the day of middle school graduation.

The cherry blossoms were in bloom, and the third years were about to assemble in the auditorium for the farewell ceremony. Several of Rin's classmates were gushing about graduation, and how they would miss each other, some were already planning methods of communication after moving on to high school. Another hot topic of conversation among his classmates (mainly the girls) was the topic of button giving. In Japan, a guy giving the second button of his uniform to a girl on the day of graduation was essentially a love confession, Rin thought that the tradition was rather stupid. For one thing, he had no time for romance when he was trying to become the best in the world, nor did he have any interest in the subject. Or as he would say 'everyone here is way too lukewarm for my tastes' Well, that's what he would have said if he wasn't so preoccupied with you, but here he was, just outside of the auditorium, fidgeting with his uniform trying to get a button off. Normally the girl would have to ask the guy for the button, but Rin was never one for tradition-then again he was already going along with this stupid love confession so there was a first time for everything-and it didn't look like you were going to talk to him anytime soon, you were constantly hanging around with your friends for most of the day, so he never found the right time. So he didn't know what came over him when he dragged you aside in some secluded area of the courtyard, all his courage had been used up in that very moment because of that moment, he had been reduced to a blushing and bashful mess. "What did you need me for RIn?" You asked with curious doe eyes, clearly oblivious to the fact that there was a button missing from his uniform. Rin gave you a blank stare for a few minutes, taking in your appearance. Your hair was adorned with several hair pins, all engraved with special patterns and decorated with pretty charms. You were wearing make up today, not super noticeable, but noticeable enough for it to enhance your natural beauty. "Rin?" You called his name, snapping him out of his thoughts. Oh right, he was supposed to give you the buttton "Can I have your hand for a second..?" He asked bashfully, you extended your hand to his, this time, you were blushing as well. You muttered a quick 'sure' as you avoided eye contact with him. He gently dropped the button into your hands. "I-I wanted you to have this." This time, Rin was looking directly into your eyes, the same cold teal that always seemed to have no light behind them, but this time, they were filled with warmth and sincerity. The two of you stood in silence for a few more moments, before you heard the teachers calling you and the rest of the third years over for the ceremony. As Rin walked into the auditorium with the rest of his classmates, one of his teammates from the soccer team leaned down and whispered something in his ear. "So who's the lucky lady Itoshi?" He turned to his friend, noticing that his button was missing too. Rin simply shrugged, feigning nonchalance and muttered; "Wouldn't you like to know?" That graduation photo captured a very rare smile from him.

Bachira accidentally knocking something over promptly snapped Rin out of his nostalgia.

"Oh my God you're actually smiling in this photo?!"

Bachira waved Rin's middle school grad photo in his face, clearly shocked by the notion that the younger Itoshi could actually feel happiness.

Suddenly, Rin's mother came into his room.

"I know, it's one of the few photos I have of him that actually feature him smiling."

She sighed.

"Anyways, I just made dinner in case you boys are hungry."

Mrs. Itoshi smiled at the boys.

"And maybe you could tell them all about (Y/N) hm?"

Rin's face grew very hot all of a sudden.

God, he was in for it now...

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sexiestpodcastcharacter · 1 year ago

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Sexiest Podcast Character — Unscripted Bracket — Round 4

Propaganda

Glenn Close (Dungeons & Daddies):

#Propaganda for Glenn Close: one of the other PCs mentions multiple times how hot he is #Actually several characters point it out but especially Henry #Also the only person in a podcast that has to put a disclaimer about not being a BDSM podcast to have had sex during the course of the show

We didn’t do hot Glenn summer for him to LOSE. Spoilers for his story but MORE PROPAGANDA FOR YOU:

Young hot rocker dilf

Loyal to his dead wife <3

Does in fact smoke weed

BARD!! HES A BARD. HE WAS LEAD GUITAR IN HIS BAND (that he was kicked out of)

His band was a Christmas cover band btw.

Literally the fandom had hot Glenn summer which consisted of drawing him being incredibly hot and sexy

Anti government (ofc)

Kind of cringefail (Disney adult) (was on dilfs of disneyland)

Young and sexy not your style? Then how about HIM AFTER YEARS LOCKED IN A TIME PRISON WITH A DAMN HANNIBAL MASK ??

Lost an eye and wears a fucking eyepatch

One incredibly buff arm

Has a pet rat named after his son <3

Immeasurable amounts of trauma in this man- becomes progressively more unhinged

OH OLD HUMAN BARD ISNT CUTTING IT? FINE

HE BECOMES A FUCKING DEMON

A COOL HOT ONE-EYED DEMON WHO WANTS TO KILL HIS DAD (also sexy)

HE CANONICALLY ENDS CHRISTIAN HELL VIA CHRISTMAS

IS ALSO WAY OVERLEVELED

Becomes a demon hunter for the rest of his existence

Also nonwhite !!! We are done with cringefail whiteboys !!!!!!!!!

I can’t put into words ok just know he is the best plz love him.

Listen, I don't know this other character but I've seem some good arguments for her However Consider Glenn Close winning through no effort of his own in a bullshit way despite being a dick is the most in character thing ever. He leveled up three times and got a crab mech, we GOT to give him this win, it's fitting

I don’t regulate if minors follow me or not bc I’m a pretty chill space but I hope the world is aware that’s the only reason I haven’t been downright nasty about Glenn close. I’m down bad. I’m NOT in the boat of ‘Glenn isn’t sexy but I want him to win bc it’s my fandom’. I would estimate I have 200+ drawings of Glenn on my phone that AREN’T safe for work. Way more that are. Where did they come from? That’s MY business. But I tell you this fact to assure you- Glenn IS sexy. I’m not voting to represent my fandom I’m voting out of TRUTH AND LOVE. IF YOU DON’T GET IT YOU DON’T GET IT!!! I just think my level of feral over this man is more powerful than y’all realize. If you don’t get his sex appeal that’s okay, but don’t doubt that this is my truth.

Okay but Glenn made a minivan cum by talking to her so

HE HAS A BOOK THAT HE MARKS X’S AND CHECKS FOR EVERY DAY TO SEE IF THAT DAY WAS A SUCCESS OR NOT. TO SEE IF HE DID GOOD THAT DAY. ITS ALMOST ENTIRELY X’S. HE WAS CUCKED OUT OF A SON. AND A DEAD WIFE. HE DIDN’T EVEN GET TO KILL HIS DAD IN REVENGE. There’s absolutely nothing going for him except his sex appeal in his life. Nobody he loved remembers him. He lost his eye. All he has is a pet rat and friends who admit they don’t really like him that much. He was kicked out of his own band. The band was named after him. He was kicked out of the Glenn Close trio. All he could do was deez nuts the big bad and be sexy. If nothing else, then pity him. Look in his eyes. Look at his heart and soul. Do you think pickman needs this to feel good about herself? Can she not accept a loss for the sake of a pathetic father? Can she shake hands with the minivan fucker and his human gun and just take the L on this one? He did not do the BDSM episode for this I’ll tell you what. Do this for my his sake. Do it for Nick Jr, who needs the prize money to pay for his rat snacks. Do it for his son. For Morgan. Ganbatte.

Mod Note: While I will still take "bad dads are sexy" propaganda and "bad dads aren't sexy" anti-propaganda, I kindly request no more discussion on whether or not he was a bad father. This is a sexypoll, not a parentingpoll. If you see a post you strongly disagree with, you can just not reblog it.

Mod Note 2: This tournament is about fictional podcast characters. Please do not vote for the real actress Glenn Close.

Lup (The Adventure Zone: Balance):

Is somehow the hot twin between her and Taako

Lup Bluejeans (née... Taaco? Tacco? Taco? Tako? who tf knows this is why I'm going with her husband's last name. doylistly she gets her last name from her brother whose last name is given as "Taako again but spelled differently"): Hot, funny, smart and undead. Is there anything else you could want in a woman?? Well, in case there is: she's also canonically trans

LUP IS THE HOTTEST. VOTE LUP.

#Round 4 #Glenn Close #Lup #Lup TAZ #Dungeons & Daddies #Dungeons and Daddies #Glenn Close DnDads #The Adventure Zone #TAZ Balance

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adventures-in-mangaland · 7 days ago

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Dead Boy Detectives Fic Recs Part 7

So I hear there's been some fandom drama? Guess it's time for another fic rec list! This fandom is so lovely, so let's focus on the positive and give all the love to our writers and artists. You guys are so talented. ♥️

Work It Harder, Make it Better by dear_monday, two_ravens

Olympics AU! And kind of Sk8er Boi? Charles is an Olympic skateboarder at the end of his competitive career and Edwin is a rising star in the world of dressage. They fall in love at Paris 2024. Amazing writing, as always, and I also enjoyed Niko and Crystal as members of the skateboarding and equestrian teams having their own Olympics Romance and Jenny as Charles' world-weary coach.

Twin Flame by Leandra

Another "He was a punk, he did ballet" romance! This time, everyone is alive and the boys meet when Charles watches Edwin perform at his little sister's ballet recital. The romance and Charles as a big brother are very sweet, which is great as this fic also covers some heavy themes. It's set in the 90s so there's discussion of homophobia, the AIDs crisis and Charles' canon child abuse. Suffice to say, his bisexual awakening is quite fraught. Recommended!

Love for Hire by lucrow

Edwin hires Charles to freak out his parents with his obnoxious fake boyfriend. What could possible haaappeeen? And yes, it's a ballet/punk romance too. 😅 Anyway, it's giving fantastic banter, lots of emotions and great use of trope! I also enjoyed Edwin's relationship with his mum in this fic, excellent parental feels.

so I try to talk refined by shadowquill17

Charles finds out about the Cat King taking on his appearance and (somehow) arrives at the conclusion that Edwin isn't attracted to him. Charles having body image as well as chronic self-esteem issues was interesting but kind of heartbreaking. Read it for Edwin's agonised attempts to verbalise his sexual attraction to Charles without exploding. That's love right there.

A Royal Pain(e) (series) by handwrittenhello

Royalty AU! I love a bodyguard romance from time to time and this one is lovely. Lots of yearning.

Turnabout's Fair Play by Like MmmCookies

Edwin enlists Niko and Crystal to teach him how to flirt with Charles. It starts off cute and awkward and ends up Master Of All He Surveys, which is very Edwin.

I will love you (I really love you) by ghostinthelibrary

Charles has a feelings realization and tries to confess to Edwin. Repeatedly. From a cock-blocking enchanted statue to a Hellhound, it's farcical and fun. This fic has been living in my head rent free for months.

seasons of mists by laiqualaurelote

Edwin hires Charles to be the barista in his book shop's cafe. Two cosy AUs in one! And it even comes (appropriately) with its own reading list and fanart! Very cute, excellent autumnal vibes and a superb imaginary book shop. I'm genuinely so devastated it's not a real place. 😭

Ariadne's Thread by hobbitsdoitbetter

In which Edwin is demisexual and trying to make it work with Charles. Love to see some ace spectrum representation!

you know the problem with history (it keeps coming back like weeds) by aletterinthenameofsanity

Amnesia AU! And kind of Secret Relationship? Edwin has Not So Temporary Amnesia that made him forget a whole romantic relationship with Charles early in their partnership. And Charles never told him... Surely this will have no impact on the events of canon?? 😬 I loved this twist on the trope!

scraped to the marrow by Anonymous

Edwin learned black magic in Hell and kind of went to the Dark Side. I love the trope of "Everyone thinks Character avoids violence because they're scared/weak/nice/bad at it, but actually they're a bit too good at it" and this fic does it well. I love regular Edwin, but Lord Bone was also pretty cool.

To Walk Back Into Hell by Asidian

Charles goes to Hell in Edwin's place, so naturally Edwin needs to find a way to rescue him! Interesting Hell lore and I loved all the Charles love in this.

It does not stop by williamvapespeare

Now he's safe from Hell, Edwin finally works through his PTSD. Emotional, but peak Emotional Support Charles for the win!

signed, sealed, delivered by sulfuric

Outsider PoV of the boys and the agency through the years from the perspective of the Ghost Postman. He's kind of underrated as a side character, but there are so many Implications about the Dead Letter Office, so I enjoyed the worldbuilding. And the supernatural community of London gossiping about/shipping the boys (they're just like us, for real). Love that trope.

not so secret by lola_prongs

Social Media/Celebrity AU! In which they're both actors and Charles relentlessly thirsts after Edwin on Twitter. Great use of social media/epistolary storytelling.

Like a record, baby by singtome

Another celebrity/social media AU, but this time Charles and Crystal are budding rock stars and Edwin is their manager. Also Edwin goes viral as the mysterious #HotGuyatUnity after his picture's taken at an event and Charles *tries* to set the record straight. This one's funny, generous with the yearning and UST and is part of a series that also touches on the darker side of the music industry/celebrity, which I appreciated. And it also has this excellent visual representation of the online drama.

@ghostinthelibrarywrites @tumblerislovetumblerislife @shadowquill17 @neurodivergent-fangirling @whatthehorsedoicallthisblog @shazziez @many-gay-magpies @extremely-eager-reader @atariakana @guardianspirits13 @colourmornings @herebehunters @avoiceofnerat @littlepocketuniverse @overlord-of-chaos @fairandfatalasfair @handwrittenhello @every-moment-a-different-sound @williamvapespeare @laiqualaurelote @dear-monday @dear-lucrow @aletterinthenameofsanity @likemmmcookies @bibliomancer7 @c-rowland @nobledragonflying @hobbitsdoitbetter

I've tagged some people again. Let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

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rottiens · 8 months ago

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⊹ ˚. GOJŌ SATORU┊18+ , bf! gojō, somnophilia (noncon), oral ( m -> f ), canon au, female-bodied reader, petnames (angel). divider creds: cafekitsune. WC. 1.4K

Gojo promised himself not to touch you. Instead he admired you from afar, struggling with the carnal desire that asks him to slide his fingers through the nooks and crannies of your body— you, sprawled on the sheets, becoming one with the bed and your tousled hair. Carefully, he removes the glasses that were lying on the bridge of your nose, crooked and just a shake of your head threatening to break them.

The light illuminating you from a lamp on the bedside table does little to brighten the room. The opaque rays show your relaxed face sleeping pleasantly and a little further on, they show your hands resting without a defined posture at the level of your hips.

Gojo holds the book open at the edge of the bed and closes it to put it aside on the bedside table along with your glasses, without them, you look much younger even and the idea makes him smile because if you were awake you would tap his shoulder and tell him to shut up.

Still with the grin on his lips, he sits on the bed carefully avoiding waking you up, you're so comfortable that it's the last thing he would want… that's when he really intends not to wake you up, he doesn't want to interrupt your sleep, he just…. He just wants to admire you a little more.

The tank top you're wearing does little to cover you. One of your breasts escapes slightly outward giving gojo a flash of skin and your erect nipples that he can't stop staring at. He bites his lower lip, controlling his thoughts that rushed to take him to places and corners of his head that he shouldn't, thoughts that end and begin with him grabbing your tit without caution and taking it into his mouth to lick and abuse it with his teeth.

He stretched his hand towards you, your chest rises and falls placidly just like the waves, the opposite of his that heaves with each new dangerous thought his unconscious whips him with. His finger traces your collarbones in a touch that never comes, his cursed technique prevents him from touching you and he purposely keeps it active because it makes him feel less guilty. Restless, he searches for your erect nipple and makes the attempt to touch it in circles, in that instant you move seeking the comfort of the sheets which would seem a coincidence that gives him the opportunity not to continue disturbing your sleep.

"Fuck." It's the exact moment where he realizes he won't be able to keep his promise.

With one hand he squeezes the soft bulge forming a tent in his pants, with the other, he mimics the action of grabbing your breast and carving your nipple back and forth but once again, he never manages to touch you. Getting up from the bed and moving far enough away from you to admire you again, gojo removes his uniform shirt leaving it lying somewhere in the room along with the blindfold.

The yellow dye sticks to his naked torso right away, illuminating his overworked abdomen and moles that seemed to have been put there specifically.

He's late. And he is sorry. He will apologize to you tomorrow because he knows how important it is for you to spend time with him, he feels guilty for not being there on time and making you wait for him, but he feels guiltier for what he will do next.

Gojo again sits on the edge of the bed but this time he goes to your feet. His fingers spread your knees apart to make a space where his big body can fit in between. Your thighs spread to either side without effort and he takes the opportunity to make a house of your thighs and place them on top of his shoulders still with infinity in between.

Still not allowing you to feel him, gojo pushes your panties with his nose. His eyelids droop at the sensation of the heat emanating from your pussy onto his tongue, his mouth is soaked with the thought of how it will feel to finally taste you and this makes him push further into you in an invisible thrust.

His body tenses with need yet desperation, squeezing his eyes shut he sees only black and flashes like white dots, however the taste of your natural scent guides him through the gloom making it clear to him that there is nothing wrong with this, this is the right thing to do, he knows that if you would be awake you would approve. Finally and without his infinite technique getting in the way, his nose snakes between the folds of your pussy, parting your lips until his nose pushes against your clit and rubs it back and forth sniffing shamelessly.

Gojo stands still for a moment, every muscle inside him grinding with desire as he waits for you to say something, a moan, a prayer… seeing the state you're in only urges him to continue. Mouth open and hands clutching at the sheets struggling not to grab the flesh of your thighs hungrily seeking more of that which makes him moan against your panties.

His spit helps the fabric become a mess and he soon finds it annoying that he can't feel you directly, so with the help of his fingers he pushes them aside to finally taste your naked pussy.

Gojo took exactly five seconds to admire the mess he had made of you. Swollen lips dripping with excitement, a plump little clit poking just a little from between your labia and a pussy throbbing and twitching just begging him to keep going.

Along with a grunt louder than he planned he plunges into your hole parting it with his tongue until he explores deep. His tongue curves, expertly, seeking more, fucking you in and out and alternating the motion to move up to your needy clit and give it the attention it deserves by crushing it with the flat of his tongue.

You mewl with a barely audible whimper, indicating that you'll probably wake up soon. Confident now he does hold your thighs, he opens them to give him room for his head to sink deeper into you opening his mouth wider to take as much of you as he can. The warmth and taste of your juices is addictive, gojo wants to drink you and then sink so deep into you; this is the idea that leads him to, intoxicated with ecstasy slide a long finger inside you.

Your confusion sets in as you call his name. His cock aches, you sound so drowsy, your voice barely a murmur that is replaced with a broken moan after he sucks hard on your clit.

You meet his cocked smile in the middle of your legs. His eyes are two full moons that greet you shining with desire and need, his hair is a white tangle that sticks to his forehead and falls tousled over his ears. You take note to cut it off when they're not in such a… compromising situation and instead help him by pushing the sweaty strands aside back to get a better glimpse of what was going on.

"What are you…" you can't finish the sentence because of the sudden feeling that hits you. It's that tightening and loosening rope in your belly warning you that you're on the verge of orgasm. So fast? It's what makes you wonder, how long has gojo been eating your pussy?

"Let it all out." He commands you. And your body obeys him, "All in my mouth," he adds in a purr. You can't even protest or assimilate the sensations that hit your body.

And only when you start to break into his embrace do you realize that two of his fingers are stretching you to the limit and his tongue keeps licking you back and forth and up and down. You try to pull his hair back, tell him you're sore, but Gojo doesn't stop until he's satisfied, not until you've finished squeezing around his fingers.

Gojo pulls out of you with a grunt, your body unravels again on the bed as if in a liquid state and your eyelids give in to exhaustion and close again. Your chest rises and falls desperately seeking oxygen, and every fiber in your body feels on fire.

He leaves one last kiss on top of your clit and rises from between your thighs with soaked lips and wet chin. "I'm going to push my cum inside you now, okay?" a loving hand emerges caressing your navel through the thin fabric, you stare up at him from below between heavy lashes. "Just keep sleeping, angel. I know you're tired, just let me take what I want."

a/n. this was going to be darker but I'm a chicken and I regretted it.

#wr #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo drabbles #jjk drabbles #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #cw somnophilia #cw noncon #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru scenario #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader

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h0neylevi · 9 days ago

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After a major shift, your life has become a series of monotonous routines. Eat, sleep, go to work, repeat. But when you find a man bleeding on the subway with no idea how he got there, things become anything but ordinary.

General content warnings: isekai/parallel universe, modern AU, mentions of blood and canon-typical violence, some light angst, eventual smut.

chapter warnings: mentions of blood/cleaning of wounds

word count: 3.2k

It’s just after midnight when you make it to the metro platform.

The descent underground is quiet. Below the bustling city streets, you go through the process of boarding a train back home in a bit of a mindless daze, having done this cycle of late night shifts at the hospital countless times before.

The carriage is empty when you walk on board, silent except for the pneumatic hiss of the doors that slide closed behind you. You fall into the nearest seat with a heavy sigh.

It’s the first time in thirteen hours you’ve really been able to get off your feet.

Working four 12 hour days in a row can be tiring, but it’s worth it most of the time for the following four days off that you’re able to get. Four days off of freedom—which usually means catching up on errands. Laundry, getting groceries, and cleaning.

It’s just you now, so things tend to pile up much more quickly.

As you feel the rumble of movement beneath you, the momentum causing you to sway a little in your seat, you stare unblinking at the opposite window. Flashes of advertisements and thick concrete tunnel walls speed by in a blur, and you allow your mind to wander.

Maybe you could go to that new cafe in the morning that opened up on College Street. It’s been a while since you’ve taken a moment just for yourself. Or maybe you could take a book to the park after cleaning your apartment. The weather was supposed to be nice, and that used to be your favorite thing to do before…

The train slows to a stop before you continue down that line of thinking. With a droning chime, the doors open to signal would-be passengers to either depart or climb aboard.

A pleasant female voice erupts from the intercom system. “This is Freedom Park Station. Please stand clear of the doors.”

It’s not unheard of for others to be out so late, particularly on a Friday night, so to see a man walk aboard doesn’t immediately surprise you.

What does cause you to do a double take is the state of him.

The first thing you see is the insignia of the wings of freedom, a symbol you immediately recognize on the back of the green cloak covering his upper half from one of your favorite shows, Attack on Titan.

The second thing you notice is that he’s soaked.

That’s odd. You don’t remember it raining earlier in the day, but it could have been a brief downpour in another part of the city. And he’s clearly coming from an anime convention. Those were usually held at the convention center on the other side of the city.

The man heavily slumps forward against the railing. His back is turned toward you, but you watch him thoughtfully, admiring the impressive handiwork of his costume. From under the cloak, you see the intricately wrapped belts of the omni-directional gear, as well as the boxes along his thighs that are used in the show to store blades. When you see a reflection of an advertisement briefly glimmer off of the surface, you realize that they’re actually metal.

Those must be heavy. Did he make them himself?

The train begins to move again and your thoughts are stopped short when the man stumbles, nearly falling. That’s when he turns and you notice the blood.

His face is covered in it.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it. “Excuse me.”

He turns at the sound of your voice and you see the source: a rough cut just above his right eyebrow.

The man sways unsteadily on his feet against the movement of the train. The look he gives you is immediately distrusting, but he doesn’t back away.

You stop a few feet from him. “Sir, are you okay?” When his eyes narrow, you point to the badge pinned to your work scrubs. “I’m a nurse, see?”

You wait as his eyes study your hospital badge for a moment.

“Where the hell am I?”

Okay, that’s potentially a cause for concern. “Uh.” You try to remember what stop he got on from. “Freedom Park.” The look on his face doesn’t resemble recognition. “You’re not from around here?”

For a moment, he seems to think. “No.”

There’s a sharp jolt from the train car and you both sway a little, him more than you.

You gesture to the empty seat next to him. “Here. You should probably sit down.”

He doesn’t argue as he takes a seat.

Looking him over, you consider your options. It isn’t too late to take him back to the hospital, but you don’t exactly want to after spending the entire day there already. From the looks of it, it doesn’t look like he’ll need stitches, but it doesn’t feel right to leave him alone in the state he’s in either.

“Can you tell me what happened?” you ask.

The man looks around for a moment. The look on his face turns apprehensive. “I don’t remember. There was a flash… and then I just woke up here.”

You raise your brows. Something about the way he says it feels like he isn’t being completely honest, but you suppose the bleeding itself is a more pressing concern right now anyway.

“Okay,” you say. “Well, that cut doesn’t look too deep, but you should get it cleaned.” You pause for a moment, debating. “My apartment is at the next stop.”

You had meant it as a suggestion, but the man doesn’t seem to follow.

“I can look at it for you,” you add. “Maybe help you find wherever you were supposed to stay.”

He seems to consider it for a long moment, looking from you to around the empty train car and then back to your badge.

“Alright,” he says as the train begins to slow. When it comes to a stop and the doors open with their loud hydraulic hiss, he follows you back out onto the platform.

It’s quiet for most of the walk back. You go through the motions of exiting the station—swiping your pass and leading the way up the winding corridors to street level while the man follows, watching your movements and your surroundings with a puzzled sort of awe.

It isn’t until you’re pulling out the keys to your place before you turn to him again.

“So, what’s your name?”

He gives you a subdued look. “Levi.”

You smile.

“No, really…” you press, looking over his clothes again. It’s obvious that’s what he’s going for now that you see him up close—the scout uniform and the way he’s styled his hair. Come to think of it, he has Levi’s frame as well. And his eyes.

It’s a damn good cosplay actually. If Levi Ackerman were to magically come out of the television screen as a flesh and blood person, he’d look exactly like this guy.

But judging by his expression and the complete lack of response, he isn’t interested in giving you any sort of real information.

You turn then, your smile dropping, and lead the way into the apartment building. “O-kay.”

It’s possible, you guess, that his name really is Levi. Just a very bizarre coincidence that he happens to look and act exactly like your favorite character from an anime and also likes the anime as well. There are billions of people in the world though. Stranger things happen all the time.

Reluctant to piss him off further, the rest of the walk up to the second floor is done in more silence. You unlock your front door and lead the way inside, smiling when you hear the telltale trill of your cat greeting you at the door.

“Hello, Luna,” you greet, bending down to run your hand between the shorthair’s ears. She pushes herself up into your hand a little further with a chirp.

Still at the door, the man—Levi—watches.

“Luna?” he asks in a flat tone.

You straighten back up, noting his hesitancy to walk forward. “You’re not allergic, are you?” That would be some cosmic bad luck on his part to deal with a head wound and an allergic reaction in one night.

But thankfully, he shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s affectionate but she’s harmless,” you say, sidestepping around your cat to walk further into your living room. When Levi joins you, you gesture to the sofa. “Have a seat there. I’ll be right back with some supplies.”

You don’t wait around to see if he does what you say, instead dipping down the hall toward a small office. It’s mostly just a place for all of your trinkets—a desk filled with a few figures and a computer. Some bookshelves line the walls, collecting dust. It’s been months since you’ve picked up a good book or did much of anything in this room, really. But you know exactly where to look for the supply kits you’ve managed to stock up on from the hospital.

After you find the suture thread and some wound wash, you grab a towel from the bathroom next door and return to the living room.

Levi is there, sitting on the edge of the sofa as if he’s afraid to get comfortable. His gaze keeps jumping around the room, taking in the layout and decor, and his fists rest stiffly on his knees. Luna is next to him, tentatively sniffing at his knuckles with a curious stretch of her neck.

You shoo her away gently and take her place on the sofa. The angle of light allows you to see the source of the drying blood on his face a bit better.

Quietly, you look him over. “How are you feeling?”

He watches as you slip on a pair of gloves. “I’ve had worse.”

You snort lightly and begin to prep the fresh towel with wound wash.

“Do you have stuff like this happen to you often?” you ask, now reaching to press the towel to his face.

At your question, he pulls his one uncovered eye from you, surveying the room again. “Nothing quite like this.”

“What happened?”

Levi is quiet for a moment before he says, “It was nothing. I fell.”

You pause your movements, frowning. “This doesn’t look like the kind of cut you’d get from a fall.”

“Why does it matter?”

Judging by his defensive tone, he knows more than he’s letting on, but you can’t figure out why he isn’t being honest.

But with him already in your apartment, you don’t want to do anything to unnecessarily antagonize him. Even in his current state, he looks strong and capable enough to hurt you.

Probably best to just change the subject.

“Did you have somewhere you were staying?” you ask, returning to your task.

You gently dab the towel down the curve of his jaw and feel the muscle tense beneath your touch.

“No,” he finally says.

“You came all the way here for a convention and didn’t book a hotel?”

“A convention?”

“Yeah,” you nod, gesturing to his clothes. “You’re a scout, right?”

At your words, his expression becomes a bit more relieved. He nods. “Yes. I got onto that... train thing because I hoped it might take me to headquarters.”

You blink as you listen to him. Did he hit his head hard enough for him to think that he is Levi Ackerman?

Maybe you should take him to the hospital anyway just to get him checked out. He seems perfectly lucid otherwise though, if a bit confused.

You reach forward and check his head wound again. Just like you thought, it’s too shallow to need stitches and isn’t bleeding anymore, so that’s a good sign. Maybe it could wait until morning.

“Do you feel sick?” you ask, searching his expression for any lack of focus or disorientation but find none. “Nauseated? Dizzy?”

“Other than the stabbing pain above my eye?” he deadpans, glaring at you. “No. I feel fine.”

You sigh. This is insane, considering letting a complete stranger stay in your apartment. But he doesn’t have anywhere else to go and he’s still soaking wet. You’d feel guilty if you just let him go and he got into trouble. At the very least, you could make sure he has somewhere to sleep.

You get to your feet and look over his clothes once more. “You can stay here tonight if you’d like. I think I might have some old clothes you can sleep in, and there’s a shower down the hall.”

He gives you a distrustful look. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a stranger.”

You raise a brow. “I guess we both are. But if you’d rather sleep out in the cold, then be my guest.”

That seems to give him pause, and he looks around the room once more.

“Where did you say the shower was?”

“Down the hall, second door on the left,” you tell him. “I can get you a towel and some clothes.”

You dispose quickly of the bloodied towel in your kitchen trash along with your gloves and turn back down the hall again. When you return, Levi is standing awkwardly next to your sofa. He seems to be pointedly ignoring Luna, who is still curiously sniffing him from the armrest.

“These should fit,” you tell him, patting the folded up sweatpants and an oversized shirt tucked beneath your arm. “Just leave your things in the bathroom and I’ll make sure your clothes are washed in the morning.”

He takes the items from you with another skeptical glance. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I have to do laundry anyway,” you wave him off. “It’s no trouble.” Quickly, you point at him. “Just don’t scrub at that cut. You’ll just make it bleed again.”

He doesn’t move immediately when you back away to let him pass by, but the promise of a hot shower seems to eventually override whatever keeps him fixed in place. Without another word, he retreats down the hall, right to the second door on the left like you told him.

What a strange man.

It takes fifteen minutes before you hear the shower turn on.

In that time, you busy yourself with finding a spare blanket and a pillow and leave them on the sofa. You tidy up a little next, grabbing leftover drinking glasses off the table and discarded socks that had been pushed under the coffee table. It isn’t much, but you’re left feeling slightly less anxious about the state of your place by the time you’re finished. You like to keep things tidy to begin with, but the place certainly looks lived in right now.

Curious, you sink into a chair and pull out your phone while you’re waiting and click on the search engine, quickly typing in a few keywords to check on any local anime conventions happening in the area.

There are no ongoing events, and the next one isn’t happening until six months from now.

Well, that eliminates your theory. So then what the hell was he doing cosplaying on the street on a random Friday? If he was with someone, he wouldn’t have been wandering around alone and he said he wasn’t staying anywhere in the area.

The thought occurs to you that maybe this is some sort of trap to lure unsuspecting women into vulnerable positions, preying on a person’s compassion. But then, that was very real blood on his face and a very real wound, and he has had ample opportunities to attack and rob you if that was truly what he was after. He might look intimidating, but there’s nothing about him that screams that you’re in any sort of immediate danger either.

Maybe you can get some real answers out of him in the morning when he’s less grumpy.

You’re feeding Luna in the kitchen when Levi reappears.

With silent relief, you note that his wound seems to still be fine. He looks healthier in general after cleaning off, but he also looks… well, even more like Levi Ackerman. It’s kind of uncanny.

“What?”

You jump when you hear his voice. He’s watching you from the living room, looking about as confused as you feel.

Shit, have you been staring? “Nothing.” You sigh and rub at your eyes. It’s been too long of a day to start questioning your sanity. “Are you hungry or anything? I have some leftovers I can heat up really quick.”

“I’m fine.” He shakes his head and turns his attention to the blanket and pillow on the sofa.

Carefully, he arranges it how he likes and sits down. He glances at the television on the other side of the room before looking around again, lingering at times on things like the lamps in the corners and over to the open kitchen.

His hands fidget in his lap.

“I’ll be out of here first thing in the morning.”

The sound of his voice surprises you.

“Where are you going to go?”

He shrugs. “I’ll figure it out.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek thoughtfully. He’s a grown man, so it shouldn’t concern you what he does. But his comments about not being from here, and the whole thing about him trying to find ‘headquarters’? You’d feel better knowing there isn’t anything you’ve missed.

“At least let me take you to the hospital to get that cut checked out,” you suggest. “We can go first thing while your clothes are drying.”

He scoffs but the sound is entirely devoid of humor. “I told you I’m fine.”

“So it’ll be a quick visit and you can be on your way in no time,” you reply. “One of the doctors I work with can look you over before we open. He won’t mind.”

“Or I could just leave in the middle of the night.”

“I guess.” You shrug. “I wouldn’t be able to stop you, but that’s your choice. My conscience can be clear as long as I’ve offered to help you. I can’t make you take it, but I think it’s a good idea.”

He glares at you from the sofa, but doesn’t reply.

You get the sense that he doesn’t want to be bothered anymore. With the night he’s had, he probably just wants some rest, and you’re more than willing to get some sleep yourself.

Now that the shock of the night has worn off a bit, your body feels heavy as you get to your feet.

Levi stays quiet as you move around the room, shutting off lights and locking your front door. He moves to lay down once he gathers what you’re doing.

“I’ll get you up in the morning,” you tell him from the hallway. “Get some sleep.”

That earns you little more than a grunt of acknowledgement.

When you get into your room, you make sure to lock the door and find a baseball bat from the depths of your closet to sit by your bed. You’ve always been a light sleeper, so you hope that you’ll be able to hear if he decides to try anything.

You go through your nightly routine and climb into bed, then send off a text before closing your eyes—a message to one of your friends and fellow co-workers at the hospital.

Hey, could you do me a huge favor tomorrow morning? It’ll be quick.

Hopefully, when you wake up, Levi will still be there.

#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman x fem!reader #levi ackerman x you #aot fic #levi ackerman

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ficuscircus · 2 years ago

Photo

Yes!!! 😍😍😍 Just casually letting her fingers linger on the spine 😰

However, if I may add to your post...

No wonder Morgane can't get over it! Their cases are everywhere! We've got:

S comme Italie,

Hep et Soja,

Vent d'ouest (singular + all in caps),

Coutume Malgache (as you've pointed out),

Deux Mille Trois Cents Calories,

Homme de peu de foi,

De mille feux (so long, typo...),

Enfant de...

and, based on the similar spine design, three more I can't make out.

I couldn't decipher the fake publisher name either. If anyone's got better eyes, please do share with the class 👀👂

Also, this set design means the episode had one thing right plot-wise: I spotted three books by Marc Levy on the shelves and they were not even remotely close to each other, so there was indeed some serious sleepwalking-induced shelf rearrangment 😅

She just – She’s thinking about their second case, she’s thinking about HIM oh my GOD 😱😭

But also maybe she’s not that much pining after all:

#“Coutume Malgache” 🥹🥹🥹 HPI: HAUT POTENTIEL INTELLECTUEL S03 E01: Symétrie Radiale

(huge thanks to @hemerae-ramblings for the video rip <3333)

#I'm also wondering if they made anymore books...#for ex. there are 3 thin books with a pale yellow cover with green accents in the same row #and the only one I can make out is called 'le déchirement des tissus amoureux' which doesn't seem to exist #neither does 'la prise unique' (LOL) right next to 'coutume malgache'#hpi spoilers #op je viens de voir tes tags sur la publi d'origine et c'est ABSOLUMENT morgane chez le disquaire 😭😭😭#t'as planté tellement d'oignons qu'ils ont fait des rejets dans le canon #ETA: j'écoutais 'whole again' et ça m'a fait penser à ce moment #'looking back on when we first met / I cannot escape and I cannot forget' 👀👀👀#on the rota it goes

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seiwas · 9 days ago

Note

hihi sel!! for your blurb game... hawks + nose + slow burn

thanks for sending this prompt bitti!! 💗

hawks + nose + slow burn

contains: non-canon au, commercial model!hawks, childhood best friends to lovers, pining, hawks gets drunk, reader dates a guy at some point, kinda cliche but i am a sucker for that

keigo's nose twitches when he lies.

it's a tell you've known well all your life.

when he was 5, he used to climb up a tree to practice how to "fly". it was really just him trying to parachute down using his bedsheets, but you watched every attempt―cheered him on whether it was a success or failure.

and when his mother's voice echoed down the park, you watched as he answered, "no," when she asked if he was trying to launch himself up to the sky.

you first noticed it then, the delayed reaction a few seconds after he had just covered up the truth: his nose twitched twice, a quick crinkling of his nose bridge. you didn't think much of it until it happened the second, third, and fourth time.

at first, you'd felt betrayed, being pulled by your ankles down into the swimming pool when he promised you he wouldn't. at 10 years old, you held these things like an oath―

"i promise! won't even go near you. see?" he swims away from the ledge you remain hesitant of approaching, hands raised up in surrender as he laughs.

―compelling; believable. trustworthy. water weighs down his otherwise bird's nest hair, taming it slack against his forehead. with his eyes forming into crescents when he smiles, he looks like the very image of a good kid down the block.

you get better at spotting it as you grow up together, and soon enough, you realize, it suits keigo to be a liar. he's charming above all, drips down sweet words like honey to anyone gullible enough to believe it. they're empty promises most of the time, but a lot of people fall for it, you notice. you included.

"i’m not interested anyway," he tells you at 18, right after graduation. one of the girls in your class was brave enough to confess to him and you’re curious how he feels about it, if anything.

being keigo's longest and arguably even best friend means that you know him better than anyone else. you were there when he was ugly, puberty catching up to him slowly. you’ve witnessed him just woken up, groggy from a full night of studying, because despite the nonchalance he often displays, he does care about his grades more than he lets on.

you know when he’s happy, when he talks about his dreams; the excitement he felt when he was scouted as a commercial model for a prestigious agency. you know his heart, beneath all his playfulness, how he keeps the people he values close to his chest and cares about them more than anything.

(you remember every single time keigo has lied on your behalf, nose twitch after nose twitch—that time you spilled grape juice all over your carpet and keigo told your mother that it was all his fault; when you forgot a book for one of your classes and keigo gave you his, taking the consequence of detention in your stead.)

you know keigo well because you love all the parts of him.

so when his nose twitches after he tells you he doesn't care much for relationships, your heart breaks just a little bit. you begin to wonder if keigo has a type, and if that girl fits right into it.

getting over keigo while still being his best friend is a herculean, if not impossible, task.

his career skyrockets and you go to university; your schedules are always in conflict but he still happens to be everywhere you look―ads on your instagram feed, wallpapers on your classmates' phones. there are shorts of his interviews constantly recommended on your youtube homepage and the feeling is both weird and comforting watching someone you know so well be so accessible yet difficult to meet.

you could reach out, sure, but you know he's busy enough as is. you don't think it's his priority to―

"come over soon," he texts you one thursday night.

your heart hammers against your chest, fingers numbing as you nearly drop your phone. it's embarrassing how quickly you type out, "when?"

but keigo is a fast texter, somehow always beating you to your replies first.

"this sat?" he double messages.

and you're about to reply "down" when he chats again, his words leaving an ache in your chest that you can't help but feel guilty for.

"haven't seen u in ages i think i'm starting to hallucinate hearing ur voice or smth."

spending more weekends together makes it harder for you to get over him, sitting on his couch as you both eat takeout; earlier today, you'd stumbled upon some stupid tiktok gossiping about all the dating scandals he's been embroiled in this past year.

you stuff chow mein down your throat, swallow it in big gulps as you glance at your best friend across you; he remains lax and unbothered as his legs cross in front of him, eyes on the the movie you're currently watching. it's a slow and painful process trying to get yourself to be just as uncaring about the entire thing, but with how often keigo lies, you find it hard to distinguish whether his "playboy" image is real or just for marketing.

curiosity gets the better of you when the question slips out, awkward and clearly fabricated.

"one of my friends is asking if i can introduce you."

you avoid eye contact in fear that he'll be able to tell you're making it up. no one from university knows you're keigo's best friend; he's kept you a secret just as much as you've kept him one.

"tell them sorry, too busy to date," he shoves a handful of popcorn straight into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly to conceal the fact that his nose is twitching. his arm is slung over the back of the couch as you nestle yourself on the other end of it.

the topic is sensitive for the both of you; keigo always shoots down any opportunity to talk about his love life and you're always conscious of the fact that you might seem too eager to want to know what the real score is between him and the girl at the bar, at the photoshoot, at the gala, at the―

"am sure uni doesn't give you much time either, right?"

he changes the subject.

keigo is linked to a lot of people in the industry; it's a consequence of the job, as they say. rumors are neither confirmed nor denied and you're just as clueless as the public is despite the fact that you've known him your whole life and spend your weekends eating greasy takeout on his expensive couch.

you should move on, you tell yourself.

it doesn't mean anything that the throw blanket on his bed is the one you crocheted for him when he turned 21. the picture that sits on his entryway isn't anything more than a memento of youth with his best friend. sure, he makes time for you despite his busy schedule, but that's what all good friends do.

so, you start seeing someone. and when you tell keigo, things change.

it only makes sense that you hang out with him less, but he changes more than the circumstances do and you don't think that's fair at all.

he's started replying to you late, which has never happened before. and he's begun cancelling plans with you at the last minute, only for you to find leaked pictures of him at some bar with a bunch of people hanging by his arms.

keigo hangs around alcohol, but he rarely ever indulges, so having him call you shit-faced drunk right after he cancelled hanging out on the same weekend is definitely something new.

you’re in rare form driving his car to pick him up, hoisting him onto the passenger seat as he passes out to sleep. it’s only when you get to his apartment that he groggily wakes.

the elevator ride has him clinging to the side railings, his groans filling the tiny space. an empty plastic bag is ready in your hand in case he needs to hurl—which he doesn’t, thankfully—but he crashes on the couch as soon as he walks in the door.

you ready a glass of water and painkillers on the coffee table in front of him before grabbing the throw blanket from his bedroom. when you return, he's tucked into himself like a baby, knees curled up and arms crossed around torso in an embrace.

it both endears you and aches; you'd hug him if you could. if only your feelings could handle being closer to him than you should be.

instead, you settle for tucking him in, draping the crochet blanket over him as he snuggles into it.

admittedly, you're still kind of pissed; he did flake on your plans after all. but when he mumbles your name in his sleep, you find all of that anger flushed down the drain immediately.

the first time keigo meets the guy you've been seeing, you don't expect the hostility.

your best friend is your best friend for a reason—he's the warmest, friendliest person you know. even the media portrays him that way: charming and a little too flirty for his own good.

"quit it," you tell him when your kind-of-not-yet boyfriend goes to the restroom. you're pretty sure keigo's the reason he needed to go in the first place.

keigo sips his tea, doing a complete switch-up when he smiles at you and asks, "quit what?"

you roll your eyes, "i'm pretty sure he pissed himself because of you."

he snorts, shrugging his shoulders, "not my fault."

it is completely his fault.

from the moment your not-yet-boyfriend shook keigo's hand, your best friend has done nothing but stare him down―a piercing glare like that of hawk’s hunting its prey. you'd liken his grip to talons digging into skin if you could.

"you're such an asshole," you shake your head resignedly, chuckling. the horrible thing about this is that you kind of liked seeing keigo make him squirm.

"it's my job," he lifts his cup up to cheers.

(you find out later on that this is when your kind-of-not-yet boyfriend realized it would never work out.)

you're not crying when you tell keigo about the kind-of-break-up. you don't even think you feel that sad about it.

"sorry things had to end that way..." keigo says beside you, legs crossed under half of the crocheted blanket on his couch.

you give him a side-eye and notice his nose twitch. you'd know that fake sad tone anywhere.

"i was starting to warm up to him, you know..."

another nose twitch. you kick his shin under the blanket, the half on top of you rustling on top of your lap, "yeah right, nose-twitcher."

"ouch, that burned," he pretends to be hurt for the theatrics and you roll your eyes, chuckling in return.

everything about this moment is everything it should not be��it's too comfortable, too familiar, too easy. your relationship with keigo is everything you want but can't have and times like this remind you especially of that fact.

he's your best friend―

"why'd he break up with you anyway?"

―and is the reason why you can't seem to make it work with anyone else.

"i don't want to get in the way," your kind-of-ex started. you looked at him, confused.

"you have feelings for him," he further explained, "and it looks like he feels the same."

your kind-of-not-yet boyfriend said he'd caught that moment at the coffee shop as soon as he got out of the restroom―you and keigo laughing as you clinked cups.

you blink away the memory, shrugging, "don't know, just said it wasn't working out or something."

keigo hums, a beat of silence passing between the two of you before he speaks up again.

"well, it's his loss."

you turn to look at him and find sincerity; you're sure he means it, just not in the way you want him to, an awkward "thanks" mumbled under your breath.

things with keigo go back to the way things were, but not exactly.

his schedule miraculously clears up on the weekdays too, and he begins visiting your apartment to take you out for brunch whenever he finds the time.

he also stops going to bars and a whole year passes for him without any dating scandal, except for when he attended your graduation.

you try not to feel too happy about it, but when he's asked about the nature of your relationship, he says that you're important to him. the answer is still vague, but it's infinitely better than the way he used to evade all the previous ones.

"i'm rebranding," he tells you when you mention something about how you haven't seen any gossip tiktoks about him lately.

you push down the hope that fizzes in your chest, even when the biggest change of all is the fact that you think he's gotten clingy.

"wanna stay over again?" he asks you on a tuesday night as you're having dinner, on the table this time. you've already been here for the past two days.

you eye him suspiciously, "are you scared of your apartment or something?"

"no."

"so why?" you take a sip of water.

"no reason," he copies you, bringing his cup up higher to hide his nose; it twitches before you can catch a look.

"well, i have an early day at work tomorrow," you check your phone, "so you have to give me a better reason."

you stare at each other for a while, the silence suddenly turning a touch heavy, like suspense building up to an important scene.

he blinks. you blink.

you watch him intently, see every thought that crosses behind golden irises. he juts his lips out slightly, as if contemplating what he should say next, if he even should. it's unlike any expression you've seen on his face before, and you'd say he almost looks nervous if you only had a reference of how that emotion translates on him.

then he takes a small breath, closing his eyes half a second longer than a blink before opening them again, directing his gaze at you.

"it's better when you're around."

oh.

you don't exactly know how to respond to that; you know you shouldn't read into it too much, but then he continues―

"and i miss you when you're gone."

your breath is on hold, a measly "oh," drawn from you. time feels suspended at this dinner table, your brain finding words to say.

keigo doesn't let go of his gaze and his nose has not twitched.

you try to push it further.

"i'm," you start, already stuttering, "i'm sure you'll survive a day without your best friend."

the chuckle that escapes you gives him an option to downplay this entire thing—to turn it into a joke and make it clear once and for all that you stand no chance feeling the way you do.

except, he doesn't return your laugh. his gaze softens as he holds his stare, the corners of his lips curling into a small smile.

"and if you're more to me than just my best friend?"

you search for any sign that this is some cruel trick keigo's playing on you, that he's lying to get some kind of reaction again. but there's nothing—his nose completely still as he awaits your answer.

a/n: mostly unedited, this is so long help. at some point i started envisioning gojo ngl 😭 anyway this is my first time writing hawks! i'm not so sure if i got his character right because he's complicated but!! i enjoyed writing this (clearly with how long it is 😭😭). he knows that his nose twitch is his tell (reader told him at some point), that's why he tries to hide it sometimes! also he never truly dated anyone haha man is unfortunately very non-committal 🥹 i think getting to this point with reader is a big step! he had feelings for reader early on too but i think he's very careful with it (which is also why it took him this long to do something about it!)

hope you like this bitti! 💗

#hawks x reader #bnha x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo x reader #shotorus.workbook #bitti.🍞#ask #rep #rabbbitseason

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