#tw: domestic rowing

[frozenmoonshine]

TR boys' unexpected/random red flags headcanon:

Just some crack and slander for the humor purposes. As always, don't take it too seriously, and have fun with it at least half as much as I did writing it!

Since I obviously need to spell this out for some of you, even though it's literally in the title of the post - these are the red flags you wouldn't normally expect from them! That's the whole point of them being unexpected. So don't go telling me how I missed the mark with some characters, or how their red flags are something else. Yeah, we all know the obvious ones, but why would I state the obvious?!

TW: F!reader; implied mysogyny; mentions of DV, cheating, and general toxic behavior.

🚩Mikey - proposes on the second date.

🚩Draken - never talks about himself whatsoever. Even when you directly ask him to open up about what's troubling him, he's still difficult and avoids conversation.

🚩Baji - mama's boy. At first, it looks sweet, how he cares about and respects his mother, but soon you realize that he is dependant on her, and cannot make any decisions bigger than what to eat on his own, without "consulting with his mom". Silver lining is that Ryouko is an amazing, lovely woman, but you don't exactly want to date both the mother and the son at the same time, do you?

🚩Chifuyu - overromanticizes everything, then gets mad at you if things don't turn out irl the same they were in his imagination.

🚩Mitsuya - really damn cheap. Like, ok, I know you grew up poor, but going out once a month won't bankrupt you! (You're not even asking him to pay for you or anything like that, but he just refuses to step even one milimeter out of his frugal ways!)

🚩Hakkai - aside from the obvious red flag (you get a package deal of Yuzuha and Mitsuya as well, if you are dating Hakkai), he can also be incredibly self-absorbed and condescending sometimes, thinking he's so much better than you, etc.

🚩Pah-chin & 🚩Peh-yan - putting them together cause they have the same red flag - if you date one of them, the other one will third wheel all of your dates, no exeptions. Might as well just go poly and date them both at this point!

🚩Smiley - refers to women as "females".

🚩Angry - doesn't let you do anything on your own/overprotective. Look, Souya, it's nice that you're being a gentleman, but do you really think I'm incapable of getting a glass of water for myself?! His behaviour can be incredibly stifling and suffocating.

🚩Mucho - won't ever let you pick a date spot cause he's convinced he knows the best. You always end up doing what he wants for dates, or you don't go on a date at all.

🚩Haruchiyo - yeah, sure, he's got more red flags than China, but the not so expected one is that he's incredibly fussy and naggy about the smallest of things. "That's not how you put the trash bag in the can!" "You folded the laundry wrong! Look how I do it!" "Wipe the counter with this, not that!" "Don't leave your hair everywhere! I don't wanna live with a cat!" And so on and so forth, it feels like you are living with your parent(s) all over again!

🚩Hanma - another one with enough red flags to call it a carnival, sure, but the one that catches you off guard is just how jealous and possessive he is. "Where are you going?" "Why is your dress so short?" "You can't go out with male company wearing your tits out!" "Why are you hiding your phone?" "Who's that?" and so on and so forth, you get the idea.

🚩Kazutora - yet another walking red flag in a row (at least his unhealed self), but even as an adult (healed) he still retains that aggression from his teens and gets into random street/bar fights semi-regularly. Him coming back home bloody and bruised is not a rare occurrence at all.

🚩Kisaki - cheats. No idea how he manages to, provided that he looks like... well, that, but he still does.

🚩Taiju - a religious freak prone to domestic violence... what more red flags can you even ask for? None, indeed. But what you don't expect on top of all that is his complete lack of manners and just how loud and embarrassing he can be in public.

🚩Inupi - rude to the waitstaff.

🚩Koko - never got over his ex, stuck on her forever, and cannot ever be fully present in his current relationship. Compares you to his ex all the time, every other person he dated after her was just an unsuccessful rebound.

🚩Izana - does he even have any green ones? Likely not. But what you wouldn't exactly expect from him right away, given all the other red flags that come into front upon the first contact - is that he's a bad mansplainer. "You probably don't know how the betta fish do this thing where..." - Izana, I'm literally a marine biologist.

🚩Kakuchou - breaks up with you over the smallest things. He missed your call cause he didn't hear his phone ring while in the traffic? - He's not good enough for you and you two should break up. He was late 5 minutes to your date because Izana needed his help with something? - He's lowkey ready to commit seppuku, and of course, dramatically breaks up with you. It's tiring, honestly.

🚩Ran - gaslighter and manipulator par exellence! Undiagnozed NPD, but the symptoms are everywhere.

🚩Rindou - loves the gym more than you. Obsessed with working out and body building, won't eat normal food, spends all time in front of the mirror flexing and "checking his gains". Will either try to "get you into fitness" (force you to act the same way he does) or constantly tell you that you "don't understand" just how important it is to him. Is your 10th workout this week really more important than our anniversary, tho, Rindou?

🚩Mocchi - manspreads all the time, and manspreads badly. He's also that type that won't move away from the sidewalk if a woman is coming the opposite way.

🚩Madarame - probably not unexpected, but he's the biggest, worst incel of all. Lives in the manosphere and inhales the alpha bro bullshit podcasts.

🚩South - judges and publicly makes fun of your music taste. It doesn't matter what you listen to, unless it's 101% exactly the same as his taste, he'll be a real bitch about it. Of course, don't even dream about getting a hold of the aux cord!

🚩Shinichiro - doesn't shower regularly. Idk Shin, maybe your lack of personal hygiene was the reason for all those rejections so far? Just some food for thought...

🚩Takeomi - yet another one that's redder than the red army, but what you don't expect is how much he infantilizes you, especially if you are younger than him! Even if it's just one year age difference between you, he'll act all patronizing and constantly emphasise his "rich life experience" and tell you how "you don't understand some things because you are (too) young".

🚩Wakasa - secretly insecure about his height and gets super jealous if he sees you talking to a tall guy. Doesn't even matter if it's your blood relative or a random stranger asking directions in the street - Waka isn't having any of that. He'll sulk and jab at you for the whole day, never saying what the actual problem is.

🚩Benkei - Cannot find/keep a proper job to save his life! Got into some kind of beef with every single potential employer, so he's doomed to working at the gym for the rest of his days.

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 10

"𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦,"

summary: joel need to take you away

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 10

masterlist of the series!

previous | chapter 9

next | chapter 11

The church was filled with the low hum of whispered conversations, the soft rustling of fabric, and the faint creak of wooden pews as everyone settled into their seats. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the distant, lingering notes of the organ that had played earlier in the evening. The Millers had arrived early, securing their usual spot near the back. Tommy sat at the edge of the row, closest to the aisle, with Maria beside him, cradling little Luke in her arms. Ellie sat next, her gaze darting nervously between the people around her and the silent figure of Joel at the far end.

Joel’s eyes were fixed ahead, but they saw nothing. He was lost in the labyrinth of his own mind, where the echoes of the past few days reverberated endlessly. The shower had done little to wash away the stain of his actions, the memory of the blood, the bodies buried deep in the place that only Joel who knows. He had done it all for you—to protect you, to keep you safe—but now the weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, as if the very walls of the church were closing in.

Ellie, sensing the tension radiating from him, leaned closer. “Are you alright, Joel?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s reply was curt, clipped. “Yes,” he muttered, though his tone was distant, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Ellie hesitated, then ventured another question, her concern for you evident. “How is uh...how is she?”

Joel nodded stiffly, his gaze still locked forward. “She’s getting better,” he said, though the words felt hollow, as if he were trying to convince himself more than Ellie.

"Is she going to perform?" Ellie ask again.

Joel nodded, Ellie frowned, her brow furrowing in worry. “And you’re gonna let her? She’s…”

Before she could finish, Joel cut her off, his voice a low growl. “Ellie, that’s what she wants.”

Ellie fell silent, her lips pressing into a thin line. She nodded, but the unease lingered in her eyes. She knew something was wrong, something beyond what Joel was willing to admit.

Meanwhile, Tommy and Maria exchanged puzzled glances. The opening prayers were supposed to have started by now, yet the pulpit remained empty, the service delayed. Tommy craned his neck, scanning the room, before catching sight of Joe, one of the church officials, passing by.

“Joe, what’s going on?” Tommy asked in a hushed tone. “Why hasn’t the prayer started?”

Joe leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “The prayer was supposed to be led by Pastor Ben, but no one’s seen him since last night.”

At the mention of Ben’s name, Joel’s heart skipped a beat. The blood drained from his face as a cold dread washed over him, the weight of his deeds crashing down on him anew.

Tommy frowned. “So who’s going to lead?”

“Reverend Gibson,” Joe replied. “He’s on his way.”

Tommy nodded, then turned back to Joel, his expression curious. But Joel was already lost in his thoughts, his mind racing. He should have known better than to kill Pastor Ben. He should have known that Ben’s absence wouldn’t go unnoticed, that people would start asking questions, that suspicion would inevitably follow. But what choice did he have? If he hadn’t silenced Ben, you would have been taken from him. They would have torn you away, locked him up, or worse. The thought was unbearable, a dark void that threatened to swallow him whole.

His mind spiraled, chaotic thoughts twisting and turning, each more desperate than the last. The church felt like a cage, the air thick and suffocating. The walls seemed to close in, the eyes of the congregation boring into him, as if they knew, as if they could see the blood on his hands, the bodies buried in the floor, hidden beneath layers of cement. Every creak of the pew, every whisper felt like an accusation, a judgment passed down by the very God he no longer believed would forgive him.

A sudden movement broke through his thoughts. Your father emerged from the shadows behind the pulpit, his presence commanding the room. Joel watched him with a cold detachment. As Joel scanned the room, searching for you, his eyes fell on your mother instead. She sat across the aisle, her head bowed low, a wide-brimmed flowered hat obscuring her face, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in a way that seemed… off. It was as if she were hiding, trying to shield herself from prying eyes. But you were nowhere to be seen.

Something's wrong...

A knot of unease tightened in Joel’s chest. As your father began to speak, calling the congregation to rise for the opening prayer, Joel’s gaze flicked back to your mother. She seemed fragile, almost broken, her posture slumped, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. And still, you were not there. The absence of your presence gnawed at him, fueling the growing fear that something was very, very wrong.

The congregation rose, a sea of bodies moving in unison as your father’s voice echoed through the church, strong and commanding. But beneath the surface of his words, there was something else—a venomous undercurrent, a cold, sharp edge that sent a shiver down Joel’s spine.

As your father began the prayer, his eyes locked onto Joel’s, a dark, knowing gaze that chilled him to the bone. The words of the prayer dripped with sanctimony, each phrase a thinly veiled condemnation, as if the prayer was a weapon aimed directly at him.

“Lord,” your father began, his voice resonating through the sacred space, “we ask for Your divine mercy on this day, for those who have strayed from Your path. For those who have allowed sin to corrupt their hearts, who have tainted the innocent with their filth.”

Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, each word a blow that landed squarely on his conscience. He felt the weight of your father’s gaze, the burning intensity of it, as if your father knew, as if he could see right through him, into the dark, hidden places where Joel’s secrets festered.

“Grant us the strength, O Lord,” your father continued, his voice rising, “to cleanse ourselves of the impurity that has seeped into our lives. To protect the pure from those who seek to defile them, who seek to drag them down into the mire of sin.”

Joel’s breath caught in his throat. His mind raced, a whirlwind of fear and guilt. The congregation around him bowed their heads, their voices murmuring in unison, lost in prayer. But Joel couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t find any solace in them. All he could do was scan the room, searching for you, his eyes darting from face to face, desperately trying to find you. But you weren’t there. Where were you?

As the gospel music swelled, your father’s voice grew louder, more forceful, the words taking on an almost sinister tone. “Lord, forgive those who have fallen into darkness,” he chanted, his eyes never leaving Joel’s. “Forgive those who have allowed the Devil to take hold of their hearts, who have corrupted the pure souls entrusted to their care.”

The words cut deep, slicing through Joel’s defenses, each one a dagger of guilt and shame. He felt trapped, as if the very walls of the church were closing in on him, as if the pews themselves were rising up to choke him.

“Lord,” your father’s voice was a roar now, a righteous fury that echoed through the sanctuary, “cleanse us of this filth! Burn away the sin that has corrupted the pure! Purge us of those who would defile Your children, who would drag them down into Hell!”

Joel’s head spun, a cacophony of voices swirling around him, all merging into one oppressive sound.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

You were not there. And the fear that gripped him was unlike anything he had ever known.

He looked up, his eyes finding your mother across the aisle. She sat with her head bowed, her blonde hair spilling out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, her shoulders trembling. Something was different about her, something was off.

And then Joel saw it—the bruise on her hand, the way she seemed to be hiding, shrinking into herself, as if trying to disappear.

It hit him like a freight train.

He knew

Your father knew about him and you.

Without a doubt, that your father knew. He knew about you and Joel, about the darkness that had crept into your lives. And he was using this moment, this prayer, to condemn Joel for it, to cast him out, to damn him in the eyes of God and man.

And he realize your father must had done something to you.

He must had discovered the truth and taken his rage out on you. The thought of you, hurt, suffering, because of him, because of what he had done, was too much to bear.

Joel’s blood ran cold as he realized why you weren’t there, why your mother looked so broken. He should have known. He should have never let it come to this. He should have protected you from this.

Suddenly, the world seemed to slow, your father’s voice droning on, filled with fire and brimstone. “GOD WILL BURN YOU IN HELL FOR YOUR SINS!” he thundered, his eyes piercing through the crowd, locking onto Joel’s.

The truth was clear now—your father knew everything. And he was punishing you for it.

Panic surged through him, and he bolted from the pew, his heart pounding in his ears.

He had to get to you. He had to save you.

As he moved, a ripple of shock spread through the congregation, heads turning, whispers rising. Tommy called after him, “Joel, wait!”

But Joel didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He was almost to the doors when your father’s voice rang out, echoing off the stone walls with a terrible finality.

“JOEL MILLER, YOU WILL BURN IN HELL AND WILL NEVER SEE THAT PATHETIC LITTLE GIRL AGAIN!”

The words hit Joel like a physical blow, stopping him dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto your father, who stood at the pulpit, his face twisted with righteous fury.

“What did you do to her?” Joel’s voice was low, dangerous, as he took a step toward your father, his fists clenched at his sides.

Your father sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “She’s been corrupted by the likes of you. But no more. You’ll never see her again.”

Joel’s vision blurred with rage, his body trembling with barely controlled fury. “What did you do to her?” he demanded, louder this time, his voice reverberating through the church.

The room was deathly silent now, all eyes on Joel and your father. Tommy stood frozen, while Maria held Ellie close, shielding her from the escalating confrontation. Ellie’s eyes were wide with fear, her hands shaking as she gripped Maria’s arm.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!" Joel's voice thundered and echoed through the church, sending a wave of fear rippling through everyone inside.

Your father, undeterred, raised his Bible high, his voice booming through the sacred space as he pointed at Joel. "This man is a predator! He has corrupted my daughter’s soul, defiled her innocence! He is the Devil’s servant, sent to drag her down into the depths of Hell!"

The words sliced through the air like a blade, each one a sharp, stinging cut. Joel’s heart raced, his mind a storm of fear and fury. He had to find you. He had to get to you before it was too late.

“Where is she?” Joel’s voice was cold now, deadly, as he took another step forward, his eyes never leaving your father’s.

Your father’s expression was one of righteous satisfaction, a sickening smirk curling his lips. “You’ll never see her again,” he repeated, his voice a cruel taunt.

Joel snapped. With a growl of pure rage, he turned and bolted for the doors, shoving his way through the shocked congregation. He had to get to you. He had to save you.

“Don’t you dare, Joel!” your father’s voice thundered after him, but Joel was already gone, bursting through the church doors and into the day.

The truck was parked a few yards away, and Joel sprinted to it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He yanked the door open, jumped in, and slammed it shut, the engine roaring to life as he floored the gas pedal. The tires screeched as the truck tore down the road, heading straight for your house.

His mind was a maelstrom of fear and rage. He couldn’t lose you. He wouldn’t lose you. The thought of what your father might have done to you was unbearable, a black hole of terror that threatened to swallow him whole. He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let it happen.

The truck careened around the corner, the tires skidding on the pavement as Joel pushed it to its limits. The house came into view, and Joel’s heart leaped into his throat. The lights were off, the windows dark, but there was no time to hesitate.

Joel slammed the truck into park and jumped out, sprinting to the front door. His fist pounded against the wood, the sound echoing through the empty street. As he shouted your name, his voice raw with desperation.

There was no answer. The silence was deafening, the fear clawing at his insides. He had to find you. He had to get to you.

With a growl, Joel threw his shoulder against the door, the wood splintering under the force. The door burst open, and Joel stormed inside, his eyes scanning the darkened rooms. He called your name again, his voice breaking with fear as he kept calling your name.

He moved through the house, tearing open doors, searching every room, every corner. But you were nowhere to be found. Panic gripped him, a cold, suffocating terror that made it hard to breathe. What had your father done? Where are you?

He shouted your name again, his voice echoing off the walls. And then, faintly, he heard it—a weak, broken whisper, calling his name.

“J-joel…”

The sound was coming from above. Joel’s heart leaped into his throat as he looked up, his eyes landing on the attic door. It was slightly ajar, a faint light spilling out from the crack.

Without a second thought, Joel grabbed a broom and slammed it against the attic hatch. The door creaked open, and the stairs unfolded, descending slowly to the floor. Joel was up them in an instant, his heart pounding in his ears as he reached the top.

And there you are.

You are huddled in a corner, your body battered and bruised, your clothes torn and soaked. You were shivering, your arms wrapped around yourself, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Joel…” your voice was a broken whisper, filled with so much pain and fear that it nearly brought Joel to his knees.

He crossed the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. “… oh God, baby…”

You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing as a sob shook your fragile frame. “J-joel, h-he knew...h-he knew,"

Joel’s heart shattered into a million pieces as he pulled you into his arms, holding you as tightly as he dared. “It's okay, it's okay, babygirl,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry… I’m here now, I’ve got you… I’ve got you…”

You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear. “Please… please don’t leave me…”

“Never,” Joel swore, his voice rough with determination. “I’m never leaving you."

“We’re getting out of here, right now,” Joel said as he cupped your face, "We're getting out of here," he said again with his voice a low growl, laced with urgency. He knew he couldn’t leave you in this hell any longer. The sight of you, broken and trembling, ignited a primal need to protect you, to keep you safe at any cost. This was it—the moment you both had been waiting for. Now or never. If he didn’t take you away now, they would take you from him forever.

Joel lifted you gently, cradling you in his arms, but even the smallest movement made you cry out in pain. The agony shot through your body, sharp and unforgiving, as fresh blood began to seep from your stomach. The memory of your father’s sharp rings flashed in your mind, the brutal force with which he had punched you, leaving you gasping for breath, your vision blurring from the pain.

As Joel carried you down from the attic, your mind drifted back to how it all began. Your father had found out, and his rage was beyond anything you had ever known.

"Father, what's going on?"

You remembered his cold, calculating eyes as he cornered you, the terrifying calm in his voice when he asked if it was true. You had tried to deny it, to protect Joel, but your father saw through your lies. His fist came down on you like a hammer, relentless and punishing, driving the air from your lungs with every blow. You had screamed, begged for mercy, but it only fueled his fury.

He grabbed your hair, yanking you to the ground, dragging you across the floor as you kicked and pleaded. The fear was suffocating, every nerve in your body screaming in terror. Then, with a cruel twist of his hand, he forced your head into the toilet, pressing down as the cold, filthy water filled your mouth and nose. You thrashed, struggling to breathe, panic consuming you as you felt yourself slipping away.

Your mother had been there, witnessing the horror unfold. For the first time, she stepped in, her voice trembling as she pleaded with him, "NO! NO! STOP IT! LEAVE HER ALONE!" Her voice was desperate, raw with the anguish of a mother watching her child being destroyed.

She lunged at your father, punching him, clawing at him to get him away from you. For a moment, you felt a glimmer of hope as her hands pulled him back, as if she might actually save you. But your father's rage was all-consuming. His eyes turned to her, dark and menacing, and he sneered at her audacity.

"You dare to defy me?" he spat, his voice low and venomous. Without hesitation, he lashed out, his fist connecting with your mother's face in a sickening thud. She cried out, stumbling backward, her hands flying to her face as she tried to shield herself from his wrath.

"MAMA!" you screamed, your voice hoarse and broken, as you watched her crumble to the floor. The sight of her, fragile and bleeding, filled you with a new kind of terror, one that twisted your insides into knots. The man who people had known for the good saint preacher, always been the pillar of the community, the preacher who stood in front of the congregation and preached love and righteousness, was now a monster, capable of such cruelty.

Your father turned back to you, his face twisted in a grotesque mask of anger, and you knew then that there was no escape. The beating resumed, more savage than before, as he sought to punish you for both your sins and your mother’s rebellion. Each blow was a declaration of his power, a reminder that you were nothing but a wayward daughter who had to be corrected.

The pain was relentless, each hit driving you deeper into a state of numbness. You were barely aware of anything anymore, your world reduced to the searing agony that radiated from every inch of your body. The only thing that kept you from slipping into unconsciousness was the thought of Joel, the hope that he might somehow save you from this nightmare.

Your father locked you up in the attic as he forced your mother also to attend the sermons.

Now, as Joel carried you down from the attic, the memories of that clung to you like a shroud. The pain, the fear, the helplessness—it was all still there, just beneath the surface, waiting to consume you. But with Joel, there was a glimmer of hope, a promise that maybe, just maybe, you could escape the hell that had become your life.

Joel's grip on you tightened as he moved through the house, his mind racing with a singular focus: to get you out, to keep you safe. There was no time to think about anything else—your belongings, or even the consequences. All that mattered was getting you away from here, away from the nightmare that had become your life.

As he carried you on his shoulder, your fragile body resting against him, Joel moved with determination. But as Joel reached the front yard, a few neighbors emerged from their homes, their faces etched with concern and confusion.

"Joel? What's going on?" one of them asked, their voice hesitant, unsure of the scene unfolding before them.

Joel didn’t answer. His focus was unwavering as he placed you gently in the back seat of his truck, his hands trembling slightly as he ensured you were secure. But just as he turned to get in the driver’s seat, the sound of tires screeching to a halt cut through the day.

Your father’s car pulled up abruptly, and both your parents emerged, your father’s face a mask of fury, your mother’s a picture of desperate panic.

"JOEL! DON’T YOU DARE TAKE HER AWAY!" your father roared, his voice thick with rage. He stormed towards Joel, grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him back, the force of his anger almost palpable.

But Joel was ready. He had been holding back for too long. The hatred, the disgust he felt for this man who had caused you so much pain boiled over. Without hesitation, Joel swung his fist, landing a solid punch on your father's jaw. The impact sent your father stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock.

"You make me sick," Joel snarled, his voice low and filled with venom. "You disgust me. You beat your fucking daughter, terrorized her, and for what? To prove you’re some righteous man of God? You're a hypocrite, a fucking monster hiding behind a collar!"

The two men squared off, anger radiating from both of them. You could hear the scuffle from inside the truck, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to process what was happening. The sounds of fists connecting, grunts of pain, and harsh, angry words filled the air.

Meanwhile, your mother was at the window of the truck, banging on the glass, her face wet with tears. "Please, please don’t leave, don't leave me!" she cried, her voice cracking with desperation. "Please, sweetheart, don’t leave me alone!"

Your mother’s pleas tore at your heart. You love her—of course you do—but you knew deep down that staying with her meant staying in a place where you would never be truly safe. She had let this happen. She had watched as your father hurt you, and even now, when she tried to intervene, it felt like too little, too late.

Through the glass, your mother’s eyes locked with yours, her hand pressed against the window as if she could reach through and pull you back to her. "Please, baby, come back to us. We can fix this. We can make it right."

"Mama, I can't," Tears blurred your vision as you looked at her, the woman who had given you life but had been unable to protect you. You could see the regret in her eyes, the guilt that she had let it come to this. But as much as it hurt, you knew you couldn’t go back home. Not now. Not ever.

Joel, still grappling with your father, caught sight of your mother trying to coax you out of the truck. "Stay away from her, Evelyn!" he shouted, his voice laced with a protective fury. He couldn’t let your mother take you back into that house, back into the arms of a man who would destroy you.

Your father spat blood from the corner of his mouth, glaring at Joel with a hatred that could have burned through steel. "You can’t take her from me! She’s my daughter! You think you can just steal her away, like some kind of hero? I’ll call the cops, you bastard! This is kidnapping!"

Joel didn’t flinch. "She’s not safe with you," he growled, his voice cold as ice. "You don’t deserve to call yourself her father. You’re just a coward who uses God to justify your own cruelty."

Your father lunged at Joel again, but this time Joel was ready. He dodged the attack, shoving your father back with all the strength he had left. "You're torturing her all this time!" Joel screamed, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

But your father only sneered, wiping the blood from his lip. "She’s my daughter. I did what had to be done. And you—" he pointed a trembling finger at Joel, "—you will never see her again. Not after what you've done."

Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, the realization hitting him like a freight train. He turned to you, your pale, tear-streaked face visible through the window, and knew he had to act fast. He couldn’t let your father take you away, couldn’t let him continue to hurt you.

As the chaos of the confrontation swirled around you, you clung to the small shred of hope that Joel represented. You couldn’t go back to your parents, couldn’t return to the hell you had endured for so long.

Joel turned back to your father, his voice low and dangerous. "You’re never going to touch her again. I’m taking her away from here, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me."

With that, Joel broke away from the fight, rushing back to the truck. He threw open the door, and with one last glance at your parents—your mother sobbing, your father still seething—he climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

Your father lunged forward, pounding on the hood of the truck as Joel started the engine. "Don’t you dare take her away from me!" he roared, his voice cracking with rage and desperation.

"JOEL!" Your father screamed. and then your mother scream your name.

But Joel didn’t look back. He floored the gas pedal, the tires screeching as the truck sped away, leaving your father’s furious shouts fading into the distance.

Joel’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he sped away from your house, his knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. The echoes of your father’s enraged shouts and your mother’s desperate cries still rang in his ears, but he couldn’t afford to think about them now. He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing you curled up in the backseat, tears streaming down your face as you clutched your aching body. His heart broke for you, the pain in your eyes more than he could bear.

He reached back with one hand, his fingers brushing against your trembling shoulder. "It's okay, baby, I’m here," he murmured, trying to soothe you even as his own heart raced with fear and anger. "We’re getting away from here, I promise. No one’s going to hurt you ever again."

Joel’s mind was racing, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of plans and possibilities. He knew he had to get you out of town, away from the danger that lingered in every shadow of your parents’ home. But he couldn’t just run, not without Ellie. She was his daughter, his reason for living, and he couldn’t leave her behind. Not now, not ever.

"We're going to Tommy’s first," he said, his voice firm, as if saying it out loud would make it all the more real. "Ellie and Tommy will be there."

When he finally pulled up in front of Tommy’s house, Joel took a deep breath, his mind already calculating the next steps. He turned to you, his gaze softening. "I’ll be quick, baby. You stay here, okay? I’ll lock the doors. I won’t be long."

You nodded weakly, trusting him despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. Joel leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before locking the truck doors and rushing towards the house.

Inside, chaos had already erupted. Tommy and Maria were in the living room, both of them looking bewildered and concerned. Ellie was there too, sitting on the couch with wide, anxious eyes, clearly sensing that something was terribly wrong.

"What the fuck happened, Ellie?" Tommy said to Ellie then suddenly Joel's there making everyone's head turned.

"Joel?!" Tommy exclaimed as his brother burst into the room, his voice a mix of shock and confusion. "What the hell is going on?!"

But Joel didn’t answer. His focus was solely on Ellie, his heart aching with the weight of what he was about to ask her. He crossed the room in quick strides, taking her hands in his, his eyes filled with desperation.

"Ellie," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "we’re leaving. We have to go. Right now."

Ellie’s eyes widened in shock. "What?!" she gasped, looking up at him as if he had just said the most impossible thing in the world. Tommy and Maria were just as stunned, exchanging worried glances.

"Joel, what the fuck are you talking about?" Tommy demanded, stepping closer to his brother. "What happened?!"

But Joel barely heard him. His grip on Ellie’s hands tightened, his voice urgent. "Ellie, listen to me. I can’t go without you. I need you to come with me. Please, we need to go now." He could feel time slipping away, the danger drawing closer with every passing second.

Ellie looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes. "Joel, this is crazy," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Behind them, Tommy’s voice grew louder, more insistent. "Joel! Explain to me what’s going on! What the hell have you done?"

But Joel’s attention was locked on Ellie, the girl who had become his world. For the first time, Ellie saw something in Joel she had never seen before—tears, brimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over. His voice broke as he spoke, the weight of his emotions finally crashing down on him.

"I can’t leave without you, Ellie," he pleaded, his voice raw. "Please, come with me. I can’t lose you too." His voice breaking.

The room fell into a stunned silence. Tommy and Maria stared at Joel in disbelief, the realization of what was happening slowly dawning on them. Tommy’s voice, once filled with confusion, now carried a note of horror. "Joel… what are you going to do with her?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as Tommy saw you in the back of Joel's truck. "What have you done to her, Joel?!"

"You can’t just take her away from her family…" Tommy said to Joel about you...

Joel finally tore his gaze away from Ellie, his eyes filled with a fierce, unyielding determination. "You don’t understand, Tommy," he snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. "Her father’s been beating her, torturing her for years. I’m not taking her away from her family—I’m saving her from them."

Tommy stared at him, the shock evident in his face. "Joel… why? Why are you doing this?"

"Because I’m fucking in love with her!" Joel finally admitted, his voice heavy with the weight of the truth. The room went silent again, the confession hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Even Maria, who had been silent until now, gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief.

Tommy’s eyes widened, his gaze shifting from Joel to the truck where you sat, tears streaming down your face. The realization hit him like a freight train, and his expression softened with a mixture of shock and sorrow. "Jesus Christ, Joel," 

Joel’s grip on Ellie’s hands tightened as he turned back to her, his eyes pleading. "Ellie, please. I can’t do this without you. I need you to come with me. I can’t lose you too, i can't,"

Ellie’s heart ached at the sight of Joel like this—so desperate, so vulnerable. She knew how much he loved you and how much you loved him, how much he had sacrificed for you, but she also knew that this was a line she couldn’t cross. Going with him would only complicate things further, would make an already impossible situation even worse.

Tears welled up in Ellie’s eyes as she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "No, Joel. You have to go… without me."

Joel’s eyes widened in disbelief, his heart shattering at her words. "No, no" he whispered, shaking his head. "No, I can’t leave you behind. I can’t."

Ellie reached up, cupping Joel’s face in her hands, her own tears spilling over. "You have to," she said softly, her voice filled with both love and sorrow. "You’ve done so much for me, Joel. But now, you need to do this for her. She needs you."

Joel’s breath caught in his throat, his emotions a tangled mess of love, fear, and despair. He knew she was right, knew that he couldn’t drag Ellie into this any further. But the thought of leaving her behind, of saying goodbye, was almost too much to bear.

"I’m so sorry, Ellie," Joel choked out, his voice breaking as tears finally spilled over. "I’ve failed you…"

Ellie shook her head, her heart breaking at the sight of Joel so torn. "No, Joel," she whispered, pulling him into a tight embrace. "You’ve never failed me. You’re the best father I could’ve asked for. And if you’re happy with her, then I’m happy too."

They held each other for what felt like an eternity, the weight of the moment pressing down on them both. Finally, Joel pulled back, his eyes red and swollen from the tears. He looked at Tommy, his voice hoarse. "Take care of her, Tommy. Please. I’ll come back… I promise."

Tommy nodded, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Just… be careful."

Joel turned to Ellie one last time, his heart breaking as he forced himself to let go. "I love you, kiddo," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too, Joel, Please, be safe." Ellie replied, her voice trembling.

With one last, lingering look, Joel turned and walked out of the house, each step heavier than the last. As he climbed back into the truck, his hands shaking, he glanced over at you, his heart aching for the pain you were going through.

He started the engine, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, but one thing was clear—he had to protect you, had to get you somewhere safe. Ellie would be okay. She was strong, resilient. But you… you needed him now more than ever.

As the truck pulled away, Ellie watched from the window, her heart breaking with every passing second. She knew she had done the right thing, but that didn’t make it any easier.

And as Joel drove away and he look back to see you now fell asleep, his mind filled with a mix of sorrow and determination, he knew that this was only the beginning of a long, uncertain journey.

***

You slowly drifted back to consciousness, your body heavy with exhaustion as you lay in the backseat. The world outside the window blurred past in streaks of darkness, illuminated only by the occasional flash of headlights. You blinked, trying to orient yourself, the events of the morning slipping in and out of focus.

Your eyes found Joel at the wheel, his broad shoulders hunched forward, the lines of his face etched deep with a blend of determination and fatigue. The soft glow of the dashboard lights cast a warm, almost ethereal hue over him, and for a moment, he looked like a guardian angel—battle-worn but unwavering, carrying you away from the life that had suffocated you for so long.

You noticed the blood on his forehead, a stark reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. But even with the traces of violence on him, there was something steady, almost serene, about the way he drove. The road ahead was uncertain, but with Joel, you felt a fragile sense of safety, a new kind of freedom that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

In that moment, you realized how much he meant to you. He had pulled you out of the abyss, saving you from the dark clutches of your father's wrath. He was your protector, your sanctuary, the one who had finally put an end to your suffering. You were free now—free from the oppressive walls of that house, from the constant fear and pain. Joel had given you that, and you were forever grateful.

"Joel…" you called out, your voice weak and trembling as you tried to sit up. The word barely escaped your lips, but it was enough to make him turn his head, his eyes meeting yours in the rearview mirror.

He slowed the truck and pulled over to the side of the road, the tires crunching against the gravel. The world outside was still and quiet, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had just passed.

Joel quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the truck, his footsteps echoing as he hurried to your side. He opened the back door and knelt beside you, his eyes filled with concern.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a mixture of relief and worry. "How are you feeling?"

You tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "Better…"

He reached out, gently touching your bandaged stomach, his hands warm and careful. "You’re safe now," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "I’m not gonna let anything happen to you."

You nodded, the weight of everything hitting you all at once. Tears welled up in your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming sense of freedom. For the first time in as long as you could remember, you felt like you could breathe, like the world outside that small town was finally opening up to you.

Joel looked at you, his expression softening as he brushed a tear from your cheek. "We’re gonna be okay," he assured you. "I'm here to protect you, I won't let anything happened to you,"

You believed him. You didn’t know where the road would lead, but with Joel by your side, you felt ready to face whatever came next. He had saved you from a life of misery, and as you stared into the darkened horizon, you knew that you were never going back. The past was behind you, and a new future awaited, one where you could finally be free.

As you tenderly wiped the blood from Joel’s forehead, your fingertips brushed against his skin, feeling the warmth of his touch and the resilience that lay beneath. His brown eyes, deep and weary, met yours with a mixture of exhaustion and unwavering resolve. In that moment, you saw not just the man who had rescued you but the protector who would guide you through this new chapter of your life.

The road stretched out before you, an endless ribbon of possibilities unfurling in the fading light. With every mile that passed, you felt a sense of liberation that was both exhilarating and profound. The past was receding like shadows in the rearview mirror, and the future, though uncertain, was bathed in the golden glow of hope.

As you leaned in and kissed Joel, the touch of your lips against his was like a silent promise, a moment of shared solace and longing fulfilled. It was the kiss you had needed—a gentle, lingering connection that spoke of gratitude and the deep bond that had formed between you. When you pulled away, the world felt a little lighter, and the road ahead seemed a bit less daunting.

“What are we going to do now?” you asked softly, your voice carrying the weight of your newfound freedom and the uncertainty that lay ahead.

Joel’s gaze shifted to you, his expression thoughtful. "We'll figuring it out, but for now we’re heading to Bill and Frank’s place,” he said.

“They’re old friends of mine. They might be able to help us. The town’s probably a mess right now, and your dad might’ve called the cops. We’ll stay with them for a few days, get cleaned up, and figure out our next move.”

You nodded, accepting his plan with a quiet resolve. The idea of moving forward, of having a temporary sanctuary, gave you a sense of security. “I want to sit up front with you,” you said, determination in your voice. “I’ll be by your side.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, concerned. “Are you sure? It’s a long drive to Bill and Frank’s—about five or six hours. You could rest in the back.”

“No,” you insisted. “I want to be right here, with you.” you said. Joel gave a reluctant nod, acknowledging your request.

***

The road unfurled before you like an endless ribbon of possibility, stretching into the darkening sky, where twilight wove a tapestry of deep blues and fiery oranges. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving a trail of molten gold that shimmered across the landscape, as if painting the world in hues of promise and potential. The truck's engine hummed steadily beneath you, a comforting rhythm that matched the steady beat of your heart, now full of a mix of relief, fear, and hope.

As Dolly Parton's Wildflowers played softly on the radio, its melodies seemed to resonate with the very essence of your soul, each lyric a reflection of your journey. The song spoke of wild, untamed beauty, of a spirit that refused to wither in the face of adversity. It was as if the music was a kindred spirit, understanding the depth of your longing for freedom, for a life unbound by the suffocating constraints of your past.

The breeze that streamed through the open window carried with it a whisper of the freedom you had yearned for, rustling your hair and cooling your flushed cheeks. You felt the wind as a living thing, a gentle reminder of the fresh start you had just begun. It tangled in your hair, a wild, carefree dance that matched the liberation swelling inside you.

Joel sat beside you, his presence a steady beacon amidst the chaos of your emotions. The lines etched into his face told stories of hardship and sacrifice, but in the dim light of the truck's cab, his eyes held a fierce protectiveness and a glimmer of something softer—a promise of safety and a new beginning. His brown jacket, speckled with the day's dust and traces of blood, seemed to mark the end of a grueling battle and the dawn of a new journey.

As the lyrics floated through the cab, they spoke of a life spent in the shadows of others, yearning to break free and bloom in a space of its own. “The hills were alive with wildflowers and I, was as wild, even wilder than they…” The words seemed to echo the very essence of your heart. You were that wildflower, once confined by the oppressive garden of your past, now blooming freely in the open expanse of the world. Your past life, with its stifling expectations and cruel constraints, had faded into the distance, replaced by the exhilarating unknown of the road ahead.

The sunset's final light painted the world in a breathtaking array of colors—crimson and gold blending into a soft violet haze. The sky was a canvas of possibilities, stretching infinitely above you, as if inviting you to write your own story against its vast backdrop. The landscape outside the truck was a blur of darkening silhouettes and shadows, but the interior was bathed in a warm, golden glow, a sanctuary of hope and new beginnings.

Joel’s rugged hands gripped the steering wheel with a steady determination, his profile etched in the soft light. You could see the strain and exhaustion in his features, but also the unwavering resolve. His sacrifice was monumental, his risk immense, yet his focus was solely on the road and on you, a testament to his commitment to your safety and future.

The lyrics of the song spoke to your very soul: “I had no room for growth, and I wanted so much to branch out…” The words mirrored your own desire to escape, to find a place where you could thrive, where you could grow without being smothered. The journey was not just a physical escape but an emotional and spiritual liberation. With each mile that ticked by, the weight of your past seemed to lift, carried away on the wind like the echoes of a distant storm.

Joel’s gaze occasionally flicked toward you, his eyes softening with a tenderness that spoke volumes. In those brief moments, you saw the depth of his commitment, the profound love he held for you. His sacrifices were etched into the lines of his face, and the determination in his eyes was a promise—a promise to protect you, to build a future together, no matter how uncertain it might be.

The sun continued its descent, casting long shadows across the road and creating a dramatic interplay of light and dark. It was a visual metaphor for your journey—a transition from the harsh light of your past to the hopeful glow of the future. The world outside the truck seemed to fade away, replaced by a dreamlike quality as you embraced the freedom you had longed for.

As the song reached its poignant chorus—“No regret for the path that I chose…”—the words resonated deeply within you. There was no room for regret in this new chapter of your life. The past was behind you, a closed chapter that had brought you to this moment of liberation. You felt a profound sense of relief, of having chosen a path that, while fraught with challenges, was yours to navigate with Joel by your side.

You reached out, your fingers gently brushing against Joel’s arm. The touch was tender, a silent gesture of gratitude and love. He looked at you, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the dashboard lights, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The road ahead was uncertain, but with Joel beside you and the freedom of the open road stretching before you, the future seemed filled with infinite possibilities.

You leaned against the seat, letting the wind play with your hair and the music wash over you. The world outside was a blur of colors and shadows, but inside the truck, with Joel and the song as your companions, you felt a deep, abiding peace.

In the fading light of a southern sunset, you and Joel embark on a journey of liberation. The road was a symbol of your new beginning, a path that would lead you to a future of your own making.

With Joel by your side, you knew that you were ready to face whatever came next, together, as wild and free as the wind that carried you toward the horizon.

[da-rulah]

Hello again!

I am humbly back in your asks to shoot my shot. Could I request Popia coming back from tour and insecure reader who has heard some unsavory (untrue) rumors? Bonus for spice ♡

I adore you, and I hope you have a wonderful week. ♡

Hey lovely! This was an interesting little scenario in my head... I don't know if you wanted the version of Popia I've written, but frankly, an angry Popia is a sexy as fuck Popia in my mind, so I hope you enjoy this... 😈

TW/ Themes of jealousy, untrue rumours, domestic arguments, angry sex, possessive sex, creampie, unprotected sex

Reader has female anatomy but only lower genitalia mentioned. Pronouns not used.

MDNI 18+

Copia expected you to be a little more excited at his return, but instead was met with awkward smiles and anxious mannerisms that confused him. This wasn't like you at all...

You avoided the topic, telling him you were simply fine, just tired. But you could barely look him in the eye after what you'd heard...

"Amore, you are avoiding me," he stated, catching you in the ministry kitchen after your duties of the day were complete. Everyone had gone home for the day, the dinner service well and truly over. You'd offered to lock up tonight, indeed avoiding Copia for the third day in a row since he'd arrived back from tour.

"Copia please, it's been a long day and I need to finish cleaning up," you sighed, not bothering to look at him as you lifted the tray of pots and pans that needed cleaning and started to walk away from him towards the industrial sinks in the back.

"You won't even look at me! What did I do?" he asked, exasperated as he followed you. "Were you not happy I came home?"

"Of course I am!" you argued, slamming the tray into the empty sink, pots and pans clattering against each other. Finally, you looked up at him. His brow furrowed in annoyance, his patience at the situation wearing thin.

"Then why are you avoiding me? You barely let me kiss you since I came back, let alone touch you... You seem mad at me, and hell knows why!"

"Oh, come on, Copia! Everyone was wittering about it for the last two weeks! I should have known, it was only a matter of time before you found someone better, and I can't say I blame you but you could have at least told me and broken things off before I had to find out from the whispers in the hallway," you finally exploded, yelling at him about what you'd heard while he'd been away.

According to some of the sisters, someone had seen him going into a hotel with a woman on tour; a younger, prettier woman. The sisters had snickered about it for days, giving you filthy looks of satisfaction when they saw your obvious upset.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, his voice raising as he stepped closer. You shook your head, turning back to the sink and turning on the water for the shower head-style faucet and pouring washing up liquid over the pans.

"You, swanning into a fucking hotel with some prettier woman on your arm," you noisily moved the pots around the sink, coating them in sudsy water.

Copia reached for the faucet and switched the water off to interrupt you, forcing you to look back at him with a look of anger mixed with hurt and devastation.

"Who told you that?"

"Does it matter?" you asked, voice cracking under the weight of sadness.

"Yes, actually. Because when I find the stronzo who fucking lied to you, I'm going to skin them alive." The fury in his face was evident, his chest puffed up as he took deep breaths to keep himself steady. How dare someone make something so vile up?

"W-well you would say that..." you shrugged, actively choosing to ignore the clear signs that he was furious at the rumour and had been chasing you down for three days just to be close to you. Your own insecurities were too loud, telling you his gaze would be redirected the second someone better came along despite knowing he would never do anything to hurt you like that...

"You think I would do that to you? Do you not know how much I love you?" he asked, hurt. You bit your lip, tears flowing as you searched for a response. But you didn't have one...

Copia took a step towards you, his heart aching when you took one back from him as if scared of him. His instincts had him take another step to try and comfort you, but he watched as your back hit the edge of the sink, effectively corning you in.

"I don't know who started that rumour, but I can assure you, they will be dealt with." His tone was dark, matching the expression on his face. You felt almost hunted as he stalked towards you...

"Why would I ever want anybody other than you, amore?" he growled. It ignited something deep inside you, something akin to excitement...

He stepped close enough that you leaned back from him against the sink, his form looming over you as his arms caged you in, gripping the edges of the sink so tight his leather gloves squeaked in protest.

"You are all I have ever wanted, and yet you question my loyalty, tesoro?" he asks, his face hovering barely inches from yours. You couldn't find it in you to be genuinely scared of him, knowing him too well. "Maybe you need reminding just who I belong to, eh?"

"C-Copia... I'm sorry..." you told him, your voice small and quiet, unsure of itself.

"Too late," he growled, lifting one of his hands to grip the side of your neck and pull you close enough to land his lips against yours in a bruising kiss. Instinctively, you gripped the edges of his waistcoat to keep yourself steady.

He pressed his body against you, hips meeting yours where you bent backwards over the sink. He let go of the edge, instead hiking your thigh up to his hip to press himself further into you. You could feel him swelling against you, hardening as he deepened the kiss and felt you succumbing to him.

"You doubt my feelings for you, tesoro? You think I would want to fuck anyone other than you, eh?" he asked between kisses, now beginning to trail them down your jawline and neck. "Answer me!"

"N-no..."

He took your hand from his waistcoat, forcing it to grip him through his pants.

"You feel that? Who does that belong to?" he growled against your neck.

"M-me?" you questioned, heat pooling between your legs and butterflies fluttering erratically through your abdomen.

"Take it out, tesoro. Feel how fucking hard you make me..." he ordered. You did as told, unlacing his pants and reaching in to expose his length that sat thick and heavy in your palm. Copia groaned at the touch.

You couldn't help but start to pump his length in your hand, needing him close, needing more of him than you could get right now.

Copia couldn't stand it any longer, needing to claim you back as his, to show you that he belonged to you and you only. He stepped back, wrenching your body with him only to spin you and pin you back against the sinks edge. He lifted your habit over the swell of your ass, dragging your panties down to your knees as you folded in half for him.

"Do you know how often I thought of you on tour, tesoro? How I dreamt of burying myself inside you over and over when i couldn't have you? How many times I cried your name out into the night when no one was around, fucking into my hand because that's all I had?" he admitted shamelessly, dragging his gloved fingers through the wetness between your legs as you moaned in wanton delight.

"Did you miss me too, tesoro?" he asked, slowly pushing two fingers easily inside you, other hand gripping your shoulder to keep you from flopping into the sink at the feeling.

"Y-yes..." you whined. "So much."

You groaned as he curled his fingers inside you, stretching you open and ready for him as he held you still. "This is all I thought about, tesoro... Coming home to you, feeling you clench for me like your pussy is begging for me..."

"Copia please!" you cried, needing him now. "s'all yours, just please... I fucking missed you!"

You felt his fingers retract form inside you, leaving you empty for just a moment as he lined himself up with your heat and slowly started to sink into you.

"You feel that, tesoro?" he asked as he filled you, "All that is yours. Just for you, amore mio... Say it," he ordered.

"S'all mine... You're mine, Copia!" Hearing you claim him as he filled you sent his mind into overdrive, and his hips thrusted violently forwards until he was completely sheathed inside you.

He lost sight of himself then, gripping into your hips tightly while his hips pistoned into you. How badly he'd wanted you for weeks and weeks while he'd been gone, and the torture of you avoiding him since he came home was all too much; all his pent up frustration came out at once, claiming you as he asked you to claim him too.

"C-Copia..." you called to him as he fucked into you, reaching your hand back behind you needing to feel him, to have him hold you. He gripped your hand, threading his fingers through yours and held your arm against your lower back, leaning over you as he pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades.

"I got you, I'm here," he assured breathlessly, keeping his rhythm punishingly harsh.

It didn't take long at all for the coil to wind itself so tight inside you it threatened to snap in an instant. Overwhelmed as you were, your fingers tightened between his while your other hand gripped the edge of the sink. He could feel you clenching around him and knew you were coming to your end. Frankly, he was grateful. He couldn't keep this up much longer, his own orgasm looming...

So he started to talk you through it, almost begging you to remember the effect you had on him, that you were his sole reason for losing his mind.

"O-only you can do this to me, amore. I'm all yours, do you hear me? No one else... Never anyone else," he growled. "Cazzo, cum for me... Please, before I lose my fucking mind..."

You'd never heard him like this before, begging you to accept him as yours, to understand that he belongs to you. It drove you wild, snapping your orgasm into overdrive.

You cried out for him, your limbs tensing and convulsing as you spasmed around him. Copia gave in then, finally allowing himself to cum inside you with a garbled scream of his own. He refused to loosen his grip on you, holding you up from sinking down into the water and filthy pots beneath you.

"A-amore..." he panted, worried by the silence as you came down from your high. "Are you still with me?"

With all the strength you could muster, you straightened up, letting him take a step back and effectively removing himself from you while you both readjusted to conserve some modesty. When you turned around to look at him, propping yourself up on the sink edge again, you saw the worry in his face and instantly wanted to comfort him.

"Come here..." you told him, pulling him gently by his waistcoat again. He stepped into your warmth again, allowing you to wrap your arms around his waist and bury your head against his chest. His arms encircled you, holding you tightly to him. "I'm sorry. I let my head win again."

"No, it's okay amore. I don't blame you, I blame the assholes who spread that vile rumour." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, stroking your hair while you breathed him in, finally close and held by the love of your life once again. "I'm taking you with me next time. I cannot bear another tour without you at my side."

You pulled back to look up at him then, surprised and excited at the idea. "Really?"

"Sí, leaving you behind was the only mistake I made."

[nrdmssgs]

Price comforting reader

Masterlist

Comforting series: Soap comforting reader König comforting reader

Hurt/comfort, fluff

Pairing: John Price x reader

Summary: You wake up from the nightmare, understanding, this is yet another night, when you won't be able to fall asleep again.

TW: reader has a PTSD, mentions of civilian surviving the aftermath of hostilities

AN: to my friend D. I miss you.

Third night in a row. This was becoming too much. You awoke with a heartbeat throbbing in your throat, echoing somewhere in between the temples. Only your hands clutching on a pillow are keeping your body from trembling of horror. 

White stars, sharp shards of white light descended on the city in a wide arc. You expected that the rumble of a volley was about to reach you. But there was silence all around. A deafening, painful silence. 

For others this could be a nice dream: watching the fireworks from your bedroom window. But not for you, because that window, that bedroom, that house and that part of the city were no more there.

Although it was so long ago, that you've got used to your new view out of the bedroom window, these nightmares of your previous life still haunted you. It didn't happen every single night - sometimes you even had full months without bad dreams. But they always came back sooner or later. 

This time it was particularly bad. You did everything, the doctors prescripted you to do: sport, walks before bedtime, chamomile tea with mint, medication. You even managed to start having that smartphone-free hour before bed.

Ok, to be absolutely honest: John managed to get you to put your phone down a couple of hours before bed. And all the week that he stayed with you, you repeated the same ritual. In the evening, he sat on the sofa next to you and held out his open palm.

“You know the drill, love: doomscrolling ends in a minute. One way or another. You can make it easy for yourself if you cooperate.” For the last three evenings, you didn't cooperate. But Price had his ways to make you forget, you even had a smartphone in your hand just 10 minutes earlier.

So you both did everything possible to get you relaxed and tired by the end of the day. Sadly, it didn't help.

You've slept at most 10 hours in total over the past 3 days. But what made you outrageous: John barely slept too, as he was up the very next second after you whimpered in your sleep. You still didn’t understand what happened, you didn’t wake up from a nightmare fully, and his hands were already wrapped around you.

“Sh-h-h, love, you're safe, you are safe, it's just a dream. Come on, breathe for me. Yes, just like that. Very good. Nice and deep inhale, now hold it for a few seconds and an exhale. I'm right here, you are safe with me. This won't happen ever again, I'll make sure of that.”

You tried to calm down and go back to sleep. Every time, you tried so hard, but it just didn't work. You ended up too hot, worn out with an aching head, incredibly tired and crushed by guilt as you notice dark circles under John's eyes.

So when you wake up on the third night and see John still sleeping, you sneak out of the bed and sneak into the only place that seems safe to you after such a dream. You stop in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway and slide down the wall. Then you shrink, curl up and wrap your arms around your knees.

You don't even have enough strength to cry. Your head is killing you, and visions from the nightmare still haunt you. 

Why the hell was everything dead silent in your dream? Just like here now, at this late hour.

The bed creaked a little, and you heard John's footsteps. He found you instantly and already knew what to do. He turned on the table lamp in the next room to illuminate the surrounding space a little, but not to hit the light in your eyes. Hastily returned and sank to the floor next to you.

“Which one this time?” He asks. “The white one.”

He froze for a moment. He wished his military background would never come in handy in his domestic life. At least not in this way.

“I was standing before the window like a complete idiot. I should have run, sought for a place to hide, reach the shelter… And just stood there.” You mumble, dropping your head between your arms. 

John engulfs you, cradles your limp, exhausted body and plants a kiss on your forehead.

“I`m sorry, you must have seen it for a thousand times on your… work. It must be insignificant to you John, please go back and rest. I don't want you to hate me for depriving you of sleep because of such a trifle.”

“Under no circumstance will I ever feel anything like hate, when it comes to you.” His voice is a tad husky after waking up in the middle of the night. “Those animals doing this to you, tearing your home apart, are the ones, for whom I have hate. A lot of it.”

He pulls you closer to keep you warm. “And your health, your wellbeing, is the most important thing out there. Believe me, whatever filth I've seen on a battlefield - it pales in comparison to the mere thought that you are suffering.”

He doesn't rush you off the floor, he gives you time to recover by massaging your wrists and talking softly. John knows that his deep voice has a calming effect on you.

He periodically leans closer to whisper how much he loves you and how much he appreciates every minute spent next to you. Even such a minute when you are both exhausted and sitting on the hard, cold floor.

He rejects all your offers for him to go to sleep alone.

“Go sleep knowing, that you are here in such a state? Not going to happen.”

He takes you to the couch, brings you water, and watches the first lights of the dawn with you. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck and let your worries gradually dissolve.

Maybe this is not the last bout of insomnia in your life. But from now on, you are sure, you'll always John by your side.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen

TW: nsfw, angst

You wake up to the smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet in the skillet.

Usually such a thing would mean you are dreaming, and you need to wake your ass up before you’re late for work. But you roll over to look into your tiny kitchen, finding a sight fit for Playgirl Magazine before your disbelieving eyes.

Dear Penthouse, I can’t believe this actually happened to me…

Detective Tom Ludlow is in your kitchen, making pancakes…in nothing but a towel around his trim waist. His dark hair is combed back, still wet from the shower. His broad shoulders are something to write home about–Kansas farm boys had nothing on this beautiful specimen of masculinity.

Had the night before even been real?

As though he senses your return to consciousness–or maybe the weight of your gawker’s stare upon him–he turns to look at you. “Morning, beautiful.”

You blink with surprise, because he is talking to you.

“Hi,” you greet, clever as ever, and goddammit but are you blushing?

“Whacha looking at?” he teases, spatula in hand. The very picture of domestic bliss. God help you, but in that moment you were 300 percent ready to put a ring on this man.

“Just…the most best thing I’ve ever seen,” you admit, knowing you’ll kick yourself for it later.

However, the smile he pays you, smug yet somehow gentle–it fries your brain entirely.

“Likewise, sweetheart.” He crosses the short space with a few long strides to press his lips to yours. “You like pancakes with blueberries?”

You’d bought the ingredients–and promptly stuck them in the cupboards–for just such a purpose, thinking that someday, when you had time, and weren’t bone fucking tired from working 12 hour shifts days in a row, you’d make a point to treat yourself.

Funny, how that never happened, until Tom Ludlow came around.

Here you are, getting emotional about blueberry fucking pancakes.

“Yes,” is the only answer you can muster, and he kisses you so sweetly that it curls your toes.

His soft smile down at you will be the death of you. “Sleep well?”

“Like a well-fucked rock,” you tell him, winning a bark of masculine laughter. 

“Likewise, beautiful. Definitely likewise.” He vacates the couch to flip his pancake. You continue to stare, still dumbfounded.

“Tom?” you ask, still struggling to wake up.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Did last night…actually happen?”

“Sure did. Don’t you remember driving to Vegas? We got the best Elvis in the building.”

You blink stupidly for a few moments, before registering his absolutely shit-eating grin.

“Very funny. And the joke would be on you, if you married me on a drunken lark.”

“Why?” he asks, seemingly amused by your discomfort.

“I told you. I’m a fucking mess.”

“Far as I can tell? You’re fucking perfect, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” 

You’re not really sure why this pithy little compliment brings tears to your eyes, your lip quivering. Only a beat later does he notice, and he rushes over again.

“Hey, hey, no crying, baby, I’m sorry. What’s wrong? I was just joking.”

You swipe at your eyes with the heels of your hands, embarrassed. “You’re just..so sweet, and I actually fucking believe you, when you say this shit, ok?”

He blinks, but god bless, it only takes him a moment to assess, and act. He presses his soft lips to yours, then his forehead to your forehead, as though he can will you to accept his declarations through osmosis. “Believe it,” he tells you. “It’s true…well. Not the Elvis bit. We can do that next weekend if you want.”

You know he’s joking…but it still doesn’t fail to utterly melt your insides. This man who manhandled and harrassed you has turned out to be the biggest fucking softy, and you just might lose your shit.

You’ve already cried in front of him too many times, though, so you play it off and act like what he’s saying is no big deal. “Really? I think I’d rather have Michael Jackson instead.” 

You wonder if he misses being married. If he fucked his wife like he’d fucked you last night…you can’t fathom stepping out on him. But then you also know, that sometimes cops can also be married to their jobs. It could make for a difficult threesome. You imagine going without him, while he was working an intense case, would be absolute hell.

Tom snorts. “Whatever floats my lady’s boat,” he answers, flipping another pancake onto the stack. He ports them to the table with a flourish. “Come eat, sweet girl. You gotta work today?”

“Later. Unfortunately.”

He sticks his full lip out in a pout that should be illegal on a grown ass man. “Then eat quickly, because I’m not done with you yet.” he informs you with a wicked smirk that causes a brand new flood between your already sticky thighs. 

He turns, that broad, tapered back on full display, to finish plating breakfast, and you can’t not watch the tight muscle in his butt shift in the thin towel. You get this sudden strange urge to sink your teeth into him and latch on, and wonder if ancient cavewomen bit their partners to lay claims. Because that’s what Tom Ludlow works on—the part of your spongy brain that developed before speech and theory—the part that wants to bite and howl. 

Evolution is a bitch. 

Oh no, he can cook. And cook good. The pancakes he sets in front of you, drizzled with honey and topped with fresh blueberries, taste like a fluffy heaven in your mouth. Even the coffee is splendid, done up blonde and sugary just the way you prefer. “Tom, damn,” you compliment between mouthfuls. “You went out to get blueberries?” It’s selfish, but the thought of him leaving you alone even to run out and grab something for you makes your insides twist uncomfortably. 

“Oh, no, I borrowed some from your neighbor.” 

Of course at that moment you have an entire mouthful of coffee that you almost spray on his bare, beautiful chest. “What?!” 

He adopts a bemused smile. “Very nice lady.”

“Please tell me you had more than just a towel on?” 

“Less, actually.” 

He bursts into laughter and the astonished look on your face. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Ludlow.” 

“She asked me something really interesting.” He wipes a little honey off your top lip and sucks it into his mouth, making you dumb enough to forget you’re annoyed. “She asked me if I’m the nightmare?” 

“I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“You are a terrible little liar, you know that? I can see your tell from a mile away.” 

“Oh, what is it?” You smirk, shove a bite of pancake into your mouth. 

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” he threatens, playful and promising, sending a thrill through your chest. 

You grab a glob of honey on your finger and kitten lick it off, almost bold enough to make direct eye contact with him for more than five seconds while you’re doing it. “Or what?” 

He pops up from his seat, and your first instinct is run. Run away. You make it two steps before he has you grabbed around the waist and is dragging you back to his place at the table. 

Your squeals of nervous laughter crescendo into a moan when he pulls you down onto his big cock. It surprises you as much as it did last night, how well he fills and stretches you. Not a piece of your fluttery hole unpunished by his silky, maddening pressure. You immediately grind, eager for that pressure to shift and rub and build you, but he stills you with a mitt on your waist. 

Then his big hands bunch in the ruffled fabric of your sundress, which somehow you never managed to remove amidst both of your eagerness to get to other parts of you instead. Slowly he draws it up over your head, tossing it away somewhere across the room. Before you can even begin to think about feeling self conscious he makes a low sound of appreciation behind you, running his hands down your curves. 

“So fucking beautiful. I just wanna stay inside this pretty little pussy all day,” he tells you, smoothing his wet tongue across your shoulder. You arch into him, and he nips your skin for the retaliation. “Feel her throb while I tell you what I wanna do to her. Jesus, you’re soaked.” 

You try to squeeze your thighs together for precious friction on your clit, but he tugs them back open, chuckling at the pathetic attempt. “You wanna fuck yourself, baby?”

“Yes. Fu-uhck.” 

“Want me to pet that pretty clit while you ride me?” He kisses up your neck, into your hairline, tugs your ear between his teeth and you see white fire. 

“Yes, Tom. Yes. Please.” 

“Then eat your breakfast.” 

It’s impossible to focus on the delicious food anymore. The chunks of stuff getting forked into your mouth are no match for the small taste of him. It isn’t long before he’s done with silverware and hand feeding you, making you lick and suck his sticky fingers clean. 

“Atta girl. Keeping me all warm and cozy.” His mouth traces circles on your upper back that make you twitch and gasp while his heavy pointer and index finger rest on your tongue, sweet and salty-pleasure and pain-the desire to move trumping all of it. 

When his fingers trail up your side and land on your nipple, rolling and pinching, you clench your thighs shut again. He grunts at you, although you think it was meant to be a sound of disapproval before you clenched deliberately on his cock. 

“You want to cum?” 

“Yessss.” 

“Then open your legs back up.” 

You obey with a groan of frustration, widening your hips so that the tantalizing pressure is off your throbbing clit. That means all you can focus on is having him inside you, and that would be great if he would just fucking thrust. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He grabs your hips to hold you in place. “You’re busy.” 

“Could be important,” you say. 

“More important than this?” He grinds up, into your cervix, into all the sensitive soaked walls of your cunt, and the answer to his question is no. Absolutely not. There is nothing more important than him or his cock. 

“Tom,” you hiss. 

He sighs. “Alright. I’ll get it. Get dressed.” 

How empty you feel, when you slide off of his cock as you stand on trembling legs. He halts your progress by gripping your hips, pressing his mouth to the curve of your buttocks. You forget about the door, and everything else, turning in his arms so that he can bury his face in your cleavage. “These beautiful–” He kisses one breast cupped in his hand, “Naughty,” a kiss for the other, just beside your nipple, the tease, “titties are in so much trouble.” He sucks on your perked nipple with a pop, making you cry out. 

Knock knock knock.

“Someone’s fucking determined,” he grumbles against your skin. 

Reluctantly you manage to pull away from him, and you remember this state of the art technology in your door called a peephole. Naked as a jaybird, you peer through the tiny lens–and gasp at the sight on the other side.

This clearly interests Tom, his head canting at an angle in question. You shake your head, just knowing a perfect storm is brewing. “It’s no one. Ignore it,” you say quietly, hoping they don’t hear you on the other side, praying they have the sense to go away. You try to distract Tom again with kisses and by trying to pull him towards the bedroom, but dammit this man is solid as a fucking tree when he doesn’t want to move.

“Who is it?” he asks with a lifted brow.

Knock knock. “Y/n? I know you’re home.”

Goddammit.

What can only be described as a wicked grin spreads over Tom’s handsome features. “Oh. Let’s say hello, shall we?” 

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized

7/9 Shadowplay

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

Christmas came and went, and all she knew was that Simon wasn't working. She still didn't know where he lived – whether he had a home in Manchester or if he resided elsewhere. He could live in London for all she knew. He could live down the street, and she wouldn't have a clue about it.

She sent him pictures of her family and the Christmas tree, of the cute pajamas her parents had got her – they still got her cozy sleepwear as a gift, like she was a child. She sent her a photo of herself later with that thing on. Or most of it on, anyway. She even added a few hearts to her texts, knowing he wouldn't return them. Simon was born at a time before emojis were even invented.

She didn't know if he spent the holidays with his family. It was odd to even imagine Simon in a happy, domestic setting, sipping grog or decorating a tree. His father was dead, and he rarely talked about his brother or mother. All the details he had given her of his life were from a pre-military time.

True to his habits, he only sent a short reply on Boxing Day that said: "See you soon."

And she waited. She went back home the next day and sat in her lonely apartment watching historical dramas and eating chocolate until she felt sick, and he never came. She stayed there the day after, didn't leave the house even for the store. On the third day, she started to get anxious, on the fourth, rather angry. No one turned that extra key on the lock of her front door, and she felt like an idiot.

On New Year's Eve, she decided she would get the fuck out. She would not stay at home like a whimpering, lovesick puppy, waiting for its master to come home.

The long-distance relationship was getting on her nerves, and his occasional unavailability didn't feel exciting anymore. It was just vexing. Sometimes it felt like a paranoid exaggeration that he couldn't tell her when they would meet again. She didn't need much: just a fixed date would have sufficed. Her other life was stupidly on hold because she was always on high alert for him. This had been going on for months, and it was high time she did something else. Just for the shits and giggles. To hell with his soon.

So she went to see her friends and drank herself into an impressive stupor.

It wasn't her usual approach to dealing with anxiety and frustration and a yearning heart, and it didn't work as well as she had hoped. But at least she got out of that stupid flat and saw some people who actually had time for her. She had been invited to a party before the holidays with the knowledge that she would not attend – just like she never attended any student shenanigans and was rather curious as to why people kept inviting her.

But right now, an evening full of alcohol and uni people who had normal problems, problems she should've been thinking about too instead of her supersoldier, sounded better than binge-watching Outlander for the fifth day in a row.

And it was actually loads of fun. She decided right then and there, while having her fifth or sixth drink, that she should leave the house more often. Connect a little, get acquainted with new people who did normal shit. Even if they were a bit boring compared to a certain brooding giant who made love to her like she was a goddess.

She laughed so much that night that her stomach hurt, and a few boys from school were really after her at the party, quenching her need for validation and attention just a tiny bit. The whole crew went to see the fireworks to the city, and they all shared some bubbly in the frigid night, and even if she wanted Simon to somehow teleport himself behind her at the turn of the year, to grab her from behind and raise her in the air and whisper something naughty in her ear, the longing wasn't enough to rob all the fun from that night.

When she walked home, feeling a bit wobbly and more than a bit guilty for having flirted with not one but two guys, she reached for the pocket that held the push dagger Simon had given her. It received loving attention every time she walked to school or to the club, the excitement of doing something forbidden soon having turned to a feeling of security and a promise of prowess, all granted by Simon. It was almost like a comfort object, the way it instantly carried her thoughts to him.

Home felt dark and shabby and even more lonely after having a few good laughs with cheerful people her age, who studied the same subject and had big plans for the future. Her plans for the near future were another day alone, but this time, with a hideous hangover. That future felt so dreary that she didn't quite catch the familiar dark shoes in the hallway as she barged in and fought herself out of her heels all but suavely.

She went straight to the bathroom for a late-night shower, and the men's shower gel bottle – the one Simon had brought to her apartment because he didn't want to smell of "girl shampoo" – stared at her like a reminder of what she couldn't have. She then brushed her teeth and went to get a glass of water before crashing into bed.

Even in the dark, she could see a man sitting on her couch as she stepped into the living room that extended to an open kitchen.

She didn't panic this time. Her reaction was a simple, annoyed sigh upon seeing that he was yet again trying to gauge a reaction out of her.

"You really need to stop doing that."

She could see him tilt his head a little at her bitter tone. They had never fought, but right now, feeling emboldened by the booze, she had a feeling that an explosion was about to happen. Returning to a dark home filled with a dark man was such a contrast to the spirited, youthful gang she had spent her evening with that all the laughter left her for a moment.

How long had he even been here? It was nearly 3 AM. She had gone to the party as early as she deemed acceptable, wanting to get some fresh air and fresh vibes as soon as possible. If Simon had come to surprise her in the evening, he had had a long night.

"Where were you?"

The raspy voice was demanding, and she fought back a jolt of irritation just from hearing that dominant tone. It was just a simple question, but it felt like an interrogation.

And she wanted to scream.

Where were you?

How many times have I waited for you to bless me with your presence?

She had been away just this once, and he hadn't called, hadn't sent a text, had chosen to wait here for her to return from her all nighter, and then accused her of not being home.

"At a friend," she said.

"Which one?"

"Marc."

She heard him draw air upon hearing that she had been to some other guy's apartment.

"A new friend," he noted.

"He had a party," she explained, then tested her luck like an idiot. "It was fun. I made lots of new friends."

She turned to get that glass of water and noticed Simon had done her dishes while she was away. There were flowers in a vase on the counter, too. He had wanted to surprise her on New Year's Eve, probably hoped to spend another peaceful evening at home together.

A tiny needle pushed into her heart at the sight of the pink tulips. Simon didn't know it, but they were her favourite flowers. She wondered whether he had been to the club to see if she was there, only to come back when he noticed she wasn't up tonight. If he had sat on that couch as hours passed by, with dread sinking in from the thought that she might be out somewhere, cheating him with another guy. The needle inside her heart burst into flames.

"Where were you?" She whispered. He finally rose and walked to her, much in the same way he had done when she had been upset in this exact same spot when morning light had filled the room.

"Covering my tracks."

She already knew that "covering tracks" meant he took extra precautions before coming to see her, whether there was a real, heightened risk or not. Christmas time might be a heightened risk: those who wanted him harm would probably want to know where he spent his holidays. Who his loved ones were.

It meant that he was devoted to her, an actual sign of care and deep affection. Simon had just made sure he wouldn't set her in danger.

She could feel his warmth behind her, could smell him, and felt distress spike in her chest when he wouldn't proceed to touch her but just stood there. She turned to face him with a quivering lip and wasn't sure whether she was about to burst into tears or a manic giggle.

He was wearing a black hoodie this time, but it didn't quite manage to make him look any more youthful or boyish. But it was snug, almost cute. The size of it probably double or triple XL to accommodate those shoulders and that chest. That hoodie told her he had definitely planned to stay home, cuddling and making love while the tulips slowly opened their blossoms in that vase.

She knew he came here for her softness. He would never admit it, but he craved the softness of her bed, her couch, her body, even the food she made for him with love. He had just wanted to spend the evening filled with some color, laughter, and affection, certainly not go and watch exploding fireworks that would only remind him of war and death and darkness.

Suddenly she felt guilty about getting so worked up. She felt shame for her condition: she was still drunk, like a sailor, wearing nothing but flushed cheeks and a towel.

"Are you angry?" She searched for judgment in his eyes. He watched her sternly, didn't betray any emotion other than that of guardedness.

"Why would I be angry?" He said in a Should I be? kind of way.

"Because I'm drunk?"

She must smell of booze, of a whole pubful of drunkards. Not ladylike at all. He had heard the state in which she had barged in — she had even sung a dirty song in the shower.

She felt like a child compared to him, felt like every guy she had talked to at that party tonight was like a child compared to him. The shyness never quite left her, even if they had known each other for months now.

What if he was angry? Or disappointed?

Or worse yet, disgusted?

"You said you didn't like women who drink."

She certainly wasn't a drinker, even if this night had been a bit rowdy. But trying to explain to a man who disapproved of drinking that she wasn't an alcoholic while smelling of booze was somehow too funny in her sleepy, partied, lovelorn state.

She couldn't hold it in any longer, and a stupid little chortle pushed through her lips. This time, he raised a hand and took hold of her shoulder, as if to ensure she was okay.

"I never said that," he said gently. The brown of his eyes was blown dark, and she vaguely remembered that dilated pupils meant drugs or darkness or love.

"One of the guys wanted to walk me home," she blurted out of nowhere. The alcohol in her system had apparently decided it was quite alright to tease him a bit for taking so long. His head pulled back, a subtle indication that he didn't like what he was hearing.

"Or actually, two. It was funny when they both came to give me my coat when I was leaving."

He was silent, the feeling of being reduced to a flustered child – or a drunken moron – in his presence only increasing by the minute. Either he was genuinely astounded by her behaviour, or then she was really pushing her luck with her drunken babble.

And fuck, she would never get over his eyes. Perfectly almond-shaped and so big that supermodels would kill for them. But it wasn't the warm, dark chocolate or the eternal exhaustion of hooded lids that made them so enticing. It was the look of having walked through hellfire… and having emerged undefeated, with scars and a sardonic, knowing smile. He was like Lucifer cast out from heaven, a fallen dark angel who had been thrown to Hell, who merely shrugged at his fate and then started to rule the whole goddamn place.

She opened the towel and let it drop to the floor, then took a step and wrapped her arms around his neck. He went rigid as she pressed her body flush against him, the amber eyes roaming her face while the rest of him was stiff. It was a new situation, her meeting his solemn stare with bold teasing while making it clear that she wanted him to rut her — on that counter if need be. Or better yet, she wanted to climb onto his lap and ride him, run her nails down his chest and sink them in, perhaps to the point of drawing blood.

It was usually he who ravished her…

"I've been a bad girl," she tried to imitate a seductive voice but it turned into another giggle.

Good God… She wished someone would come and put some duct tape on her mouth.

But then a hand was placed possessively on her hip, a thumb brushed over the side of her stomach. Those eyes were now looking at her much in the same way they always did when she was dancing for him. Hungry and dark. Proud… Pleased.

He had looked at her like that for months and months now. Like he owned her. In a stupefied recognition, she realized he had looked at her that way before they had even shared a word with each other.

He moved in a sharp flash, scooped her in his arms and started to walk toward the bedroom.

"Are you gonna punish me?" She whispered without even bothering to cover the heavy anticipation in her voice. He wouldn't say anything, but when they reached her bed, she was thrown on it. Gently and with care – but it was still more of a flung than setting down.

"It's not really a punishment if I enjoy it, right?" She laughed with excitement, all the remnants of her anger dissolving into a soft buzz that gave a nice edge to the upcoming retribution. "I guess the joke's on you."

He still wouldn't budge, still wouldn't speak…

"Are you sure you're not angry?"

She rose to lean on her elbows and watched him undress with a soldierly sharpness. Under the black hoodie was a black t-shirt — of course. But only now did she notice that he was wearing grey sweatpants. Fucking sweatpants.

Why did he have to be such a kissable, huggable cuddle muffin on this night of all nights? Those sweats were so far from the glitter and glamour she had surrounded herself this evening that she felt another burning sting beneath her sternum. The ample bulge against that soft, grey cotton was visible even in the darkness.

The muscles bunched as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. She would probably never tire of seeing those shoulders, not to talk of his divine forearms that were so different from the skinny little things she usually saw at school or even at the club she danced in. Even she had more muscle in her forearms due to pole dancing than some men – but Simon… God, he was an absolute specimen. And with that tattoo slapped on that bulky, veined muscle, she could verily fall on her knees and pray to this man.

Her earlier teasing felt stupid as hell. She wasn't interested in anyone else than him walking her home. That ship had long since sailed.

And how could anyone compare to him? Those boys she had talked to would shit themselves if they saw Simon, even without his gear. Would turn tail and run seeing him in those cozy sweats, even. She wanted to explain herself even if the cleverest thing would be to just shut up.

"Marc's just a friend from school. He was in this group project and then we started to talk about our plans for the New Year, and then I figured I should go to this party because I never go anywhere, you know, and -...mh."

His pants were off, all of them, and she could see his cock spring free, already hard, like he always was when she was lying down like this and he was about to descend upon her. The night swallowed most of him, but it wasn't enough to hide those forearms, that hungry, slightly amused glint in his eyes – or that heavy, obscenely thick erection that was jutting from between his equally massive thighs. It was veined like his forearms, surrounded by the palest, faint hair, similar to the almost invisible ones that coated his chest and back here and there. Everything in him was heavy and thick, except that pale breath of hair…

Her mouth shot full of water, and rich heat pooled between her thighs, which instinctively clamped together as if knowing that this man was too big for her, even if evidence already proved otherwise. He always told her how tight she was, but she felt like it was more the cause of his size than any asset of hers.

"I thought it would be good to connect with people because you never know, right?" Her mouth kept yapping on while her eyes were glued to his massiveness. All of it.

He crawled to the bed between her legs, which opened by themselves for him as if this man was a whole VIP pass that granted access to the exclusive area of her.

"If you wanted to know where I am, you could've just called me. You never tell me where you are or when you come back. You know, "soon" could mean anything."

She expected him to insert himself to her opening, to push in with a full-blown ego because he must already know she was wet from just seeing him, the bastard. But instead, he dove face first to her folds while sweeping her thighs over his shoulders like they weighed nothing.

"But I get it, you need to–"

A pair of hot lips surrounded by a peak stubble hit her skin, and her head fell back with a moan. Her thighs drifted even further apart as his tongue traveled up her slit, parting the swollen lips with so much love that she knew he definitely wasn't angry with her.

Oh no.

She had only managed to amuse him again.

And of course she had. Her intoxicated state and desperate attempts to make him jealous must've told him that she was a bit of a mess because of him. He wasn't petty, even if he was possessive. It was crystal clear to everyone in this room that she had just tried to distract herself, and she was featherbrained if she thought she could fool him.

"I was mad at you," she confessed with a sigh. "I still am…"

She peeked a look down. The sight of a brawny, wide man on his knees between her legs made her more heady than all the punch she had had that night. The bulk of muscle on his back made her legs look sleek and slender and weak, the coarse stubble against her delicate, swollen folds made her head spin even when she was lying on her back. The faint scent of tobacco and his musk were like incense to her; she inhaled it like it was her only way to heaven, that haze of blazing masculinity, of fire and smoke that was thoroughly him enveloping her as she fell back on the mattress.

Her hand found his hair; it was cut shorter from the sides, but the top had generous amounts to grab hold of, and she curled her fingers there while pushing her cunt against him. She was tired of pretending that it didn't feel fucking best when he gave her head.

An exceptionally hungry kiss echoed through her body, making her spine arch and her legs slide up and down his back. How could it feel like he was kissing her instead of fucking her with his mouth? She had taken Simon as a man who didn't worship women like this, but like always, she had been wrong. Even the very thought of a commanding officer of some super special tactical unit having his face buried between her legs was enough to send her to the verge of orgasm. Not to talk of seeing and feeling him actually there.

She sighed as his hands drew her against his face by the thighs, then gasped as a firm, thick tongue – thick like the rest of him – thrust inside her.

"God… yes, just like that…"

If she was pulling his hair a little too hard, he didn't mind. Or at least he didn't say or do anything about it. At first, she had thought that perhaps he tried to make her shut her mouth this way. Speak with moans and sighs instead of words. But now she felt like she was his prisoner, about to make the confession of a lifetime.

"It drives me crazy, the waiting… I'm always waiting for you." It was a miserable sob, and she was arriving at the center, the numb, veiled core of this whole conundrum.

"You drive me crazy, Simon."

He let her monologue go on. If anything, he encouraged it with his tongue, with his lips that nibbed her swollen bud and sucked.

"You're so annoying." She felt him huff a brief chuckle against her, inside her even, as she was open and dripping and hurting, wholly at his mercy. "Like, no one comes even close. And, and, I…"

The darkness made it seem that she could spill any secret in such a lightless, safe cavity where there was suddenly no time, no past and no future to make her pay for what came out of her mouth next.

"...I love you."

But the laws of cause and effect still applied to this world, and Simon stopped, breathing into her pussy like a long-distance runner.

"What?"

His first words since forever hit her folds with a husky, tentative roughness. That voice was better than any dark rum or gooey chocolate cake or even a hot tub bubbling with maple sugar bath bomb. The heated knot in her stomach coiled and twisted, her eyes were brimming with tears.

"...Nothing."

He breathed into her tender folds, she could feel his lips draw into a smile. He kissed her right at the center, at the core of her, and she jerked a little, bit her lip, and waited.

"You sure?" The gruff, murky voice still talked to her pussy, like it was there where the confession of his prisoner was to be found.

"Yes..?"

A devastatingly languid lick stroked her folds, and the starved sigh was that of a happy, happy man. He had a winning hand, and he knew it.

"Are you absolutely positive?"

She swallowed, her lips trembled, and her heart rammed against her chest as her drunkard's brain thought of the terrible fate that awaited her if she yielded to him. What if they were still playing? She hated poker, especially when she was playing against Simon who always had a royal flush in his hand. She wanted to play together, not against each other.

"For fuck's sake, why do you always have to…" she started, then bit her lip again as he plunged his tongue inside, so deep that it made her chin shoot up toward the ceiling and her hips grind against his face.

"You always have to win," she sighed strenuously, on the brink of tears.

"Love you too," he rumbled against her, and her walls clenched around nothing, more moisture leaked to coat his chin.

"Wh-...What?"

He picked up where he had left, proceeding to kiss and lick and suck like it was just some small talk they had briefly shared while he was eating her out.

"Simon…"

"Shh."

She pursed her lips from happiness and allowed him to finish the job, which didn't take long in her state of bliss and drunken overstimulation. She came with a cry, leaked love in the air – leaked literally, on his lips.

He rose to sit after he was done, panting like it had been a while since he had tortured anyone like that.

"What took you so long?" She asked when he threw himself to lie on his back next to her.

"What took you so long?" He huffed, and she wasn't sure if they were talking about their mutual absence or the late confession. She turned to press against him, thrumming with love. He shifted too and took her in his arms, and her head was shoved against the plates of muscle that made his chest. He was still hard, and she wanted to take him in her mouth, to return the favor tenfold.

"You're so annoying," she chirped with a broad smile while crushed against the world's safest chest.

"Copy that."

"I love you."

His cock twitched between them when she said those words. It was his only reaction to her repeating that long-kept secret.

"You're drunk," he commented with sleepy, honeyed amusement.

"I'm drunk, and I love you."

He sighed and pulled her into an even heavier hug. "Come 'ere."

They cuddled sometimes, mostly after sex, but it was never this ardent. She ran a hand up and down his back while the other was squeezed somewhere between them. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and powerful underneath her cheek.

"Don't send me pictures of your family," he grumbled through half-sleep. "It's an unnecessary risk."

He had rigged her phone with schizophrenic detail so that their calls and messages couldn't be traced. He had even built a sort of a Faraday's cage out of a shoebox, wired mesh, aluminum foil and whatnot, where he put his phone when he came to her place. She didn't even know all the things he did to ensure no one knew about their relationship. Safety measures weren't doubled, they were tripled with Simon.

She gathered the photos she sent of herself were a weakness for him since he never forbade her from sending them. She didn't know if they got destroyed right after, though, or what kind of a headache it was for him to get rid of all the metadata.

"Whatever you say," she murmured while pressed flush against him. His erection wouldn't die, and in her opinion it was unfair, downright sinful, to leave him in such a state after he had given her so much love. She raised her leg and swept it up the side of his thigh until it came to rest on his hip so she could rub against him.

"You need to sleep," he said, but didn't stop her. He even allowed her some space to snake a hand between them to grab him and guide the tip to her folds, still soaked from his treatment. The notion that he prioritized her rest over his own pleasure only made her more wet. He responded with a shallow, hoarse exhale as she helped his cock against her slickness, coating it with moisture.

"You love me?" She was a lovesick puppy now, and he grunted at her neediness.

"How many times do I have to say it?"

"You only said it once."

"Once is enough."

She glided along his length with slick, moist sounds filling the darkness pulsating with love.

"No it's not."

"Insatiable woman," he muttered, slightly out of breath from what she was doing to him. And as if he had only now noticed that she was handling him and not the other way around, he switched their roles and rolled partially on top of her.

"Could you just say it?" She watched him with what must've looked like the most desperate, needy stare she had ever worn. He simply seized his cock and adjusted it to her entrance.

"Pretty please?" She whispered while he pushed in, only halfway, knowing she was more than ready to take him fully. She even grabbed his ass to force him, but he refused her.

He always had to win… Always.

"I love it when you beg."

The voice was harsh, rugged, but his eyes were soft, even softer than the double bed under her.

"I love your cunt," he continued, and a moan slipped from her as he teased her with a few shallow, unhurried thrusts. "Love the sounds you make when I fuck you hard."

"Mh-..."

"...or gentle. Fuck you real slow and deep. I know you like that."

He finally went completely in, finally gave her that sweet satisfaction that came from being filled. It felt so snug, so gratifying that it could only be compared to having a piece of your favourite cake after a shitty day or taking the first sip of coffee in the morning or easing into a hot jacuzzi when you were cold.

"I love it when you say you're a bad girl when you're the swee'est girl there is."

That one ended in a short, mocking laughter. As if she was absolutely shitty at trying to deceive him in anything.

He continued to tell her everything except the thing she wanted to hear. He told her he loved her bedhead, her cooking, the look of concentration when she was curled somewhere to read a book. He told her he loved her laugh, her sharp tongue, and how adorable she was when she was mad at him. The list went on and on, it even had the time when she had slapped him, on it. She was just about to plead again, beg for it if she must, when he finally relented.

"Yeah, sweetheart… I love you," he whispered in her neck with a burnt voice, burnt from tobacco or barking commands. "Should be bloody fuckin' obvious by now."

She dug her nails into his back, not worrying about the consequences, which were only delightful. The coarse stubble chafed her neck as he kissed and sucked her skin, surely leaving marks.

She was so wet for him that she was creaming around his shaft. Big as he was, he glided inside her with no effort at all, even when she felt herself tighten around him with another upcoming release. She was going to come a second time, a rarity, even with Simon.

He pressed her against the mattress with every thrust, the feeling of being crushed between the plush, soft bed and a bruisingly hard body absolutely glorious. Feeling weightless and completely open, she came while clinging to him, knowing it would send him on another ego trip for having worked her to a climax twice already.

The sound that left her, more like a helpless wail than a satisfied moan, meant she had lost all her chips in a bet against someone who had invented the whole game. Her cries painted the darkness as she throbbed and clenched around his cock like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

"Now what did I say? Insatiable." His voice turned into a wined and dined tone when he was pleased, almost braggingly so, and she wanted to dig her nails in his back again and make him grunt instead. But that voice also caressed her, much like his hips that gently rocked her through the waves of the orgasm.

He came shortly after, through gritted teeth and a feral edge to his peak. Her neck was burning from all the love it was getting, but the last roll of his hips was almost lazy, and he collapsed on top of her, trapping her under a blazing hot chest. A palm slid along the dip and swell of her waist, caressed the side of her thigh, and pulled her leg to rest on his back while he remained buried deep inside her. He turned from a savage, heated man into an affectionate lover so quickly that she could only hang onto him as best she could.

His back had broken into a sweat, but when he eventually pulled out, he didn't roll to the side like he usually did. Instead, he shifted to lay his head on her chest, and clutched her in a sideways hug, slack against the bed and partly on her. The ragged breathing was interrupted by an uneasy swallow.

"Life was easy before you came along. Didn't have to worry about gettin' killed."

More confessions were spoken in the fading night, and she raised a hand to stroke his hair. The light had slightly changed, the wintry night was easing into a break of dawn while they were finally about to get some sleep.

"Guess I have to stay alive now."

Only Simon could make something like that sound romantic, but his tone was somber, as if he was letting an essential part of himself go when he chose life and her. She wondered if she had brought Simon back to life like he had brought her. It wasn't what they had planned for themselves, but here they were: spent and alive, meshed together at the dawn of a new year.

"You're spooking me to death as it is. I don't want to know how you would be like as an actual ghost." She tried to lighten the mood that was slipping into something darker, something she didn't wish to think about after a night like this. But Simon had chosen to make her cry.

"Would haunt you still."

She couldn't say anything from the bittersweet pain that spread through her heart. It was hard to breathe when a choked sigh clawed at her throat and tears threatened to cause a whole flood.

"Did you like the flowers I got you?"

…And just like that, he changed the subject. She blinked back tears and tightened her hold of him, so snugly settled there over her heart.

"I love tulips. Thank you," she whispered in the crown of his head.

"Hm."

He was already on the verge of slipping into sleep, like men used to after a good fuck, especially when already exhausted from work. Or from loneliness. She hugged him so tight she could feel the flare of his ribs as his breath slowly evened out. She caressed his hair, the back of his neck, stroked his back and felt him rumble softly against her.

"Not your pet..."

His last note was more of a weary sigh that turned into soft snoring as he fell asleep on her chest. She was not far behind, drifting off to sleep too while cradling him — precisely like a pet, or a child, her last thought being how oddly beautiful it was that he finally allowed her to hold him like this.

[forwhump]

a/n; 😛 I’m back already & I brought some sad introspection w me <3 kiss kiss

tw/cw: self harm, dehumanization

living weapon whumpee, captivity, caretaking

Silas is a violent man.

There’s no way around that and there’s no kinder way to describe it. Silas is violent. He’s dangerous and bloodthirsty and horrible. He’s a monster.

He’s quick to anger and he doesn’t have a lot of impulse control. Unpredictable, they call him, as they shackle and restrain him. Just in case. He’s usually kept on a pretty short leash.

Despite, there’s a soft, almost human part of Silas hidden so low even he hadn’t known it survived. Wren found it right away. Wren domesticated it.

Silas can’t even begin to describe the way he feels for Wren. Most of it is human — most of it is so soft and so warm and there’s so much of it that it feels like it might burst clean through his skin. Some of it, still, is monster, is that violent, horrible thing; it has teeth and talons and it would kill for Wren, it would die for him. It has, both. It will again.

Wren, for whatever reason, had seen right through everything grotesque and horrible about him; Wren had seen right through to the softest, most human parts and decided there was something redeemable there.

Fuck knows why, but he had. Silas doesn’t deserve the grace, and that’s just a matter of fact. But sometimes, sometimes it kind of stokes something in his chest, something that isn’t entirely human but not entirely monster, either, and it wants him to do better. Be better. Be somebody worthy of Wren.

Sometimes it just makes him sick.

Right now, Silas can’t sleep because it’s making him sick.

It’s a bizarre, almost panicky sort of feeling that churns his stomach in time. He looks down at Wren, sprawled over his chest as he sleeps. Silas is a massive machine, and they don’t both practically fit in Wren’s bed together — Silas doesn’t fit at all, as a matter of fact, but Wren doesn’t sleep if he’s by himself, so they make it work.

Usually, Silas could lay there for hours and watch him. He might be a broken record but it bears repeating — Wren is beautiful. Wren is so beautiful Silas is both enchanted and kind of creeped out by him. Tonight, it’s their juxtaposition that makes it hard to look at him. He looks away, at Wren’s hand on his side, and it’s just as jarring; Wren’s soft, pale skin and Silas’ scabs and scarring.

Wren sees through him and he trusts him. He trusts Silas so implicitly he sleeps on his chest. But should he? And it’s making Silas sick. He tried to clean up once he’d gotten back to the unit but there’s still blood under his fingernails. He’d peeled a soldier’s face back with his teeth and he can still taste it if he focuses hard enough.

No matter how soft or warm Wren makes him feel — is there any redeeming something like that? Is there enough love in the world?

Silas is careful but Wren is small and it’s a pretty small effort to lift him up, off his chest, and onto the mattress as he slides out from under him. His hands are shaking, and he curls them into fists as he plods from Wren’s room and into the kitchen.

The water doesn’t run hot, but it runs warmer than it does in the bathroom and he turns it up as high as it will allow. He only has a washcloth, but Silas is strong and he’s stubborn. He isn’t sure how long he stands there, but he keeps his hands beneath the water and scrubs them into raw, bleeding meat. He digs too far beneath his fingernails and breaks some of them off.

Blood splatters the basin of the sink and he kind of loses himself in it. He scrubs his wrists raw, his forearms, starts raking the washcloth and his broken fingernails through the flesh of his forearm.

Blood splatters the countertop and his feet, wet and hot through his socks. He accidentally peels open a row of stitches in his elbow and the bleeding is profuse.

He’s standing in a small pool of it when Wren’s voice says, behind him, “Silas?”

It’s the middle of the night but they don’t get the privilege of darkness outside of their rooms. The lights in the kitchen are bright and fluorescent and blood glimmers on the floor, the counter, the sink, Silas’ arms, his chest, his —

He doesn’t turn but his shoulders stiffen, caught.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Wren asks his back.

“Washing my hands,” Silas says.

Wren’s footsteps cross the kitchen and Silas stiffens a little more. A small hand finds one of his arms, leaking and wet with blood, and he doesn’t turn him so much as he leads and Silas follows, despite himself.

“What the fuck?” He snaps, and Silas flinches. “What are you doing?”

“Washing —“ Silas starts and Wren snatches the washcloth out of his hands. It makes a really gross, wet sound when he throws it into the sink.

He points out of the kitchen, back into the corridor. “Go.”

“I’m —“

“Go,” he snaps.

Chastised, Silas plods back out of the kitchen, down the hall, back to Wren’s bedroom. He leaves behind him a trail of bloody footprints and he drips blood onto the concrete the whole way.

Wren follows him and swings the door shut with a sound that’s too loud for the middle of the night and a flourish that means Silas is in trouble.

Which sucks, because Silas was trying. He just wanted clean hands. He just wanted clean hands but Silas doesn’t know how to touch without drawing blood. Silas isn’t a gentle man.

He sits on the edge of Wren’s bed, and Wren doesn’t look at him as he piles washcloths and gauze onto the mattress beside him. He pins up his hair, and he still doesn’t look at Silas so Silas watches him do it and it makes his throat feel kinda tight. He’s so beautiful, the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, and Silas feels big and brutish and stupid, bleeding on his sheets.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Wren pushes his face away, irritated, before he holds out a hand, expectant. Silas holds out his arm and Wren won’t look at him, but he’s painfully gentle as he takes Silas’ hand and gently dabs clean the raw, oozing meat.

His blood is on Wren’s hands.

His filthy fuckin’ blood is on Wren’s hands.

He pulls his arm away. Wren tries to hold him still, and normally, Silas would let him. Silas would pretend like Wren actually has the strength to maneuver him, if he so desires. But he’s bleeding on Wren’s sheets and Wren’s hands and he’d woken him up to bleed; Wren, who already sleeps so little; Wren, who deserves so much more than this place and this life, who deserves so much more than anything Silas will ever be able to give him.

“Silas,” Wren says, impatient.

“I’ll do it,” he says, reaching for the washcloth.

Wren quickly holds it out of reach and says, “I’m not doing this with you right now. Put your fucking hand down.”

“No,” Silas says, and one of Wren’s eyebrows twitches.

“I swear,” Wren warns, “Silas —“

“I don’t think you should touch me,” Silas says.

It’s obviously not what Wren was expecting him to say because he stops entirely. Blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

Silas shakes his head slowly. “I’m filthy, Wren,” he says, “and I don’t think —“

“Oh my fucking god,” he says, and snorts. “Shut up.”

“What?” Silas protests. “I —“

“Zip it,” Wren says, and takes his wrist with force.

This time, Silas lets him do it. He watches Wren clean and bandage his hands, his arms, and he watches as he bleeds over Wren’s fingers, and Wren won’t look at him again.

As he smooths the last bandage over the inside of Silas’ elbow, over the reopened wound he’s so gently superglued together, he still doesn’t look at him. But he finally says, “what the fuck were you thinking?”

Silas looks away. “I had blood under my nails,” he admits, “and I didn’t wanna touch you with blood on my hands.”

With a sound like a sigh, Wren deflates. He curls his fingers around the crook of Silas’ elbow, pressing his face to his shoulder.

Silas leans his cheek against his hair and admits softly, “but I think I might just have blood on my hands, Wren. I don’t think I can help it.”

“I know,” Wren tells him softly, and lifts his head to look up at him again. He touches his cheek, achingly gently. “Silas, I know.”

Silas leans into his touch, turning his head to brush a kiss across his fingers, and he wants to say, don’t you want more for yourself than that?, but he can’t. He swallows, and his throat clicks.

“I wish I could help it,” he murmurs against his skin.

Wren brushes his fingertips across Silas’ cheekbone and murmurs, “I know.”

Silas reaches out to him slowly, and Wren doesn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around him, from pulling him into his chest, despite himself. Silas has a selfish streak he can’t deny.

“I don’t care, Silas,” Wren tells him softly, “if there’s blood on your hands.”

You should, Silas wants to say, but he doesn’t say anything. Selfishly, he holds Wren for a very long time.

[goldlockets-and-redwine]

You're The Worst | Chapter 1

Pairing: Touya Todoroki x Reader

Word Count: 875 words

Summary: Paw's and Claw's has a fun staff. However, the nosy bad boy, Touya, loves to pick on you. What will happen when he notices the array of bruises hidden under your sweatshirts? Maybe he isn't so bad after all.

Author's Note: So, this fic idea has been in my mind for a while. I hope everyone likes it. This will be a multi-chapter fic as I don't have a ton of time to write. Oof. Please be patient with me. Also, I inserted my cat Thomas because it's almost been a year since he passed, and I think of him every day. I know. So self-indulgent.

TW: Domestic Violence (Not from Touya), Fem!Reader, Violence in general (There will be a fight, not in this chapter though.), drinking, smoking, cursing. Let me know if I missed anything!

“That looks like shit.”

Good god, I wish he would just shut up. This is the third time today he’s butted into my work.

“No, it looks great Touya. You’re just an ass with shit handwriting. Jealous much?” We looked over my work. The sign looked great honestly. I really outdid myself this time. In delicate script it read “Tom” adorned with little hearts around the name. I put up the sign on Tom’s’ kennel, a large grey and white cat sitting at the farthest possible corner of the kennel away from the door. “Do you have his bio?”

“Of course, what am I? Incompetent?” He made quick work of putting up his bio underneath the name card I made. He typed his up like normal. I gazed sadly at the big tom cat sitting in the cage. “Hey doll, he’ll get adopted. You always get too attached.”

I grimaced at the pet name. He always looks for a way under my skin. However, he took it upon himself to never call me by name. I need to come up with my own for him. Maybe he’ll leave me alone if I come up with something heinous.

“Some of us have hearts, jackass.” Wait, that one fits. Still not original enough. I glanced at him to see him already staring at me. If looks could kill. You would think working in a shelter there would be nice coworkers here. Everyone else was nice. Not this guy. His intimidating look didn’t help his case. Tattoos were everywhere but the one on his face gets the most frowns from potential adopters. The row of flames over his left brow. Wait is that… “Touya, did you redye your hair? You should do a better job of not getting that shit on your skin. You look insane.”

“Why you lookin’ at me so hard? Like what you see?” My face was already showing my irritation before, but now I could feel it twist in disgust.

“No. The hair dye stains are really not doing it for me.” I do a swift 180 degrees and make my way out of the cat room and into the lobby once more. “Hey Toga! Any new applications come in?” Her face lit up as she looked up at me. Her sharp canines stuck out as she smiled.

“(Y/N)! We had one come in for Mochi!” She was practically jumping out of her chair. “Dabi! Come and look at the place!” Touya leaned over the counter and looked down above the monitor as I walked around the desk. It was a beautiful house in suburbia with a huge fenced in back yard. “Mochi will love it, don’t ya think?”

“He’ll love it little vamp.” I said. My eyes hovered over the screen to notice the time. “You should head out. It’s 5:30! You know the boss won’t be happy about you staying over too much.”

Toga pouted, but I was right. Tomura gets so pressed when she stays over. It must be that big brother dynamic. She got up to gather her things for the evening and shut down the computer. “He’ll be fine, but I’ll tell him you guys said hi!” With that she gave me a big hug and skipped towards the door and out to the parking lot. Touya turned and stared at me as soon as he had locked the door. Without saying a word I got to work cleaning the lobby. Working with animals was messy and there was a mix of dog and cat hair being swept up. I heard Touya’s heavy boots moving towards the hallway leading to the dog kennels. I instantly relaxed and continued my chores, completely blocking out my thoughts.

-

“Doll,” My body was on autopilot as I put away the cleaning supplies. “Don’t ignore me doll. It’s time to bail.” I quickly finished putting things up and grabbed my bag. Both our footsteps synced as we made our way to the door. Touya held the door open. “Ladies first.” I could hear the cockiness in his voice. He wasn’t going to get a reaction out of me so late in the day. My car’s taillights blinked as I unlocked it. Today was a hot one. The evening sun was shining on me. I pushed up the sleeves to my sweater and was nearly to my car when I heard Touya’s deep voice closer to me than expected. “That’s a nasty bruise.”

The sweaters I wore for the last 6 months were to avoid these questions. It was no secret Kai, my boyfriend, wasn’t the best guy. His record was a mile long. No one would know he mistreated me, however. Kai made a good show of being a loving boyfriend while also being a piece of shit in every other aspect of his life. He won me over with gifts and treated me like a princess. He said I was his perfect girl. Do men treat perfect girls like this?

“Mind your business.”

Touya’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a dumbass, (y/n).” With that he got in his black 5.0 mustang and pulled out of the parking lot leaving me standing next to my car.

[im-not-a-l0ser]

Michie roommate AU ideas (part one probably)

Richie doesn't know Max is his roommate and he's shocked to learn Max can cook, especially when Max starts making meals specifically for him. Maybe he learns from Steph later that it's sort of a love language for him.

A Basic 'one room gets flooded, you're not sleeping on the couch, only one bed' situation.

This can go either way. One has a date and the other makes some shit up to seem less pathetic. From here, you can do two things. 1: The pathetic one has to find someone to go on a double date with him with and they end up hitting it off more than their dates. Or 2: The one with a date comes home dejected from being stood up or just having a shitty date and the pathetic one comforts them.

Richie gets out of a clearly shitty long term relationship and is heartbroken. Max goes on a rant about how Richie deserved better from the start, giving examples about what he deserves in a partner (which maybe Max so happens to do most of already) and how Richie is such a wonderful, adorable, passionate person who deserves someone great. And Richie sees him differently after that. And maybe after Richie says he'd kind of like to date Max, Max says he doesn't deserve to date Richie. He's not good enough. You go from there.

Richie comes down in cosplay clothes (not wig, maybe makeup) to eat [this is a real thing; cosplayers confirm] and turns out Max is kind of attracted to Richie when he's dressed like... whatever anime character that is.

Alternatively, Richie wears Max's clothes for a cosplay for because he's doing laundry. Max likes that too. Maybe he doesn't get those clothes back and he is Perfectly okay with that.

Richie showing Max an anime and they fall asleep on the couch together.

One of them really likes the others morning voice. And/or their sleepy voice.

TW: Max's canonic domestic abuse. Max has a panic attack when he realises he didn't clean his dish after dinner and he's convinced Richie’s going to yell at him when he goes downstairs, or break the plate over his head like some people might. Richie comes to his room, worried, to find him absolutely freaking out. This is when Richie finally confronts Max about his past with his father.

Horror movies. Like Saw or whatever, a lot of gore or torture. I dunno if It or something would work for this, since it's not very scary. Richie is very desensitized to them after watched Tokyo Ghoul, but absolutely didn't expect Max to be horrified by every scary scene.

We're gonna give It some credit now. Max and Richie have both seen It One before so they decide to watch it (maybe after watching horror movies Max can't stand) When they watch chapter Two Richie starts pointing out all the gay shit between Richie and Eddie. This changes Max’s like... whole life perspective. I think one or more Saw movies have gay shit too, but I havent seen any of them.

Max takes Richie out to drink after he turns 21 and Richie is absolutely plastered. Max finds the outgoing, idiotic Richie adorable, and sleepy drunk Richie charming. Richie is thankful for Max taking care of him for essentially two days in a row, with his hangover. He realises just how often Max takes care of him.

Classic "trying to convince you I'm okay with you moving out by complaining about your habits, mixing in 'it's so stupid that I find all this shit charming and don't want to live without it." Is that classic or am I making up a memory if seeing this before?

Max starts humming songs he's heard Richie play. Richue laughs and asks him if he knows those songs are in Japanese and Max is like "dude, I thought I was just being delusional." Not really a ship one, but funny.

Max getting jealous when Richie invites his friends over (potentially being alone with Trevor's bf, who's very attractive and has an accent) because he's used to getting most of Richie’s attention.

Max helping Richie dye his hair. That's it, very domestic. And maybe Richie helps Max dye his hair, idk.

Max starts leaving compliments on the bathroom mirror with dry erase marker for Richie since he struggles communicating verbally. Such as the following image. Richie doesn't take it seriously— he thinks Max is talking to himself— until Max finally compliments him randomly one day. He just stares for a while and Richie asks 'what is it?' And Max just says "you look really cute today." He leaves comments still and Richie doesn't know how to feel. Until he does.

What follows is NSFW prompts. I'm not tagging it because it's blocked off. Tell me if this is a problem.

Max stars bringing home conquests with Richie’s permission. He regrets it immediately.

I really really tried to steer clear of dubcon stuff, but I suppose you can vary these however you want.

Max stars bringing home conquests with Richie's permission. He regrets it when he realises they share a wall and he starts getting off to the sound of Max talking during sex.

Max doesn't have a Halloween costume after being banned from celebrating it by his father. He has to borrow a cosplay from Richie— or maybe makes one for him, depending on what kind of cosplayer you consider Richie to be— and Richie is definitely attracted to Max like that. He shames himself for it until Max figures it out and asks to film with him in that cosplay. Things lead. (My go-to is an AoT harness thing, but yknow)

Classic 'ripped Max leaves his room with little clothes.' Or alternatively, Max is very attracted to Richie’s average body (potentially because it's his body)

Someone flirting with Richie at a bar and Max coming over and putting a stop to it. They're asked to kiss to prove it and Richie doesn't know what's really happening, but is really into it when Max kisses him. He doesn't know what to do when they get home. Especially when he thinks of it too much and maybe goes into Max’s room to continue.

Richie does a formal cosplay (whether that's a formal character like Sigma bsd or a black butler character, or just making a non-formal character dress formally) and Max is really into it.

Max keeps getting hard when he sees Richie all messed up from sleeping in the morning. Richie finds this out and laughs slightly at first, saying it's a little weird that he didn't just claim morning wood and be done with it, but he keeps doing it on purpose after that. He messes up his hair a little bit more in the morning and makes sure his pyjamas look disheveled. Max eventually finds this out and asks about it.

Richie catches Max masturbating to a cosplay thirst trap he posted (Richie didn't even know Max knew his cosplay account)

Richie really likes staring at Max while he's cooking and keeps wanting to mess with him while he does. He starts by just hugging him from behind but it leads to 'joke' groping and eventually more.

[sbrluvr]

please write anything Abi it Diego gyro or Johnny!!! I’ll read anything you make!

JOHNNY HCS

pairing(s): johnny joestar x gn!reader

tw: domestic hcs, children

a/n: hi!!! i hope you like this. i chose johnny because hes so *heart eyes*!!!!

honestly i feel like he’d love to have someone who is powerful/fierce and will take care of him (not to much though)

attentive lover. he doesnt show how he feels much but his love language is acts of service. hes gonna take care of you, he’ll comb your hair in the mornings, maybe even make breakfast for you

if you two end up having children he would be the BEST father ever. hes a pretty doting father esp if you have a girl

you bet your ass this man will spoil tf outta his daughter. she wants new dresses? done. jewelry? heres some money. wanna learn how to ride a horse? my mans got his gear, and hes willing to buy up to 3 horses for his baby.

if your daughter got a no? she runnin striaght for her daddy cus she knows hes gonna say yes.

he wants atleast 4 kids(say bye bye to free time love.) why? his reasoning is “i dont want them to be alone”

now…if he had a boy it’d probably be the exact same, hes whipped and wrapped around their tiny little fingers.

would absolutely do anything for his children and 100% loves spoiling them.

now for you as his partner…he still spoils you. i mean he has the money to.

you’ve probably got so much jewelry you had to buy three boxes for all of it

your wedding gift from his was most likely a beautiful set of jewelry (and lingerie) i’d think it would be something classic such as pearls

a pair of pearl earrings, with a three rowed pearl necklace, along with 2 beautiful pearl bracelets (lucy recommended him bcus he had no idea what to buy.)

[rotisseries]

ALRIGHT SO THIS MIGHT BE LONG. BUT I COME BEARING FIC RECS!!!

first off. since you said you were in an sskk mood. i'm going to recommend you my own fic 🫶 it's called the memory of your name and is an amnesia fic, which i've admittedly never read before. it's based on this prompt, which i just really liked :))

i also have to be seen in the light (but wander in the dark) by confusedwritingrat, which is basically just uh. a lot of akutagawa angst tbh. tw include torture and a LOT A LOT of injuries, it's a 5+1 of people not noticing when akutagawa was injured

How To Wreck A Schedule In One Easy Step by valleykey is transfem kunikida. that's it that's the fic (but holy FUCK is it a good fic, cannot recommend it enough)

Misunderstandings are extremely embarrassing by EMILEHCM is just. they're idiots. sskk but also dazai. all idiots.

Bad At Love by silent_knives_wielder is so so so good, it's skk soulmates and it's short but Silly :33

EHEHE okay so Striped and Destruction, Resolution by AliceInHyruleBastion are both sskk soulmates, the first is from atsushi's pov (and was written first) and the second is an akutagawa version, they're both AMAZING. liike geuinely so good that i binged every singe one of the author's fics afterwards like holy FUCK, they've got some more sskk but also a bunch of skk so definitely recommend their entire ao3 account bc i've got half of their fics bookmarked

dismal disquiet by Kala (assushi) is hanahaki and uh. it's short and it's painful. you should read it and then sob.

something to get used to by shipeo is so fuckign good, it's a character study on akutagawa and his partnership with atsushi set during the cannabalism arc, which is my favourite part and it makes me INSANE

now. now the series Soukoku Fics by NeonGanymede/StarshipDancer is a collection of all the author's skk fics. and when i tell you that i binged all 300k+ words of it over a weekend. it's INSANELY good, it's 90% domestic fluff with hurt/comfort and some angst, but the characterization and the dynamics are absolutely fucking AMAZING. there's also about 7 explicit fics, all in a row, but otherwise there's no smut and those fics are very easy to skip if it's not your thing. i sincerely recommend this series because the author Gets Them. if not all of them, there's an odango wedding one and the most recent one i'd recommend above all.

okay now i KNOW that you love cannabalism and blood and gore so here's a funky little vampire fic for you! i called your name 'til the fever broke by forest_raccoon is SO SILLY SO GOOD I'VE READ IT MULTIPLE TIMES IT'S SO FUCKING GOOD OKAY

idk if you like fyolai but Sins of Flesh by BoredsoIRead absolutely fucking blew my mind. they're so fucked up but so perfect for each other and so so fascinating. i LOVED this one.

It's Rotten Work by Egosdelirium is an skk fic, written during the wait between episodes after the one where dazai got shot.

also @/creantzy's bernadette fyolai animatic is a must-watch it literally changed my brain chemistry

so yeah!! hope you enjoy the fic recs :3

THANK YOUUUU I CAN'T WAIT TO READ THESE🫶🫶🫶

[nyx-knacks-makes-dt-bots]

HEY GUYS LOOK WHAT I FOUND.

I think I wanted to look busy, so I started this in an empty Google Doc and never finished it. (TW: domestic violence)

“Mama? I can’t sleep.”

April groaned. Three nights in a row. Three nights in a row her daughter had woken up in the middle of the night. Three nights in a row she’d been pulled from the warm, blissful embrace of sleep and into the cold, harsh reality of the real world.

“Mama?” the little voice persisted. “Mama, are the police coming back to take you away, too?”

The question stung deep in April’s heart. The little girl had every right to be worried. After all, she was only seven. This was the only experience she had with losing a family member. Was it technically losing someone if they weren’t dead? April supposed so. After all, he wasn’t coming back. Ever.

In fact, though poor little Alice didn’t know it, they’d be moving soon. April couldn’t bear to stay in their little apartment much longer, couldn’t bear coming home to the building, the looming walls that seemed intent on reminding her how powerless she was. The woman gingerly touched a bruise on her arm, her husband’s final mark. She shuddered and sat up, finally rubbing her eyes and acknowledging that her daughter needed help.

“No, sweetheart,” she yawned, “the police aren’t coming back to take Mama away. No one is going to take Mama away.” Her bare feet hit the soft gray carpet and her back howled in protest of the motion. Great. Another reminder of him. Another reminder of what he’d done to her. A breath, unknowingly held, rushed out of her, and she crossed the room to meet her daughter.

Two little brown eyes, nearly all black in the dark, stared up at her. Curly, equally black hair tumbled over her little shoulders. A stuffed bear dangled beside her, its hand held tightly in hers. April remembered the day the bear had been given to Alice. In retrospect, that whole day should have been a red flag to her to get away from . . . Well, she couldn’t avoid his name forever, could she? It should have been a warning for her to get away from Joe.

It had been Alice’s third birthday. A Friday. Months before, April had promised her parents that the party could be held at their house. After all, they lived so far away, and they only wanted to see their grandchild. Maybe that should have been a warning, too. How Joe had insisted on moving so far away from his in-laws. How long had he been quietly warning her? How many little signs had she ignored? Wait, no, don’t get distracted. The birthday. Joe had had a fit. He didn’t want to go on the trip, he had an important project at work, every excuse in the book. They’d fought like cats and dogs that night. He’d slapped her for the first time that night.

When he saw what he’d done, he seemed to repent. His eyes got that shocked-kid look in them. He’d cupped her cheek in his hand, that big, warm hand that once squeezed hers so comfortingly. He’d examined that red mark with such thoroughness, like it couldn’t possibly have come from his hand. His blue eyes had met her own brown ones—how had she never seen the ice in them?—and he’d apologized so profusely, wiped away her tears and taken her into his warm embrace. He’d promised it would never happen again. Worse, she’d believed him.

[midnightkens]

Paper Doll

TW: Domestic violence, child abuse, referenced alcoholism and strangulation.

The best part of having a window seat on a long flight, Colt thinks, is the direct view of the night sky. Twinkling stars rarely make an appearance in Los Angeles, but thousands of feet off the ground, they shine brightly. It’s one of the very few things he misses about his childhood in Florida. Home was often terrifying and chaotic, but sometimes, Mom and Dad would take him to Everglades National Park where they’d stay until dark, swallowed by stars and a calming quietness. Dad would be sober, Mom would be happy, and he would bask in the attention so rarely offered to him. They could be a happy family, if only for a few hours.

Then he and Mom fled to Los Angeles to be closer to her family. Dad, left in another drunken stupor, was served divorce papers in Florida. The illusion of a happy family had long since shattered, and there was Colt, sad, aching, anxious energy always itching just under his skin.

Always talking too much, always in the way, and for God’s sake, Colt, stay still!

Colt shakes his head and rolls his shoulders. Thinking about his childhood sends him down rabbit holes that take hours to claw out from. The stars are still oddly soothing, somewhat decent company while the plane’s other inhabitants sleep. He blinks blearily, eyes gritty with exhaustion, but sleep won’t come easily tonight. His mind races in circles, each scenario more disastrous than the last, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to jiggle his legs.

The worry is impossible to turn off. His stomach aches, and he leans his head against the window. He hasn’t felt so anxious since his fall and the horrible recovery that followed. But this feels worse.

Ken is in danger, and he’s on a flight to London for some film he doesn’t even care about anymore.

It’s intuition. Patrick reminds Colt far too much of his father, and Dad always became more dangerous when he sensed that Mom was about to leave. Ken doesn’t talk about Patrick often, and Colt follows his lead. But he does know a few things: Patrick can go on hours-long rants about the smallest perceived slights. He’s possessive. And worst of all? He isn’t afraid to use his fists.

Ken hides it as best he can with coverup, but years of growing up with his father taught Colt what to look for. To an untrained eye, the bruises would be invisible. The grimaces that just barely flash across his face would stay hidden, the hisses of pain barely audible. But Colt knows.

Ken isn’t as invisible as he believes. There are so many people who love him, who see him. Patrick has never even scratched the surface.

Unbidden, memories of his last meeting with Ken flicker before his eyes. He remembers how soft Ken’s lips felt on his, how they’d whispered a quiet I love you, how he’d declared that he was leaving Patrick in part to be with Colt. Colt’s heart had nearly exploded with elation, but any shred of happiness had been rapidly replaced with terror. Colt isn’t afraid of Patrick, but he’s terrified of what Patrick could do to Ken.

Don’t worry about me. I can handle him. I’m gonna pack my stuff before he can even guess what’s happening and dump him in a public place.

Ken had thought it all through. He can be impulsive, but he’d clearly planned all of this out without thinking of his own safety, and the thought terrifies Colt. If Ken is concerned about his own safety, he’d done a fantastic job of hiding it.

Colt shudders against the sudden chill that creeps down his spine. Growing up with an abusive father taught him early to trust his intuition.

And right now, his intuition is screaming at him.

Everything is about to go wrong, and he shouldn’t have left.

***

Colt gingerly lowers himself onto the bed with a groan. He wouldn’t want to work in any other field, but he can’t deny that stunt work takes a bigger toll on him than it used to. If he overdoes it too many days in a row, he spends at least a week paying for it. He’s been in London for a few weeks, and now that his part is done, he can go home.

He knows the drill by now, though. He’d given himself a couple of extra days to do absolutely nothing but relax in bed.

He sighs in relief when the heating pad eases the tension in his aching muscles. He grabs his phone to check his messages. True to his word, Ken has texted him every day so far, keeping him updated on his situation at home. The last text came through hours ago, and Colt’s heart unclenched. Ken’s bags were almost packed. He was almost free.

So far so good! 😊 Love you!

Colt looks at the timestamp and frowns when he double checks the timestamp. It’s 3 PM in Los Angeles. Ken not texting him for hours is strange. Maybe he’s just hyperfocused? He has a lot of stuff, and he gets sidetracked easily…

Everything okay?

He swallows, throat suddenly tight. The text goes through, and he waits for a few minutes for the familiar gray ellipses to make their appearance, but they never come. He’s probably just packing. Colt opens TikTok, but he can’t focus. The minutes pass by agonizingly slowly. The ticking clock is loud in his ears, almost mocking. Colt scowls and barely manages to smother the urge to throw the clock across his room. It wouldn’t do anything but cost him money.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

He’s watched the same video four times and hasn’t absorbed any of it. He scrolls mindlessly, periodically checking his text thread with Ken again. Radio silence is unusual. He scrolls upward. Maybe Ken had a shoot today and Colt forgot, or maybe he’s out with Barb.

The messages offer no clues. He buries his face in the pillow, begging his racing mind to slow down. He can’t even go for a run without his back aching, so now he’s stuck in a lonely hotel room with no company other than his thoughts.

***

There’s an annoying buzzing sound. Colt scowls and shoves the pillow over his ears, but the noise only gets louder. Colt huffs and sits up.

“What the fuck?” He mutters. He spots his phone on the pillow. It’s lit up, a name that Colt can’t see on the pillow. Who the hell is calling him at 4 AM? He leans closer, breath hitching in his throat as soon as he spots the name.

Barb Hanlder

It’s not that he and Barbara aren’t friends. They are! She’s funny and charming, and Colt enjoys her company. It’s just that they’re both don’t call me unless you’re my partner or it’s an emergency people. The phone continues to buzz, and Colt stares at it, his heart clenching with panic. Something is wrong. The buzzing stops and almost immediately starts up again, and Colt swallows.

He shouldn’t have left. He should have stayed home, stayed with Ken and made sure he was safe. Why didn’t he do it?

He feels floaty. Detached from his body. He watches as he picks up the phone and hears himself ask, “Did that motherfucker kill him?”

Barb chokes on a sob. “Colt, Colt, thank God you picked up, it’s so bad I – Wait. No. No. He didn’t kill him. He – “ Barb sniffles and takes a few shaky breaths. “He tried, though.”

Colt closes his eyes. He knew it. “What did he do?”

And so Colt listens as Barb tells him the story, how she and Gloria came to Ken’s apartment to find him barely conscious on the floor. How he’d been choking for air, how he’d gone limp as soon as Barb walked through the door.

When she describes the bruises on his neck, he swallows bile. He puts Barb on speaker and starts frantically gathering his things, ignoring the sharp pain that runs up his spine. He yanks his suitcase from its home on the closet floor and unceremoniously shoves his clothes into it. He should have stayed. He should have stayed and helped Ken pack his things. Patrick never dared to fuck with Ken whenever Colt was around. Colt takes great pleasure in knowing that the other man is terrified of him. All Colt has to do is flex, and the bravado instantly disappears. If he’d been there, this wouldn’t have happened. Ken would be safe. He needs to see the other man with his own eyes, see the rise and fall of his chest, needs to see his big, blue eyes open and wide with life. “I’m getting on the first flight outta here. I’m coming home.” The words is he okay almost fall from his lips, but he stops himself just in time. What kind of question is that?

“How is he?”

Barb hesitates. “Physically? So far he’s okay. It doesn’t look like there’s any internal damage. He’s awake. Ummm. He can’t really talk. His vocal cords took heavy damage, but his voice should be back in a few weeks.”

Ken’s voice. It’s one of the things Colt loves the most about him. It’s deep and soothing, and when he sings, Colt always stops to listen. His voice is smooth; it never cracks. And his singing voice is one of the very few things he’s confident about. A violent attack stole that from him. Colt grips the edge of his suitcase so tightly that it creaks under his hands. That evil bastard has stolen everything from him.

I’m gonna beat the shit out of him.

“Colt? Are you still there?”

Colt takes a few deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, just the way the therapist he saw after his injury taught him. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, sorry. I’m here. You said he’s awake?”

“He’s awake, yes. Gloria and Ryan are in there with him right now. We’re not leaving him alone. He hasn’t really interacted much. He’s in shock, I think. The doctors ran a million tests when he woke up, and then he just…I dunno. He’s staring into space a lot. He doesn’t even seem to realize that we’re here. You’re coming home?”

Even over the phone, Barb’s voice is thick with unshed tears. How long has she been holding it together for? “I’m coming home, yeah. How are you holding up?”

“Oh.” Barb sniffles, and Colt pictures her wiping her eyes. “I don’t know yet. Ask me later. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.”

“Fair enough.”

Colt zips his suitcase, not even bothering to give the room his usual final check. Stuff be damned. Clothes and shoes can always be replaced. He and Barb hang up, and the next thing Colt knows, he’s at the airport.

How did he even get here? No matter. Even at 6 AM on a Monday, the line is long, and he groans. Why is this taking so fucking long?

His phone vibrates and he fishes it out of his pocket. God, he’s ready to snap. The irritation ebbs as soon as it appears when he sees who the message is from.

Ken: So Barb told you what happened

It’s not a question. Even over text, he sounds dejected. Resigned. Colt wants to call him, he’s so desperate to hear Ken for himself, but then he remembers the vocal cord damage and sighs. She told me. How are you?????

For five minutes, Colt watches Ken start typing, stop, then start again. His hands start to shake when the next text comes through.

I’m really fucking scared.

Ken isn’t embarrassed to admit when he’s afraid of something. He’ll readily admit to being afraid of bugs, heights, and horror movies. He’s only ever refused to admit fear a few times, and each of those had a common denominator.

Patrick.

It’s the final nail in the coffin. Colt tastes salty tears, but he makes no effort to stop crying. He wants nothing more than to see Ken, to hold him close and to ease his terror, but he can’t. The next available flight is over twenty hours long with two connections. Colt jumps at the chance. If it’s the best they can do, then so be it.

Don’t worry, he texts back. I’m coming.

[immacaria]

Fluffbruary: February 5 - Aquarium

Tags: Character Death TW; said character come back right after; Merman AU; Hob rescues Dream; Strangers to Friends to Lovers; Fluff; Domestic Fluff; Eventual Fluff

The first time Hob met Dream he was inside a closed aquarium, still like a corpse and eyes closed. There was nothing about him that would tell Hob he was alive, that the being in front of him was breathing and waiting to kill the person who dared to come too close. He was wrong.

As soon as he opened the lid, looking inside, two clawed hands came out and cut his shoulders open. Blood dripped into the water, his head submerging as the thing pulled him down and down and down. A scream came out of his mouth as teeth bite into his neck, tearing it open.

Two stars appeared in the middle of the darkness as Hob bleeded out, getting closer and closer... closer.... closer..... closer......

When Hob opened his eyes once again he was still inside the tank, water surrounding him and bringing the panic back with full force. His feet searched for the bottom, hands coming up and looking for a way out, his mind screaming for him to get out get out getoutgetougetout. Open space appeared and he grabbed the walls of the aquarium, drawing big breaths, trying to get air into his lungs. When he finally calmed down, he was completely alone in the room.

The second time he met Dream, it was his friend's fault.

Hob was waiting for Teleute to come around to their weekly meeting, pen twirling around in his hand while he thought how many wrong questions Theodore could get in a row. All of them, apparently.

The first sign that his friend arrived was the low whispers growing around him and the heavy sound of her boots. The second one was the full and warm laugh that always seemed to accompany her wherever she went. The third was the chair being pulled and someone sitting down by his side.

But this time a third chair was also pulled.

Hob looked up to see the thing that killed him a mere week before staring at him, blue eyes burning into his. His hair still seemed to be flooding around him, just like back in the aquarium, and his expression was just as serious. His eyebrows were furrowed as if he hadn't expected Hob to be alive.

"What do you want to say, little brother, to the man who rescued you?" Teleute said by his side and Hob turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow. He should have guessed this, he should have known, after all, it was her who showed him the way to that basement where he found the aquarium and his death... Again.

"I am sorry and thank you," the man said, every word sounding as if it hurt him to say them. "I didn't know you wanted to help me," he added and looked down for a moment, honest to God pouting and Hob didn't have it in his heart to hate him.

"It's alright. You were scared," Hob said, smiling at him and putting the exams away. "I'm Hob, by the way," an outstretched hand and a smile and they were suddenly friends.

Week after week, Dream started to show up at the New Inn, sometimes with Teleute, but mostly alone. In the beginning, Hob thought he felt guilty for ripping his neck apart, but soon discovered it wasn't exactly like that. He was lonely, Hob thought, yet, didn't say anything.

After spending almost one hundred years imprisoned in a fish tank, he thought that it could feel quite lonely there. So he let Dream stay there, with him at the New Inn. And, eventually, at his loft, and his sofa and, then, his bed.

He could feel Dream's breaths against his neck, one of his legs thrown over Hob's hips and his right arm over his chest. Years passed since their first encounter, since Dream ripped Hob’s neck open and said he was sorry one week later. Teleute had been happy for them, hugging Hob so strongly his back popped.

His fingers worked through Dream's hair, looking for all the insistent knots there and carefully picking them apart. The air was cold around them, snow falling outside the window and painting the streets white and making everyone stay inside for the weekend. Dream's nose was buried against his collarbone, his head pressed against his neck as he kept sleeping.

It should be strange, Hob knew, to sleep aside the creature who killed him in their very first meeting, but he had lived much more than he was supposed to. He knew Death personally, had cheated on the game of cards they played every time they met, he had seen many things, killed many others too. This? This was not strange to him, this was something he never thought he would have.

And one he would never let go of.

[c3stlav1e]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥   basics 

♡ .  stage name: sohee

♡ .  birth name: yoon sohee

♡ .  birthday: june 30, 1997

♡ .  zodiac: cancer

♡ .  birthplace: incheon, south korea

♡ .  ethnicity: korean

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥   personal

♡ . personality

sohee is first and foremost soft, sweet, and generally sensitive. she chooses to be trusting and always actively tries to see the good in people first. this leads her to make excuses for people when she shouldn’t sometimes, but it also allows her to make connections with people more naturally. she tends to act pretty childlike at times, both the good and the bad. she gets excited easily, and people find her very endearing. she cries when she gets frustrated which usually makes her even more frustrated because it becomes harder to communicate. she can be rather self critical with a need for validation that can lead her into unhealthy spirals. this, combined with her inherent trusting and idealist attitude and her past trauma has led her into multiple toxic relationships in the past.

♡ . family

. jang hyemi ; mother

. yoon gwangjae ; father

. yoon minhee ; younger sister

♡ . physical

. height: 160 cm ( 5’3” )

. faceclaim: yoo siah “ yooa ”

. body mods: none

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥   professional

♡ . label: mgc entertainment ; rainbow entertainment

♡ . training period: 4 years at mgc entertainment ; 2 years at rainbow entertainment

♡ . group position: lead dancer, sub vocalist

♡ . idol persona

although not the maknae, she is often seen as the baby of the group. her sweet and innocent-like persona and visuals quickly made her the nation’s darling once again. she is the second most popular member domestically after anya, but prefers to take performance or acting experiences over modeling. she has appeared in a few dramas, the most popular being her role as jookyung in true beauty. she is rather touchy and in any given piece of content for the group, you will likely see her cuddled up with a member at any given time. she is the member most likely to do aegyo without putting up a fuss, and lovies have dubbed her the queen of aegyo both for this reason and because she manages to actually look impossibly cute while doing it. she loves to interact with fans, and there are endless compilations of “soft sohee moments with fans” on the internet. she is also a huge cat lover with a cat of her own that is constantly featured in her social media posts. she will take any opportunity to coo over a cat whether its one that is just minding its business in the street or if a fan takes the time to show her one in a fancall. she will send pictures of cats in their messaging service and always captions it with “this reminded me of our cutest lovies,” and she will happily don any animal ears given to her proudly. but especially the cat ones. she is the most likely to cry at their concerts and her members like to poke fun at her for it at times, tomi posting a full slideshow of pictures of her crying for her birthday several years in a row.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥   history tw ; csa

sohee has always been a pretty baby. everyone always told her parents so. no one had ever seen a baby more beautiful and sweet-natured, they said. she was perfect. on a whim when she was just about to turn 2, her mother entered her in a beautiful baby contest run by a famous childcare brand looking to find their next baby models. her win set her on an unexpected path of billboards and fame, the citizens of korea all knowing her name and cooing over her image before she could even form full sentences. she kept modeling and appearing in commercials throughout her childhood. she was a darling sensation in the late 90s and early 2000s, even brands like samsung sought her out for advertisements. she first realized her dream of becoming an idol when was around 5 and she had to perform a rendition of a children’s song for one of her commercials. it was her biggest hit, the catchy jingle and her cute little face boosting the company’s sales ten-fold. 

she kept modeling and acting in commercials for years, but as she got older, she began to book less and less. she was still pretty, they said, but she was losing that same toddler charm she once had. when she was 9 years old, she and her parents were approached by a scout from mgc entertainment, the company of one of the highest-selling girl groups of the time. her parents were a little hesitant, not only ready to be done with the industry they had been sucked into so suddenly, but believing sohee was too young to be a trainee. the scout was convincing enough though, telling her parents that they wanted to make her the next boa. sohee begged and begged for them to let her join, and after a week or so of consideration, finally agreed. she did an obligatory audition but was immediately accepted, the company seeking her out for her visuals and her already hefty resume as a child model. 

she enjoyed her training at first, happy that she spent her days learning to sing and dance with other kids her age. that was until one of the dance instructors began giving her special treatment. he always gave her praise in front of the class despite berating other kids, he would give her special lessons in his own studio, and eventually he began making advances on her. she didn’t understand it at first. she liked being his favorite, even though some of her friends began to turn on her because of it. she liked being praised and encouraged. but often times she was self-conscious of the way he would put his hands on her while guiding her movements, or his tone of voice when he would speak to her when they were alone. 

it got to the point where one day, she begged and begged her mom to let her stay home from practice and quit being a trainee. concerned for her daughter after her initial excitement, she eventually got the truth out of sohee and was enraged. her parents immediately took the issue to the company, but they informed them that they had signed exclusive 5-year contracts with them, including nda clauses. the company threatened the family with legal action if they continued to speak on the issue or if they pulled sohee out of the training program. unable to risk the costs, they reluctantly sent sohee back to the program. they warned her to stay away from the teacher as much as she could, but to tell no one else about the issue.

the next day after class, the teacher pulled her aside and told her that she would never make it in the industry if she couldn’t handle special treatment. that he was only helping her to reach her dreams and that every girl who had ever made it as a star had been in her position. she kept attending his lessons after that.

she was always torn. she still had a deep love for performing. she got lost in a dance or a song, relishing in the way she felt strong and impenetrable when she was on the stage. but she was slowly becoming more isolated, and the instructor made her feel wrong for wanting to chase this dream. in the 5th year of her training, the final year of her dreaded contract, one day she arrived to the studios where she had spent years practicing and found them entirely abandoned. it turns out that the company had been under investigation for fraud, money laundering, and csam related crimes for the past few months. suddenly everything that she had been working for, that she had been suffering for, disappeared before her very eyes.

it took years for her to get over the crushing loss of her dream and even begin to heal from the trauma she had experienced. 3 years after the disappearance of mgc entertainment, just after her 16th birthday, another scout approached her on the street on behalf of rainbow entertainment. she denied her at first, struggling to even hold a conversation as anxiety rubbed raw at her throat, but she took her card, if only to get away quicker. but the longer she considered it, the more she was reminded of what her dream had meant to her. her parents were hesitant at first, not quick to forget the way she was torn apart when this dream did not work out before, bit after seeing her renewed determination, they agreed. but not before hiring a lawyer to sit in on any contract signing.

she found a new life while training at rbe, a renewed passion for what she had longed for before. she still struggled with symptoms of ptsd at times, but she had found a strong support system in her friends, especially seolah who she had quickly found solace in. she was overcome with joy on their debut day, hardly unable to stop crying as her dream finally came to reality after everything she had gone through to get there.

[hellonexrth]

001. fated finale one-shot: piper monroe tw: references to domestic violence, death, violence, blood

Looking in the mirror at herself could have easily been described as one of Piper's favorite hobbies. She was beautiful, and she knew it. But Brad, apparently, sought to take her down a peg or two, to ruin that feeling of love she held for herself. Because now, looking in the mirror, she only saw a ghost. Frizzy red hair, bruises and hollow cheekbones, dried streaks from the tears that escaped angrily. All the way down to the white knuckles she gripped the edge of the sink with.

And of course, most of that anger was at him, for what he'd done to her, but she couldn't help but feel a bit of it at herself, too. For seeing the visions and ignoring them. Thinking herself better than fate. But they'd only been glimpses, at first.

The first date she'd seen bloody knuckles and bruises, and three months into the relationship she'd seen him dead on the floor. But she was Piper Monroe, and no one told her what to do, no one took choice away from her. So she'd continued on, forward, thinking that love could conquer all just like in the movies. But god, had she been wrong. And in learning that lesson, she'd learned so many more, too. Most importantly, that fate was not something that could be questioned, changed, messed with. That next time she had a vision, next time she felt a shred of anything regarding the future, she'd shut her mouth and listen.

Because as it turned out, no one knew her better than the voice in her head. The magic that stirred and flickered, that projected moments and pictures onto the backs of her eyelids, that screamed listen to me, despite her every best effort not to.

But at that moment, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with bruises dark purple on her upper arms where he'd grabbed her, face stinging and red, aching down to her bones with pain and hatred, she could only keep going. She could only wipe the tears from her eyes and walk out of the bathroom like everything was fine. Apply a little bit more concealer and keep on pretending. It was what she was best at those days.

She'd only made it to the kitchen when he started berating her again. And even though she knew the ending, knew how things were supposed to go, how they'd been laid out. Stone after stone laid into a path, she followed it blindly without meaning to. And that vision, the one she'd had a few months into the relationship, came to a head five years later standing in the kitchen over laminated tile that would be easy to clean.

"What are you going to do with that?" Brad asked, eyeing the kitchen knife that somehow made its way into her hand. Maybe she'd grabbed it when he approached with clenched fists and unkind words, but she couldn't remember. Just like she couldn't remember who had moved first, if he'd been taunting her or if she'd just lost it.

But the haze lifted just as he fell, and the knife clattered to the ground soaked in the blood of someone she once loved. And because she was unlike Brad in so many ways, but especially in the way she cared, she dropped to her knees and wailed. Not for the person she was losing now, but for the one she'd lost years ago, for the person she'd spent days in a row with, the person she'd wanted to marry. And yet, she also cherished never having to deal with his brutality ever again. So the wailing didn't last long. After composing herself, she picked the knife up off the ground and washed it in the sink like she'd just finished preparing dinner.

And she turned, back to the sink, holding the counter behind her to keep steady, as she watched the pool of blood beneath him grow and grow. It must have been minutes, but it felt like hours, before she was back in the bathroom again, white-knuckling the same sink but with blood under her fingernails. Blood she didn't quite want to wash off, because for those first few hours she felt nothing but relief, before the cold, harsh realization of what'd she'd done sunk in like a lake freezing over for the winter. Piper Monroe had killed a man. And the blood had dried on her fresh manicure and her face still showed tear stains from hours prior and her concealer was patchy and her lipstick was smeared and she was happy, god she was happy, but she'd also never felt worse in her entire life.