#I mean if nothing else it has to be a sign shit is wrapping up | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tremendum · 11 months

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i've got headaches and bad luck but they couldn't touch you

[not my gif. title from song Of All the Gin Joints in All the World] pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl)

rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.)

word count: 4.6k requested: Could you write something (literally anything really) like mean Joel x feisty Reader but based on the ancient Fall Out Boys song "Of All the Gin Joints in All the World" pretty please? 🥺🥹 I was just listening and I thought the lyrics were perfect for your writing ❤️But as always no pressure and no problem at all if you don't like the idea or anything else. Lots of love! P.S. smut is very welcome btw hihihi summary: “Joel's not one for feelings anymore, but you seem to pull them out of him like it's your goddamn job." warnings: established previous hookups, use of girl/babygirl, established age gap (unspecified but addressed openly), brief mention of oral m!receiving, brief mention of reader and joel’s canon-typical scars. choking, mean!Joel & brat tamer!Joel, brat!reader lol, dirty talk (its joel), degradation, use of the word slut, slight dumbification, spitting, rough sex, unprotected PiV, cum eating, nipple play, slapping (tits, ass). think that's it!

notes: okay finally another mean!Joel for the soul!!! this is super unedited also. tysm for the request, obv inspired by the song Of All The Gin Joints in All the World by FOB. :) this was fun and i hope yall love it! dont b afraid to request anything yall wanna read at all and as always pls comment or reblog :) love u xoxo

[other Joel fics: mr. miller series fever landmines ]

★

Joel Miller isn't sure exactly when all this bullshit started.

one day, he was introduced to you fleetingly in the cafeteria while you and Maria had an intense conversation - he’s not sure if you spoke for more than ten seconds; but months later and Joel happens to know exactly what your sweaty skin tastes like on the sharpness of his tongue and could probably list his favorite pairs of underwear you own.

it's nothing, really.

you patrol together often, and Joel guesses that out of all the insufferable people he's had to deal with, you're definitely not the worst. perhaps your handiness with a trigger - not nearly as inept as his own but definitely a close second - helps; or maybe it's the way your mouth feels wrapped around his cock.

and he's not stupid; he knows exactly what Tommy was doing when he signed Joel with you for patrol - the same shit he'd been pulling since they were thirty years younger and Joel was fresh out of the relationship with Sarah's mom. but it's different now, because life is not the same - nothing is the same.

Joel's not one for feelings anymore, but you seem to pull them out of him like it's your goddamn job.

you are one talkative motherfucker; usually, that'd drive Joel up a wall, but after repeated and incessant exposure to Ellie for such an extended period, his patience has surprisingly grown.

and unlike others, you never acted nervous or scared by him. irritated, maybe, but it's not like he cares much if you get irritated by his attitude; you're worse than he can be.

at first, he thought you were just fucking him because you just didn't know who he really was yet. but months into whatever this shit is, and you're still - for whatever fucking reason - hanging around him, even after everything. he likes it, though, that you fight fire with fire.

and maybe that's why Tommy stuck you two together, because in some ways it was inevitable - maybe it was a good thing, Joel thinks.

but this morning, as Joel's mind slams against his body, jolting him awake, his aching head makes him double-guess that.

it's weird how different it all is now - before you, Joel was tortured through nights plagued with sweats and memories. blood, pain, loss. he used to dream restlessly of life and all of its unforgiving horrors; but now, to his shock, he finds himself plagued with dreams of you.

he gasps awake - he's not sure he'll ever stop that.

but this time, you're next to him in the bed. his skin feels warm as the light filters through the blinds that stay constantly pulled down this time of year to retain the cool air and Joel lets out a shuttered sigh, his head aching.

it's only the second time you've stayed the night. he's never stayed at yours, god forbid - but a small part of him aches this morning when you slide out of his heavy, sleep-addled muscles. in the absence of your heat there is still bliss for a moment, until he's roused fully by your voice.

"these sheets are dirty." the sound carries into his ears, melodic and fiery. he cracks one eye open, hand raising to rub over his face - a deep, tired sigh.

"g'mornin' to you too." he snarks, sighing as he pulls himself on aching muscles to blink his eyes open; you stand over the bed, on the side that usually remains cold an empty while Joel thrashes in fits of restless sleep. there's not a single scrap of clothing on your body.

he feels himself stir at the sight of you, naked, neck painted in a splattering of beautiful marks that'd been pulled forth in moments of ecstasy the night before.

you send him a half smirk, shrugging as you tug on a shirt - his, fuck, his stomach swirls at the sight of you wrapped in him. something primal crawls in his chest as you smile at him, legs almost glowing in their bareness as they knock against the side of the mattress. your fingers brush the fabric to the left of his head.

"there's stains on the pillows." you shake your head, your face alluring in its tease. he feels himself roll his eyes as he grunts, "you're actin' like it ain't your makeup stainin' it?"

he stares at the marks on the pillowcase; black, from that shit you sometimes put on your eyes which just makes them all the more beautiful, wide, and alluring. the makeup that's surely expired after all this time but still is something you like to do to, as you'd mentioned once, 'reclaim your humanity.' whatever.

Joel would never admit it to you, but he hadn't even really tried to wash out those stains; something about them gives him a warmth in his chest every morning that he wakes up in this cold bed.

but when his eyes fall back to you in your silence, you smirk and it hits him: you're fucking teasing him.

he glares at you as your lips curl in a huff of a laugh, shaking your head. "if you keep complainin' about every damn thing, might as well just fuck you on the floor." he mutters, mostly to himself- but also to see the way your thighs shift, eyes widening slightly as color washes your cheeks. you're squirming at his words, just like that - oh, he's got you pinned.

you'd like that, you dirty little thing.

but you regain your composure quicker than lightning, ready to snap back; yet another tally to add on the list of things he admires about you.

"you're such a gentleman, Miller." you snide, fanning yourself sardonically with one hand as you roll your eyes, searching for your underwear.

he remembers the first time you'd said that to him -

"why so shy?" you'd purred. the memory of your voice curls around his ears as he huffs, watching you bend over and give him a complete view of your ass as you fetch your panties from the floor. "c'mon, Joel, you don't need to be such a gentleman. 's nothing you haven't seen before." you'd stripped yourself of your shirt, your pert nipples pebbling in the cold breeze as he'd sat, cleaning his rifle. "the hell's the matter with you?" he'd grumbled; but it didn't stop either of you. you'd been pressed between him and the splitting backseat of the broken down crashed car within seconds, anyways.

his eyes meet yours as you stand again.

he snarks, "well you’re givin' me a headache, an' I've only been up for two minutes." he glares at you, swinging to pull his boxers over his hips, standing up to find his shirt. he pointedly ignores the glare you send him at his grumpiness.

"you're the one acting dumb," you mutter, "acting like I'm the one who gives you headaches." you retort, a teasing glint in your eye; he knows that look. Joel knows you'd never get a headache from him - as much as he pisses you off, he knows you're too fiery, too lucky to get caught up in whatever miserable puddle he's drowning in.

because Joel's bad luck curls around his fists wherever he goes; the talons reaching out, crawling through every hallway and seeping through every door. you, on the other hand, are like a goddamn firecracker. Joel hates the idea, but you're... somehow gifted in that way.

he's convinced his bad luck couldn't touch you if it tried.

no matter the dumb shit you pull - forgetting a flashlight, not flipping off your safety that one moment when the clicker had stumbled out of the brush; all of that, and you escape unscathed, nothing but a giggle and a half-shrug from you before you move on to the next stupid thing.

if you weren't such a goddamn brat, it'd be charming.

his eyes snap to yours as your words fall from your lips; a burning in his chest at your tone. he watches your legs carry you into his bathroom, and he can't help it when his follow yours.

you haven't even flipped on the lights before he shuts the door behind him - you're already wearing that snarky fucking smile on your face, and he's straining already against his boxers.

he stares down at you, crowding you slowly into the wall. "what the fuck did you just say to me?" he hisses, mouth close to yours. as you turn your chin up towards his face, he can tell that you try your hardest to control your smirk, playing into the tense energy that's emanating from his chest.

"I said you're acting dumb."

you repeat, tilting your head slightly as you drink in the darkness in his eyes. lord, you'd let that darkness swallow you in a fucking heartbeat.

speaking of; your own heartbeat thunders in your chest, anticipating. you know what's coming, you can nearly taste it on your tongue.

"oh, 's that right?" Joel asks, tilting his head to stare down at you. you swallow as you stare back into those deep irises, the small bit of golden light that shines through the small bathroom window illuminating in an ominously heavenly ray.

his hand settles on the crook of your shoulder and neck, sliding gently upwards as you nod your head defiantly, pushing as far as you can to see when he'll snap. his eyes glisten in temptation; daring you to act up more.

raising your brows, you try to play like it's obvious, "waking up and complaining about your headaches, old man?" you tut gently, shaking your head innocently. "I don't think it's my fault that you fucked me twice, immediately passed out and now your head hurts when you've woken up the next morning. you know better than to push yourself in your old age, Joel. that's stupid." you add coyly, knowing it'll push him over the edge - he loves it when you act like a brat, no matter how much he denies it.

his response is immediate and exactly what you'd hoped for.

he's on you in a split second - hand sliding from your shoulder to grip your throat, pushing you back onto the wall of the bathroom. the towel bar digs into your middle-back slightly and you gasp in arousal at the force of his body on yours. you can feel his cock, hard and straining in his boxers, as it presses into your lower stomach.

"y'wanna play like that, baby?" he growls, "why you fuckin' around with an old man like me, then?" he asks.

your face heats up, arousal flooding your core, your cunt slowly wetting itself at the purr of his voice - the meaner the words, the larger the flame.

"hm?" he gently pushes, raising his brows as his hand squeezes gently on your throat, nudging you against the wall further; your gasp is slightly rasped under the pressure, your whole body screaming with desire. this is what you love - mean, angry, hungry Joel Miller. "'s it because nobody fucks you like I do, is that it?"

his knee slides between yours, wedging himself high up, rubbing suddenly against your aching pussy, the material of your cotton already soaked with a damp spot that rubs against his thick thigh.

"Joel, fuck-" you groan, already willing to just do what you can to get him to touch you. his hand on your throat tightens at your word, thigh rutting up to slide against your needy clit, your hips bucking at the feeling. "-'s because nobody else is so easy." your fiery mouth betrays your body; the snarky comment snaps his eyes to yours, a dark breath leaving his lips.

"that's ironic," he snaps, "comin' from someone who begged me to fuck them for hours."

your face burns at the memory of the first time you and Joel'd hooked up; your desperate voice hoarse from pleading him to fuck you - out in the middle of the woods, a sleeping bag that, by the end, had rips on it from rocks and twigs and the force of his thrusts; the shyness gone from either of you as your touches made up for all the silence between you.

he hums lowly, watching you as you swallow at the memory, his thigh rutting up again and pulling a yelp of pleasure from your lips. "y'don't feel so high 'n mighty when I fuck you stupid, right baby?" he asks, voice dripping with condescendence as he nods gently, encouraging you to answer him. your core throbs at his words, your mouth going dry.

his hand leaves your throat; you swallow a gulp of air, staring with wide eyes as he grasps your jaw roughly. "answer me."

"n-no, I don't." you mutter, voice sounding small; the arousal that pulses through your veins begs your mouth to be smart, do what Joel says so he'll give in to what you want.

he smirks, hands roughly grabbing the thick of your hips and flipping you around to press you against the counter, your hips bending as he shoves himself just behind you. your eyes meet yourself and his own hawkish gaze in the mirror in front of you; your heated breath fogs up the mirror in the faint morning light.

his fingers thread through your hair, tugging you back again as he tilts your head back. his upside down face, smirking down at you, has your thighs clenching - "open." he orders, voice stern.

your tongue sticks out and he wastes no time spitting roughly onto your tongue, moving your head back to stare into the mirror; his eyes meet yours as his spit slides over your tongue and his furrowed brows twitch with a slight smirk. "look at you, doin' what I tell you. now swallow it and say thank you."

your core flutters at his words deliciously as you do as you're told; swallowing, you take a breath and mutter, "thank you," - though it's more breathless than you expected, Joel seems to approve. he hums, "there are those manners," he mutters into your ear, cock pressing against the swell of your ass. "almost seemed like you'd forgotten you had them."

"didn't forget." you mutter, face heating up as your pussy aches, fluttering around nothing and desiring for his fingers, his cock - anything.

one rough palm slides his shirt up your torso, exposing your bare tits to both of you through the mirror. with his face stooped down near your neck, a short inhale of your hair before his hand reaches it's destination - your throat.

"then why're you actin' up?" he rasps, teeth grazing your shoulder. he squeezes his hand again and your eyes roll back in pleasure, arousal soon slicking your thighs as you think you may die from all the teasing. "you don't wanna cum?"

your eyes widen, breath halting as you shake your head, "wh- no- no!" you hiss, "I do want to cum, please."

his other hand raises, slapping your breast harsh and quick; your gasp of shock tapers off into a whine of pleasure, your nipples hard in arousal as his palm comes to soothe over the sting.

"then why're you acting like this?" he asks again, shaking his head. another slap, this time to your other breast. his eyes follow the skin of your chest; the way you gasp, your whines at the slight stinging and the pleasure that follows. fingers pinch your nipples, teasing in circles before another sharp slap echoes through the room. "just a little brat, y'can't help yourself." he decides, biting on your neck lightly.

you can feel him rut against you hard, grinding his hips as he lets out a short groan. you let out a low moan, whining slightly when he smacks your tits again, skin glowing with the impact. his eyes meet yours in the mirror. "quit the whinin'," he grunts, rutting his hard cock against your ass, "you'll be stuffed full of me soon enough." he grunts, "then we'll see who's dumb."

your shaky moan sounds more like a groan, elbows falling to steady yourself as Joel releases your throat, tossing you forward to grab your hips instead. he pulls you back, grinding into you as his head tilts back in how own small groan of pleasure. "this ass." Joel grunts to himself as he palms the curve of your ass in both large hands, one falling to smack harsh onto the left.

you're dripping down the inside of your thighs as he ruts against you twice more; thick fingers soon slide to thumb at the slick wet of your panties. his fingers tease the wet material that's glued to your pussy with need, tracing over your lips lightly over the fabric. "pretty pussy, just for me." he mutters; you nod, looking up at him through the mirror, "all for you, Joel." you affirm, voice shaking with anticipation.

"you gonna be good when I fill you up, baby?" he lifts his brow, stern look as he palms himself. fuck, he's so sexy behind you like this, his thumb slowly dragging the material of your panties to the side and exposing your weeping cunt; you nod, "yes, I'll do anything-"

you're cut off by a sharp gasp as the stretch of his cock's head cuts off your brain. he eases in gently at first which you're more than grateful for - no matter how many times Joel fucks you, his size is always something you have to adjust to; especially after your rounds last night left you barely able to walk straight.

he lets out a breath, "there y'go, baby, take me." he says it surprisingly gently, easing in inch by inch as you breathe deeply, your soaked pussy easing his cock through your channels. his cock is heavy and aching as he slides into you, sheathing you fully within another few seconds - Joel's hands grip so hard on your ass, splaying you open for him, that you think his fingers will remain there for days.

he's still only for a moment, letting you accommodate to his size before he's leaning forward to press his chest to your back, "gonna fuck you stupid, baby."

"please, Joel," you groan, cunt fluttering, begging him to move. "do it."

it's all that he needs before he's setting a pace that has you whining under him, your breath choking as you brace yourself agains the counter of the sink.

it's bliss. his hips are sharp, the reach of his cock pressing against the spongy spot inside you, dragging against your pulsing walls. "fuck, so deep-" you hiss, eyes closing in pleasure as he presses himself against you, hips surely going to bruise against the thrusts that shove you into the countertop.

one hand sneaks over your front, grasping at your tits as his cock reaches up into you deeply. he lets out a grunt, "fuckin'- christ, you're s-so tight," he grunts, "even after fuckin' you all night."

you moan, the quick bout of his praise causing you to squeeze around him, trapping him in your aching desire. the both of you moan at the feeling and suddenly one hand presses on your spine until you're low to the counter. his hands grab your shoulders, fingers curling around the base of your throat as he changes his pace to hard and rough, the sound of your ass against his hips nearly hitting your ears over your cries of pleasure.

the noises of your arousal swallowing his cock echo around the room in a familiar, comforting chorus as you both let out shuttering moans; his strong arms pull you back until you're once again pressed against his broad chest. his breath fans over your neck and you whine slightly when his thrusts press you up onto your tip-toes. his lips find your ear, "how's that feel?" your hole flutters from the deepness in his voice - he groans at the feeling.

your response is a whine of ecstasy as you claw at his forearms, head tilting back until you can almost feel his erratic heartbeat. his chest rumbles with a light chuckle, "look, barely took ya any time to get fucked out on my cock," he praises, hand petting your wild hair, "knew you'd be good for me. always take what I give you, right?"

you nod, desperate to reach the climax that's easily built within you from the stretch of him deep in you and his voice in your ear. your clit aches from being ignored and your hand snakes down to rub light circles on it; your hips jolt as you gasp raggedly, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure.

"no." he growls, hand grabbing your jaw sternly as he pounds into you, "when I'm fuckin' you, you keep your eyes on me." he snaps, squeezing your cheeks. "'s that clear?"

you nod in the mirror, whines getting louder as his name falls nearly incoherently from your lips- you see his lips ghost over your neck, the smirk that spreads over his pink lips as you finally get out a strangled, "Joelpleaseplease- s'close-"

he knows what you need; you and Joel are each other's best escape. he pistons into you hard, chasing your high as he feels it spasming close around him. "easy, huh?" he snarls, hips just as harsh as his words, eyes sharp on yours. "who's easy, baby - me, or the one beggin' like a slut to cum on my cock?"

for someone so quiet and closed off, Joel Miller has never shied away from using his goddamn words when he's fucking you, that's for sure. his words, his accent - they push you towards the edge and it almost distracts you from his question. his eyebrows raise in the silence as you gasp for words, moans choked as his fingers slide down from your jaw to squeeze your throat.

"look at'cha, can't even speak for me," he groans, his hand suddenly snaking down to smack your away from your clit; two larger, calloused fingers replace your shaky ones and you wail at the stimulation, almost too much.

you blink up at him through the mirror, unable to speak, unable to think as you feel the crest of something incredibly blissful growing; you let out a whine of ecstasy. "I'm- I'm easy," you concede, finally able to spit your words out, your voice higher than normal in your pleasure.

Joel nods, kissing your sweaty hairline, "'s goddamn right you are, babygirl," he hisses, "easy for me. this pretty little pussy is mine, isn't it?"

you scream, "yours, Joel-" before he barely finishes the sentence.

with your words, he smiles against your neck - the feeling of it sends goosebumps over your whole torso. "you're a lucky girl," he growls in your ear, teeth brushing the shell before licking it gently, "you can cum."

you barely realize you've hit your orgasm until you’re writhing - a white-hot, searing arousal streaking your vision as your eyes roll back. he fucks you steadily through your orgasm, your thighs closing slightly around his large palm, but his fingers don't stop their motions on your clit.

you shake and stutter for gasps as he pounds into you, chasing his own high that's been spurred - by your own words or the clenching of your orgasm around him, you're unsure.

"love how you feel-" he groans, voice weakening as he nears his own orgasm, hips sloppy as he pushes your face down, against the cool tile of the bathroom sink. "fuck, baby, made to take this cock."

his sentences are choppy, his gasps and grunts of pleasure mixing with the slap of your ass against him as he thrusts, your legs tired as he fills you full and then suddenly pulls out. you gasp at the suddenness of his absence, turning to look at him as if betrayed - but he looks completely gone, eyes dark with need. "gonna cum on your tits, sweetheart."

your stomach flips at the word - one he's never used before - and you relax into his harsh grip, moving down to the ground on your knees as he grunts, "take this shit off now."

his shirt is on the ground in half a second, your breasts bare to him as he fists his cock, eyes on you and lidded with pleasure. your hands fall onto his strong thighs, looking up at him in awe as he fists his cock, slick with your sticky spend, tip flushed and veins stretching over the shaft. "please, cum on me, want it so bad, Joel," you whine - his hand caresses your jaw and slips over your lips, sticking his thumb into your mouth. you suck eagerly and he moans your name deep, head tilting back in ecstasy.

"fuck," he grunts, slipping his thumb out of your mouth before you can even swirl your tongue around it, and then he's hitting his orgasm.

ropes of his cum land on your tits, a small bit gathering on your chin as he slows his hand, letting out a few sharp breaths. he's barely caught his breath before your fingers are gathering a swipe of his thick cum, bringing it to your mouth. his dark eyes follow you through his labored breaths as you slowly suck his spend off of your fingers, "fuckin'- pretty," he mumbles into his hand as he runs a palm over his face, shaking his head.

you smile, cheeks heating up. the sun is rising and the room is fully golden, bouncing off the mirror and illuminating his tan skin, the scars on his body and yours. he's pretty, you realize.

you tell him so, quietly - in the silence of the bathroom. his scowl softens and you swear you see a blush forming as he rolls his eyes down at you from where you perch on the linoleum.

Joel always says you only tell him sweet things to get him to fuck you - but in the afterglow of your actions, you catch sight of your makeup-stained pillowcase back in Joel's bedroom and it makes you grin. you know he doesn't wash it for a reason, the same reason you keep coming back to him.

and you also know that the way he smooths his thumb over your hairline, the way your own hands in turn soothe over his thighs - those actions, they make up for everything else that's unspoken.

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taglist: @satansgoatt @elissaaa @queerponcho @bbyanarchist @lapricot @umavvitch @asreadbyaj @dinsbaby @cottoncandytomu @onmytallesttiptoess @switchbladedreamz @missannwinchester @abs-2020 @afandomidiot @cosm1c-babe @rogersbarnesxx @carleenphillips-blog @bonnibuckets @nightlovechild @jazzyspasms @girlboybug @cannolighost @pastelnap @userpedros @feministfanboi @frogers @grhowls @daddy-din @gothoppered @totallynotastanacc @robbatlover @casssiopeia @wannab-urs @redhotkitchen @joelapologist2001 @silkiers

message me if i forgot to tag u. i was pretty lazy with this one sorry. requests are open.

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tommysversion · 1 year

Text

Jealousy Jealousy (Part Two) { Joel Miller x Reader }

Summary: Joel makes good on his promise to show you how he loves you.

CWs: age gap / explicit content / unprotected sex / mentions of jealousy.

Tag List: @pedritosdarling @chaotic-mystery @loquaciousferret @bearsbeetsbeskar @schizoel @funnygirlthatgab @dreamingofdaddydin @pr0ximamidnight @joelsgirl

Notes: literally just a short brain rot follow up to Jealousy, Jealousy.

Buy Me A Coffee?

Joel smirks, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Oh, darling. That wasn’t the makeup sex. That was the I’m fucking furious sex. You’ll like the makeup sex a whole lot more.”

Smirking yourself, you roll on top of him, lean down so you can press a kiss to his mouth.

“I like the sound of that. How do I sign up for it?”

“You promise we won’t touch anyone else. Ever.”

You press a long, heated kiss to his parted lips.

“Easy enough for me.”

“Good.” Another smirk before he rolls you, pinning your smaller frame beneath him. “I fucked you like I hated you. Now you’re gonna find out how I fuck when I love you.”

You just whimper, wrap your fingers into his curls and drag him into another kiss.

You want to still be angry, still be hurt, but it’s impossible. You care about him too much, want to trust him too badly to still feel anything but desire for him.

Still, it bothers you to think that you’re not the only one who he’s fucked like this. Maybe it causes you to tense a bit, but he senses it, breaks the kiss to look down at you.

“Darlin’…” it’s a heavy sigh, not a warning, more a regret.

“I’m sorry; I just… I keep thinking about it.” You admit, knowing it’s stupid, knowing you’ve hurt him, too.

“I know,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, “I know I can tell you it didn’t mean anything, but I also know I can’t make you unsee it. Let me show you. Let me show you that you’re different, baby.”

You want it. You want him, so fucking badly that you’re about to ignore your pain, ignore your hurt, take back what’s yours.

“Show me,” you pull him into a kiss, deep and desperate, “show me that you love me, Joel.”

He’s just as desperate as you are, knows he’s fucked up, wants nothing more than to show you how much he cares. His own rage has dissipated, leaving only burning need for you as he kisses you, every inch of you that he can reach.

You let him, loving the soft scratch of his beard, the warmth of his breath against your skin as you yank his shirt off, throw it off the side of the bed so that you can touch him.

“Eager, huh. Didn’t get enough last time?” He knows he’s talking big game considering how needy he is, how fucking painfully hard he is again despite fucking you senseless not ten minutes ago.

This is different. This isn’t about anger, or jealousy, it’s about claiming you, about proving how much he needs you.

“Shut the fuck up, Joel.” You roll your eyes, lean in and suck a mark right into his throat, above his collar line.

Maybe it’s petty and possessive, but you don’t give a shit, and he makes absolutely no move to stop you, just hums amusement as he spreads your thighs for him, rubs the head of his cock along your cunt.

You’re still dripping from the last round, the mixture of your release and his spend making it easier for him to slide into you this time, as if you weren’t wet and ready for him anyway.

He groans into your shoulder as he buries himself to the hilt, every thick inch of him being milked by your tight little cunt, so needy for him.

“Jesus fuck…”

You want to echo the sentiment, but words won’t come, just a soft little moan that’s more like a mewl, all your fire and hateful words from before completely burned out.

Any other time, and Joel would be smug about this, but it’s not the time, and besides, all he can focus on is how tight you are, the way your eyes are half closed, lips parted as you stare up at him.

Dimly it occurs to him that you’re the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen, that hurting you was the dumbest mistake he’s made in a while.

“God damn…”

He breathes it almost reverently before he starts to move, slow, shallow thrusts that have your hands balled into the thin sheets, lips parted in a perfect circle.

It makes him want to be rougher again, hard and fast like before, but that’s not what he’s promised you, and he wants to take his time, wants to drag this out so he can commit every inch of your body to memory.

You can’t find the words, have to settle for just making sweet little sounds instead, but he doesn’t care.

He prefers you like this, too drunk on his cock to mouth off at him, instead wriggling and moaning beneath him like he’s giving you everything you ever wanted.

Maybe it doesn’t occur to him that he is.

He wants to be gentle, but it’s so goddamn hard when you’re so reactive; impossible not to give in.

Groaning into your hair, he lifts your thigh up around his waist, starts to pound into you, desperate to feel you tighten around him, fall apart beneath him.

You’re so responsive to him, or maybe he’s just too big and you’re just made for him, but he’s hitting every spot inside you perfectly with each thrust, the soft sounds of his pleasure in your ear making you shake with need.

“Joel, I’m…”

“I know, baby; I know. Go on. Go ahead. Doing so well for me…”

You’ve never heard soft praise like that from him, and it makes your head spin, makes your entire body weak as you fall apart, shattering around him, nothing in the world matters more in that moment than his arms around you, his cock inside you, your vision blurring with the force of your release.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it…” his thumb strokes your cheek as you come back to yourself, trying to ride out your climax as he fucks you through it; relentlessly chasing his own release now.

You have to admit you’re impressed by his stamina, the sort that you wouldn’t usually expect from a man his age, but you don’t care about that little detail.

All that matters is he’s here, with you, his arms around you, moaning for you, sounds you’ve never heard him make before, and that’s all you care about.

That, and kissing every inch of him you can reach, covering his bare chest with kisses and bite marks, laying claim to what’s yours.

Joel doesn’t remotely mind, knows it might raise a few eyebrows, but he meant it when he said that last time with Tess was the Last Time.

He has absolutely nothing against being marked as yours, not when you look so smug and cute when doing so.

Fuck.

He can feel himself aching and throbbing inside you, one hand reaching up to brace against the headboard as he slams into you one final time, grinding deep as he fills you once more, admiring the way you cling to him, the way your lips part when you moan his name.

“Fucking perfect…” he almost sighs it as he rocks his hips slowly, trying to come down from the force of his climax.

You cling to him, still with your own blissed out expression in place, fingertips tracing each of the marks you’ve left on his tanned skin.

“So… makeup sex achieved?” You ask, still breathless but with that cheeky smirk on your face once more.

“Definitely.”

He pulls out of you reluctantly, only so he can roll onto his side to face you, one arm draped over your body in a lazy, yet somehow still possessive and protective gesture.

“Stay with me?” You hate how vulnerable you sound as you turn to face him, fingertips brushing over his lips.

“Not going anywhere, baby. Gonna be right here when you wake up.”

“Yeah? Gonna wake me up by fucking me into this crappy old bed again?” You ask, eyes glinting with lust.

He smirks.

“Maybe. If my back doesn’t decide to intervene. ‘M not a young man anymore, you know that.”

“Wouldn’t have you any other way.” You remind him, “old man or not.”

“Hey now.” He swats at you playfully, but he’s not truly upset.

Honestly? This is what he’s wanted for a long time. The sort of easy banter that comes between you, the way you look at him with such open adoration and lust in spite of the age difference.

“Don’t worry.” You press a soft kiss to his lips. “You’re my old man.”

The possessive nature of what you’re saying isn’t lost on either of you, nor is the flicker in your eyes that tells him you’re still worried about whether he feels the same.

“Damn right.” He wraps his arms around you, pulls you close and kisses the top of your head.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#my writing #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fic

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footballfanficwriter · 9 months

Text

You're Drunk babe

Summary:where Jude is Drunk and the reader has to deal with him

A/N: requests are open

Jude and I are at a club after his training and he's got a week before he has to Report back to club duty so we're spending as much time as possible

I see jude take his 9th shot of the night and I slightly begin to become concerned as this means I have to drive us home, because there is no way he is

"Babe come dance with me" he says

"Jude I can't, I need to make sure you're ok"

"I am, now stop worrying and relax and come dance with me

" Go ahead babe, I'll wait for you here, plus you need it more than me with how hard you've been working"

He stares at me for a while then kisses me on my forehead "I love you" and blends in with the crowd

I sip on my lemon water and slightly boping to the music playing

After 15 minutes I get bored and try to find Jude because I wanna go home

" Mate, what's your problem, I was just trying to get my drink"

" you did it on purpose"

"Oh get over it it's not like you died" Jude says walking away

"Hey love, you alright?"

"Yeah, you ready to go home?"

"Yeah c'mon let's go"

We walk out the club and to the car, I get into the driver seat and Jude in the passenger seat and start the car

"So this is what it feels like to be a passenger princess" He says clearly drunk

"Yep" I say

"You know, some times I wonder what would happen if... if... if, shit I forgot what I wanted to say"

I laugh at him and continue to focus on the road ahead

"Babe?" He says

"Yeah"

"Where are we going?"

"Home Jude"

"Can we take a roadtrip?"

"Not now hunny, first I need to get you home"

"Ok, babe?"

"Yeah"

"Can you please give me a kiss"

"No Jude I'm driving"

"I'll take the wheel" he says

"You'll kill us before we even get to live our lives together"

" Y/n?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you "

"I love you Jude"

I turn my head to see him fast asleep

When we arrive at the house I park the car in the Garage and wake Jude up

"Jude, Jude, babe wake up"

He wakes up and looks at me like he's just seen a Ghost

"C'mon we've arrived, let's go to bed" I say

We walk out the Garage with his arm around my shoulder with most of his weight on me

We walk into the house and walk up the stairs

I toss him in the bed and start undoing his pants and pull them down

"What's, what's happening he says abruptly waking up"

"Calm down it's just me"

"Oh" he says laying back onto the bed

He slightly turns his head to his left hand

And sees his ring

"Sorry lady that's undressing me what's that thing on my hand"

I look at him confused

"Uhm, your wedding ring I say"

"Wait what I'm married" he says

"Yep"

"Then get off me, my wife might walk in and think something is happening"

"Jude, how much did you drink tonight"

"I don't know, but what I know is that my wife won't be happ you seeing you undress me"

"Jude I am your wife"

"Wait really?"

"Yeah, babe we've been married for 3 years now"

"Wait so you're my wife"

"That's what I just said"

"Shit"

"What?"

"Nothing just thinking how beautiful you are, and you're my wife?"

"Yep"

"Dawm, that's mental, you're so beautiful"

I laugh at him and continue changing his clothes

"There you go now you're ready for bed"

"Thank you my beautiful wife"

I smile at his comment and make my way to the bathroom, so I can get ready for bed myself

"Where are you going?" He asks

" The bathroom"

"Can you leave the door open, so I can still hear your voice"

"Weird but ok"

I do as he asked and he starts asking me questions

"So how did we meet"

"We met at a meet and greet when you were signing shirts and posters for fans and I was one of them"

"Did I look good though?"

"Yeah babe you looked hot"

"What else"

"What else do you want to know"

"Did you ever hate me?"

"Nope if I did then I wouldn't be where I am right now"

"Right"

I walk out the bathroom and make my way to bed

"Can you come closer, I wanna cuddle" he says

I shift closer to him and he wraps his arms around me and his head on my shoulder

He pecks my neck and falls asleep

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herofics · 5 months

Text

One and Only, Always

A/N: I’m not having the best time right now and I wanted to vent so here’s some comfort with Geto. I’m in uni currently and it’s causing me a lot of stress right now, also depression spiral and shit like that basically

“What do I keep doing wrong?” you muttered as you laid on the floor of the bedroom.

You didn’t understand. Everyone else could do it. All your other classmates could go to school, work and take care of their family at the same time. You couldn’t even manage school, and to take care of yourself at the same time. Geto being so busy all the time was kind of a relief, honestly. You were so tired all the time, and managing the relationship was hard, so it was easier when he wasn’t there. You hated that you felt this way. You loved him so much, but being around him, around anyone really, was just extremely tiring.

“What are you doing down there, love?” Geto asked from the doorway.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Thinking… I guess” you answered reluctantly.

“What about?” he asked as he sat down on the floor at the end of the bed.

“Nothing in particular, I’m tired so it’s kinda hard to keep my thoughts in order, so I’m not really sure either” you sighed.

You crawled to Geto and rested your head on his thigh. He was wearing sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. You were so used to seeing him in his monk robes that it was a bit odd to see him looking so casual.

“Why are you home so early anyway? I thought you had meetings the whole day?”

“I wrapped them up quickly, besides it’s not really early, it’s seven in the evening” he chuckled.

“Oh… I knew that”

“What’s going on with you? You’ve been a bit distant as of late” Geto noted.

You sighed, he never missed anything. He didn’t always say something right away, he sometimes observed the situation for days, weeks even, before saying anything.

You pushed yourself up to a sitting position and sat next to him. Geto wrapped his arm around you and caressed your shoulder with the tips of his fingers.

“I don’t know, honestly. I don’t have any good reason to be depressed again. Like fuck, I’ve been in uni for a year, and I’m already on the verge of burning out. I don’t understand what I keep doing wrong, because there has to be something.” you said.

“Oh love” Geto sighed sympathetically.

“I can’t just be this-this broken piece of shit! I can’t just be this useless!” you exclaimed in frustration, banging your head against the end of the bed.

Geto placed his hand between your head and the end of the bed, so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself, stop” he said kindly but sternly as he forced you to lean your head against his shoulder.

“I don’t know what-what to-to do Suguru. I don’t want to be here if I can’t be useful to someone” you started sobbing.

Geto pulled you into his lap and you buried your face into his chest. You didn’t mean to break down like this. You didn’t want to be a burden.

“You’re not useless love, you’re not. You saved me back when we were in Jujutsu High, if it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. You’re my rock, and my light, the love of my life” Geto said as he peppered kisses on top of your head and embraced you tightly.

He hated seeing you like this and maybe even more than that, he hated that he wasn’t sure how to help. Geto let you cry it out. He held you until your tears ran out and you got your bearings again.

“I’m just so tired of this, I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I want to be able to do things like everyone else can, and not just be left behind every fucking time. If I can’t even do that, then what’s the point?” you said quietly, fiddling with his shirt.

“Honestly, that’s something you’re going to have to discover for yourself. I don’t think any of us get a straight answer anyway, we all have to find our own meaning” he said, looking at you softly.

You met his eyes, those beautiful amber eyes that always looked at you with such love. You searched his expression for any signs of dishonesty, but you never found any, not now, not ever before. His honesty towards you was one of the big reasons you loved him.

“I can tell you this though, you’re a big part of my meaning. I don’t know what I would do without you, I feel like my life would be lacking if you weren’t here” he smiled.

“I love you Suguru, I think the only reason I’ve been able to keep going for this long is because of you” you said and placed your hand on his cheek.

“I don’t think I deserve the credit for that. You’re the one that’s kept fighting and pushing through all the obstacles” he said, moving your hand that was on his cheek so he could kiss your palm.

“But you’re my reason for fighting, you’re a part of my meaning too” you smiled tiredly.

Geto pressed his forehead against yours and whispered: “You’re my one and only, and I love you, don’t ever forget that” before kissing you softly on the lips.

His one and only, always.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk scenarios #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk comfort #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk fanfic

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bordysbae · 1 year

Note

can u do a luca blurb where there’s like an argument and it’s like luca and his gf vs someone else and it’s the two like sticking up for each other? i hope that makes sense

“a new side of you”

luca fantilli x f!reader

warning: profanity and underage drinking

despite the ending of frozen four not being what everyone was hoping, the boys still threw themselves a party as soon as they got back to michigan, just because of how far they had made it. it’s also a party to say their “formal” goodbyes to the seniors, and the boys who won’t be returning next year due to upcoming signings with the big league.

the party isn’t a rager, but it sure isn’t small either. there are people everywhere, but the only person you care to find is your boyfriend luca. you got caught up in a conversation with johnny while luca went to get another drink, not even realizing luca hadn’t come back in quite some time. you eventually find him in a conversation with one of his classmates. you’ve met the guy before but he’s nothing special. in your opinion he has a bland personality and thrives off of his daddy’s money, but since he’s friends with a few of the guys, you almost always see him at parties.

“jonah, hey!” you greet him, as luca wraps an arm around your shoulder.

“oh hey, y/n right?” jonah nods his head towards you as his form of addressing you.

“uh, yeah,” you say, annoyed by him already. you know he knows your name since you guys have met over five times, but he chooses to have a douche bag persona. “not like we haven’t met already” you mumble under your breath making luca chuckle.

“what’d you say?” jonah asks you, straightening his back. you look up from your cup at him, and chuckle at his new tough-boy stance.

“nothing, what were you guys talking about before i got here? i didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say in an attempt to change the topic.

“no, fucking tell me what you said,” jonah blurts out, startling both you and luca.

“dude relax. i didnt even say anything, chill out man,” you scoff.

“someone’s on their period. control your woman fantilli,” jonah jokes. your mouth falls agape at his statement.

“what did you just say to me? i’m on my what?”

“you heard me,” jonah chuckles before taking a sip of his drink.

“watch your fucking mouth douchebag. don’t fucking say that shit about my girlfriend! especially right in front of her or me,” luca starts up.

“oh it was a joke relax, you can’t even talk like you’re some big guy anyways! you warm the bench, and you guys lost in the frozen four. just chill out luca you’re not some hotshot,” jonah exclaims. your mouth falls agape, and lucas whole body tenses up.

before you can even think, your mouth just starts running, “oh you wanna talk about hot shots? you thrive on daddy’s money and think everyone is in love with you. newsflash, just because you never went d1 for hockey after high school, doesn’t mean being friends with the team makes you important. honestly, they all think you’re a dick. and so what if luca doesn’t get the absolute most playing time? he still went d1, unlike someone else in this conversation”

luca chuckles at your words, and this makes jonah even more pissed. “you think i’m gonna listen to you? don’t you have a fucking nail appointment to go to?”

“jonah you sound like an idiot. pulling out misogynistic ‘insults’ like that’s gonna do anything? just accept the fact you’re in the wrong, it’ll be the only good thing you ever did. notice how i’m the one in a relationship, and you can barely get a girl in your bed unless she’s intoxicated? which by the way is horrible in itself, but that’s a conversation for another time. just go home bud.” luca declares.

despite the topic of conversation, you can’t help yourself but be attracted to this side of luca. you’ve never seen him act out this way, and him defending you like this is only making the attraction worse. the heavily intoxicated jonah flips you both off and makes his way back into the pool of people, leaving you and luca alone in the kitchen.

“that was a new side of you. i liked that” you admit, making luca blush ever so slightly.

“oh yeah?” he laughs, and pulls you closer to his body so that you’re now against his chest looking up at him.

“i’m sorry about that, he’s an asshole.” luca says to you softly but loud enough for you to hear over the music.

“no i’m sorry. he said some rude things about you babe, don’t listen to him he’s just jealous”

“eh, i don’t mind. i get enough chirping from adam anyways,” luca chuckles and kisses the top of your head. you both embrace each other a little bit more before heading back to the swarm of people throughout the rest of the house. you guys went back to luca’s dorm afterwards and spent the rest of the night in each others arms, never forgetting the moment you two shared tonight.

#luca fantilli #luca fantilli imagine #luca fantilli blurb #luca fantilli x reader #umich hockey #hockey imagine #hockey blurb #michigan hockey #l

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forhereyesonlyyy · 1 year

Text

it’s just you and me. — an an yujin x reader short.

word count: 1.7k

author’s note: okay,, i hope tumblr won’t jumble up the words this time or else i’m gonna make it everyone’s problem 😭😭 i hope you all enjoy this one! i’m going to try and keep this momentum going!! 👊💥

warnings: mild swearing, suggestive towards the end.

“brr.” you shivered when a cold gust of wind blows towards you. you swear that when you finally manage to get to that old park, you would strangle an yujin for somehow coaxing you into hanging out past midnight with her. you have never been able to say no to her, of course, but this was just ridiculous.

what if she was just playing with you? what if this was another one of her pranks again? perhaps this time you might call off whatever the fuck it was that you had with her and live the rest of your life in solitude.

...no, you wouldn’t. you could never ever leave yujin. as annoying as she was, you can’t imagine making it through a day without seeing her smile, without holding her hand, and without that kiss on the cheek she has made a bad habit of giving to you every time you do something that she thought was adorable. like, existing.

you thought of that smile for the rest of the walk towards the old park. that smile kept you warm. inside, at least. you still shivered like crazy as you walked. you really wished you wore a coat instead of a hoodie.

when you reached the old park, there was no sign of yujin. your heart faltered a little bit, but you kept your hopes up and settled on a bench. you rubbed your hands up and down your arms, and wrapped your jacket around yourself tighter. minutes passed and irritation was starting to build up inside you.

that little shit...

and then, all of a sudden, the familiar scent of your best friend started wafting into your nose, and you realized that yujin’s varsity jacket had been put down on your shoulders. you looked up, and then soft lips were pressed into your cheek, and warmth spread from your chest all the way up to your face.

yujin leans back to take a good look at your face. of course, she grins when she sees that you were blushing. “i always wanted to see how that jacket would look on you. this was a perfect idea, wasn’t it?” she said, sitting down beside you.

“my ass is frozen.”

“perfect idea!” yujin guffawed. you punched her shoulder playfully, but you did also put on her jacket, relishing in its warmth and softness.

“you couldn’t have called me over or something? and why a creepy old park? at midnight? are you going to knock me out?” you continued to pretend to be angry. pretend, because all yujin really needed to do to chase your anger away was to show up and it would all be gone. pretend, because you could never really get mad at yujin.

pretend, because that was what you and yujin have been doing for the longest time. pretending that the hand-holding means nothing. that the kisses, the hugs, the late night calls, the stares, and the feelings are truly just what ‘best friends’ do.

“i wanted to hang out. simple.” yujin replied. she was wearing a thick jacket underneath a sweatshirt and a skirt! you had no idea how she didn’t even look like the cold was bothering her. her hair was askew, probably from the wind. you wanted to fix it. so you do. you moved closer and reached up, combing your fingers through your best friend’s hair. yujin closed her eyes, leaning into your touch with a contented look on her face.

i wanted to hang out. simple. in other words, there’s something wrong. i need you.

knowing yujin, she wouldn’t tell you anything of what had bothered her until later. and you were fine with that. you always have been.

“c’mere,” you gently pulled yujin into your arms. she quietly rested her face on the crook of your neck. she seemed calm for the first few seconds, but then, she wrapped her arms around your waist tightly, as if she was scared you would slip away. “it’s alright, yujin.” you whispered.

yujin raised her head, and you moved your hands so that you would be cupping her cheeks, pressing your forehead against hers. the two of you have been in this situation a hundred times before, but it was only now that your heart ached being this close to yujin. every time this happens, there was always something ringing in your ear, as if it was telling you that you weren’t ready to completely cross that boundary with yujin. not yet.

but this has gone on for too long, has it not? years and years of this game.

you closed your eyes and recalled the many times that you have held yujin’s face this close. at every single moment and at the very last second, you wouldn’t make the move to kiss her like you always wanted to. you would hug her, and you would do it all day to make up for the one simple thing you can never bring yourself to do.

you opened your eyes and met yujin’s once again. unsaid words came to you.

what are you waiting for?

your jaw clenched. and when you intended to make the slightest moves, yujin held you closer.

kiss me. kiss me. kiss me.

not being able to withstand your head anymore, you tilted your head and caught yujin’s lips with yours. the sinking feeling in your chest—the one you have had for years, caused by regrets, guilt, and shame—slowly dissipates when you felt yujin’s lips move with yours in sync. like she’d practiced it before. or rather, like she’d always known how you would kiss her.

yujin presses herself closer to you. she has been waiting for this for the longest time, and now that it was here, all she wanted to do was forget everything and everyone else and lose herself in you, your lips, and your heart. so when you moved your hands down to clutch her jacket, she takes your face in her hands and guides you herself.

her lips tasted like the peach-flavored chapstick she wore all the time, the same one you would sometimes borrow just to feel close enough to yujin’s lips. there was the strange taste of strawberries on her tongue, which you immediately knew was caused by the vape she carried around. she smelled like strawberries and the wind, and the more she kisses you the longer your brain turns into a puddle, incapable of wanting to think of doing anything else but to kiss yujin.

your hands find their way underneath yujin’s sweatshirt, making a heavenly sound escape yujin’s lips when your cold hands make contact with her warm skin. “easy, tiger.” yujin whispered against your lips with a smirk. you couldn’t help but giggle, retracting your hands and putting them on her hips instead. yujin kisses you again, softly this time, with her hands on your shoulders.

“(y/n),” you didn’t much liked your name. you preferred nicknames, actually, but something about yujin saying it made it a bit more okay to hear. “(y/n).” a gust of cold wind blows past the two of you, and she puts her lips on yours again. you don’t think you could ever get tired of this.

“do you love me, (y/n)?” yujin asked. her voice shook and it wasn’t because of the cold. having been friends with yujin for the longest time, you were the one who tend to notice the smallest changes in her. when yujin asked her question, she sounded scared. she didn’t even sound like she wanted to ask that question because she was scared.

despite your confusion at her tone, you didn’t think twice before answering. “yes,” you tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and placed a quick kiss on her trembling lips. “i love you.” more than anything, you wanted to add. but that was a conversation for another day.

yujin’s next words surprised you, “show me.”

entranced by her crystal clear eyes, you took her by the hand and pulled her up from the bench. the two of you left the park in silence, with only your thoughts occupying your ears. you walked slightly ahead of yujin even though your hands were linked, and every time you turned your head slightly, you would see that she was staring at you. nothing but complete adoration in her eyes. you were pretty sure that yujin could see how the back of your neck flushed.

there was an unspoken agreement between the two of you where it was decided that it was your home that the two of you would be settling down in for the night. it wouldn’t take a complete fool to know that yujin did not want to be in her house. you led yujin inside your home and tugged her along the dark hallway where your bedroom was hidden in.

as soon as you flipped the lock on your door, yujin’s lips was on yours again, her hands all over you. when you pulled her towards your bed and she attacked your neck with kisses while straddling your lap as you fumbled to take her jacket off, the rest of the night became mere flashes of yujin underneath you, nails digging into your shoulders while you whispered sweet nothings into her ear as you did what she asked you to do — to show her that you loved her.

when you eventually collapsed next to her, something in the back of your brain doubted that yujin was being serious throughout the night. did she really want you to kiss her in the park? did she really ask you to do all that? hell, did you two really just do that?

it seems like yujin developed some sort of ability to hear your thoughts, because she turns to face you after catching her breath. the moonlight that shone through your window reflected in her eyes, and you swore that you saw the stars in them when she smiled at you.

the entire world seemed to have become silent just for you to hear those three lovely words leave yujin’s lips. and then, she held you close, as if to wash away all your worries and doubts — just as you’ve done for her when you finally kissed her earlier.

for the majority of the night, the two of you stared at each other in silence like the idiots in love that you are, and took advantage of the idea that it was truly only you and yujin the entire world; void of troubles, hardships, and issues. surrounded only by the love you held for one another, forever and after.

#ive x reader #ive imagines #ive reactions #ive oneshots #ive scenarios #ahn yujin x reader #ahn yujin oneshots #ahn yujin reactions #ahn yujin imagines #ahn yujin scenarios #yujin x reader #yujin oneshots #yujin imagines #yujin x fem reader #ive x fem reader

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lau219 · 2 months

Text

Why Deny?

Part 12

Previous part here

…………………………………………………………………………….

Eventually, they got around to actually focusing on work for a while. Leonard relayed to Y/N the conversation he’d heard at the bar during the party the other night, and that it seemed like, along with Simon Foster, there were a couple other people who weren’t happy with Charles Benton. It was possible that Charles was just a shared complaint they all had, but something told Leonard and Y/N that these people were also working with Foster in some way on whatever backwards shit he was involved in.

Did it involve Charles, and was he some kind of target? It was too soon to tell. However, additional information Leonard had got from Charles on his run back to Langley revealed that Foster had not only been declined a promotion, but that Benton had actually slightly demoted him due to less than satisfactory performance, and his salary had been cut quite a bit.

Leonard had asked Charles to also run the name of the guy who’d been talking to Foster and whose information he’d written down at the party. The guy was an employee at the U.S. Embassy in Venezuela, but his status was lower than Foster’s, and his record was completely clean. To add to the confusion, the piece of paper that Y/N had snatched off Foster contained nothing more than a series of numbers and letters. Obviously, it had to mean something, but they hadn’t yet figured out what.

“Do you think Charles is in any kind of danger?” Y/N asked Leonard as she handed him back one of the files he’d brought back with him from Langley. It was possible that whatever Foster was involved in had nothing to do with Charles whatsoever, but she was still concerned for the man who she viewed as somewhat of a fatherly figure.

Leonard smiled.

“He said he knew you’d be worried about him, and to tell you, ‘Relax, kid.’”

Y/N smiled back, shaking her head.

“They ran Foster’s computer the other day, and nothing pertaining to Benton came up,” Leonard continued, “so he didn’t want anymore attention focused on worrying about him when there’s no sign Foster’s targeting him.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, necessarily. He could just be really good at covering his tracks,” Y/N said.

“I know,” Leonard said. “But there’s nothing more we can do until we get back there on Thursday. Now that we have access to his computer, we can do our own research then. They haven’t found anything new on him since their original suspicions came up, but there’s definitely something going on.”

Y/N nodded in understanding as she stood up from the small sofa.

“Maybe it’s correct that Charles isn’t a target. And maybe whatever Foster was involved in has already wrapped up. Since they haven’t found anything new on him, perhaps it was just a one and done thing after he’d accessed whatever he kept visiting Records and Security for.”

“Possibly,” Leonard replied, also standing, “but even if that’s the case, we still need to find out what he was doing, and if those other guys were involved. And also what kind of information he might have shared, and with who.”

“Well, unfortunately, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to get anything else from him. He’s not going to talk to me anymore,” Y/N said as she looked at Leonard with a half smile. “I think you sank that ship when you hit him.”

“I don’t see any downside to that,” Leonard replied.

“Oh, really?” she said. “And did you tell Benton about your little brawl? Because he was expecting me to charm something out of Foster. What am I supposed to do now?”

“You got the paper from him,” Leonard replied, his face serious. “Benton knows about it; that’s enough.”

“Did you mention that you hit him?”

“I didn’t hit him,” Leonard replied, not even bothering to try to sound convincing. “He tripped.”

Y/N smiled knowingly as she moved and stopped in front of him.

“What exactly happened there, anyway? You never told me.”

“Nothing noteworthy,” Leonard replied, shaking his head.

“You punched him in the face,” Y/N countered.

“Long overdue,” he replied.

Y/N gave him a look, and had the intention to press further, but Leonard reached down and nudged her, placing his hand in the small of her back and guiding her towards the door.

“Let’s go; we’re going out to dinner,” he said.

“No, can’t,” she quickly replied, halting in front of him. “I’m busy.”

Leonard looked at her and raised an eyebrow as she turned around to face him, but then she gave him a coy smile.

“Oops, sorry,” she said, leaning in and giving him a quick peck on the lips. “Force of habit.”

————————————————

The next three days had them attending numerous lengthy meetings and presentations along with dozens of other CIA staff, one of which was Simon Foster. He made eye contact with them only once upon first seeing them, and then proceeded to keep his bruised face focused on his laptop for the remainder of the time. As they occasionally observed him, nothing he did roused any suspicion, but then again, they couldn’t expect much when they were in such an open environment.

But the open environment didn’t stop Leonard. Sitting next to each other during the first meeting, Y/N nearly jumped out of her chair when he slipped his hand onto her thigh beneath the table and glided it under her skirt to skim his fingers over her through her panties. He smiled to himself as he massaged her thigh, the question he’d always wondered about finally being answered — thigh-highs.

After she’d composed herself, Y/N had discreetly gripped Leonard’s hand under the table and shooed it away, but that didn’t stop him. Finally, she decided to teach him a lesson, and she slowly palmed him under the table for the last 10 minutes of the meeting. She laughed to herself when, as a result, he had to stay seated at the table for 5 minutes after the meeting had ended, and she winked at him as she exited the large room with the others while he remained at the conference table, pretending to be getting a call on his cell. At the next meeting, she intentionally sat herself away from him, to which Leonard gave her a look that made her heart skip a beat. They glanced at each other multiple times throughout the meeting, and when it finally ended for an hour-long lunch break, the two of them quickly walked back to the hotel and took the elevator up to their room, practically falling through the door as they raced to undress each other between kisses.

———————————————

“So how is this going to work, exactly, when we get back to Langley?” Y/N asked Leonard that night as he closed the laptop and rose from the desk.

“The same way it’s been working so far,” he replied as he walked over to the bed, removing his clothes and climbing into the bed beside her in his boxer briefs.

“Hardly,” Y/N replied, looking at him. “We can’t just be sneaking off, or having sex in your office every day at lunchtime.”

“Why not?” Leonard asked her with a devilish smile. “That was my plan.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him.

“We have to be smart about this,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s the CIA; it may as well be high school when it comes to gossip. You’re a superior, and I refuse to suddenly be labeled a ladder-climbing whore.”

Leonard pulled a face.

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

Y/N took a deep breath.

“The point is, you’re untouchable. Frankly, all the guys will likely be giving you a pat on the back. It wouldn’t exactly work out the same for me.”

Leonard pulled her closer before answering.

“We can be as discreet as you want to be,” he said. “No one has to know anything.”

Y/N nodded briefly, and then a small smile appeared on her face.

“What?” Leonard asked.

“You know, the upside to this is that we already know everything about each other.”

“Not true,” Leonard replied, shaking his head. “I still have secrets.”

“Like what?” Y/N asked him with raised eyebrows.

“I hate country music,” he said.

She couldn’t stop laughing.

————————————————

Over the next month, they resumed work in essentially the same capacity as they had prior to the trip. Among other work they now had to resume, they continued to work together to monitor Foster. As Y/N predicted, he didn’t try to contact her again, and the piece of paper she’d gotten off him was currently still a mystery. They were awaiting additional information on Foster’s connection in Venezuela, and also were working with Benton to coordinate a time to send Foster away on some bullshit overnight trip so that they could search his apartment. They’d need to be sure he’d be gone somewhere where an unexpected return home wasn’t possible, and also so that they’d have enough time to be sure to leave everything exactly as they found it.

During the day-to-day, however, Y/N made an effort to be especially mindful of not spending more time around Leonard than necessary, and avoiding any contact that could be interpreted as intimate. It wasn’t easy, but she was determined not to let any rumors start. They’d been almost completely successful at staying away from each other during work, except for one afternoon in Leonard’s office, where what was supposed to be just a quick check-in on something turned into sex on his desk when he’d placed a kiss on the back of her neck after closing the office door.

“Never again,” Y/N had said to him as she’d tucked her blouse back in her skirt.

“Never say never,” Leonard replied with a triumphant and satisfied smirk as he re-did his tie. She’d glared at him and shoved him back down into his chair before leaving his office.

They spent every evening together, and pretty soon, Y/N was practically living at his place. It was an interesting experience for them both – Y/N because it was such a drastic change from just a month prior, when she’d been so determined to continue to resist Leonard despite how she felt about him, and Leonard because not only did he finally have her, but it was a lifestyle shift. Before Y/N had come along, he’d had casual relationships, if you could call them that, but they were brief and mostly just to scratch an itch, and he never gave any of those women consideration for something serious. Frankly, it wasn’t something that previously crossed his mind often at all. But with Y/N, he found that changing.

But another change was unknowingly coming.

A little over a month later, Leonard had had to travel for another commitment for work, and they’d been completely apart for a week. When they’d spoke on the phone a few times while he’d been away, he’d sensed something was off, but Y/N assured him everything was fine, other than that she was coming down with something. They’d messaged back and forth throughout, and when Leonard got to work the day after he’d returned, he looked for her, but she wasn’t in her office. Almost as if on cue, he received a message from her, and he pulled out his phone to read it.

Meet me in the meeting room on the 8th floor.

Leonard smiled to himself. It was a smaller conference room that was hardly ever used, and he was dying to get his hands on her. He made it up to the meeting room, but when he arrived, she wasn’t there yet. Standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows, he turned around when he heard the door open several moments later, Y/N entering and quietly closing the door behind her. She gave him a small smile, and he immediately walked over to her, pulling her against him and planting his lips on hers.

Y/N responded, wrapping her arms around his neck as she kissed him back, but quickly, she retracted, trying to speak as Leonard moved his mouth to her neck.

“I missed you, doll,” he said as he tried to slip his hand under her blouse.

“I missed you, too,” she replied quietly. But when Leonard had his hand on her bra clasp, she stopped him.

“Leonard, wait,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling it down. He lifted his head from her neck to speak, quickly looking at her.

“No one’s going to see us,” he said before he resumed kissing her. But she leaned into him for only a moment before trying to push him away again.

“Leonard, wait. Stop. I need to tell you something.”

Leonard heard the tone in her voice, and he pulled his head away from her neck and looked at her, the tension in her body obvious. He furrowed his brow in concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Y/N took a deep breath, looking down at the floor and completely exhaling, then slowly raising her head again, looking at him for a moment before she finally spoke.

“I’m pregnant.”

Part 13

@nyxxie-pooh @febris-amatoria @xsweetcatastrophe @alltoowellbeneaththemangotree @hannibellector @devotedlyshadowytheorist @aphroditeslover11 @natalie--rushman @garrison-girl-08 @fuseburner @neonpurplestars89-blog

#leonard miller #leonard miller fic #leonard miller smut #leonard miller x reader #leonard miller x female reader #cillian murphy #cillian x fem!reader #cillian fic #cillian murphy smut #cillian smut #18+ only

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wingedjellyfishflight · 5 months

Text

Hogtied: Part 3

You stay busy for another week, finishing up exams and redacting most of König's file for him. Just in time, it seems, as you catch one of your nurses looking through it with a frown. The dressing down she receives is more than enough to deter others, but the cleaning rotation she gets for the next month ensures it won't happen again.

When the C140 lands again, it is complete madness, just as you were worried it would be. König has multiple large lacerations, Ghost has a through and through on the meaty part of his thigh, Gaz has a laceration on his head that won't stop bleeding and Soap, poor Soap. A broken leg, lacerations on his arm, and clear signs of torture.

You triage the men, passing Gaz off for stitches, sending Ghost to a nurse who previously worked in an ER and directing a set of nurses to tag team the lacerations on König, but only what he will allow. Any pushback means stop. You don't want to lose the trust you have built up in the short time he has worked with you. Turning to Soap, you work to stabilize him. Immobilizing his leg, you quickly stitch the worst of his wounds to stop the bleeding. With the help of a few nurses, you get good x-rays. Luckily, it is not a complex break, and you are able to set it with ease. He will need a hard cast once the swelling goes down.

The aftermath of torture is a harder thing to solve. You bandage his hands, slather burns in ointment, and inject an antibiotic. Gaz pulls you aside and tells you that he was also subject to waterboarding for a very short window of time before they rescued him. You nod, angry, but trying not to show it. You turn back and review all of Soap's injuries now that he is more stable, ensuring that you didn't miss anything. There doesn't appear to be anything else wrong with him, and you have him moved to a recovery room.

You make rounds, checking on the others as they rest. When you reach König's room, you note blood on his pillow and check over his chart. "Herzblatt, do you have an injury under your mask?" He turns to look at you.

"Ja, mein Kopf tut weh."

(Yes, my head hurts.)

"Let me grab a kit, and we will get it fixed up then." You do so, shutting the door on your way back to the bed. He slips off his mask, and you gasp, seeing the large cut across his face. "You should have mentioned this."

"I wanted you to fix, Schatz."

"Yes, Herzblatt, but I would have come to fix it sooner. Now hold still. I will have to numb you to stitch it. You may grip my shoulder if you need to." He hesitates, but as he sees you move closer with the needle, he wraps his fingers tight where you indicated. The way he grips it, you know you will have bruises later, but he doesn't flinch away. "Once it is numb, I will stitch inside to bring those layers together, then I will stitch the outside. You will tell me if you feel pain, yes? There is no reason to tough it out."

"Ja, already proved my mettle." You chuckle and lay out your supplies.

"Jetzt haben wir den Salat."

He chokes back a laugh at that. While his body is becoming numb, you check the rest of his lacerations and ensure the stitches look good. Returning to his face, you check to ensure he is ready, then work to stitch him up. It goes quickly, though you have to make a conscious effort not to look in his eyes.

(Now we have the salad, aka shit went sideways, and now we have a mess)

Just as you set down the needle and thread on your table, the door bursts open. Unthinking, you jump forward and use your body to cover König's face. "Unless someone is dying, get out!"

"Sorry, you've been in here a long time, and we were worried. Is everything alright?"

"I said, get the fuck out! You know the rules here, Lieutenant!" The door slams shut and you cautiously pull back, checking to make sure none of the stitches popped. König's face looks red as a tomato as he looks at you. "Let me finish bandaging this and you can put the mask back on, alright?" He stares at you saying nothing. "Uhh... sorry for that. I should have locked the door. And sorry for mashing your face with my... torso." You quickly place the bandages and hand him his mask.

"I'd prefer if you had a clean mask, but I don't have one handy. If you drop one by later, I can keep it on hand for you. Ghost keeps some here, the delicate princess. He refuses to wear hospital grubs if he can't wear the clothes he came in with."

"So, he is not... dating you?"

"Hmm... no. No, he and I are not dating. I'm half sure he is more interested in Soap than me, but I've been wrong before. Any roads, enough talk about our co-workers. Push the button here if you need assistance. I am going off the clock, but I will return if needed. Try to get some rest. I'm sure debriefing will be hell."

When you return the next morning, only Soap remains in recovery. The other men have left to debrief. You schedule an appointment for him with the therapist he doesn't hate and listen to him flirt with a nurse while you update files in your office. He quickly grows bored and insists that you sit and entertain him.

You acquiesce, deciding that a break is in order now that you've finished about half of your paperwork. He is chatting away about things he's done mostly. You usually try to deflect questions about yourself, but he is not deterred, sipping at his coffee while you enjoy your cuppa.

"Didja always wannae be a doc?" You shake your head.

"Got it twisted, mate. I never wanted to be a doctor. T'was my parents dream, not mine. I picked here to spite 'em."

He laughs hard. "You're a rebel. What didja wannae then?"

You stand suddenly, too flustered by his question. "Tea times over, fella. I've gottae get back to work." You pause in the doorway, leaning back in and looking into his eyes as you debate with yourself. "I wanted a job like yours." He looks stunned, then a bit sad.

"Ye woulda been a belter, lass." You smile sadly and walk back to your office. It takes forever for you to get any work done. You make sure to sign off on his release so Soap can leave when he is ready.

You look up at a knock on your door some time later. "Enter"

"Doc, you're still here? I was just checking in here since the light was on. It's already after 2100."

"Oh, shit. I completely lost track of time. Just have to finish this, and I will head out."

"Alright, see you tomorrow then."

It's after 2200 when you do head out, and you quickly realize that you are starving, not having had much more than snacks since breakfast. The mess is closed this late, so you head to the kitchen. Digging through the fridge, you hear a noise behind you, but don't see anything when you look around the darkened room. Shrugging it off, you dig some more before grabbing leftovers with Ghost's name on them. You're disappointed to see that they've gone off and toss them in the bin before looking again.

You finally find some leftovers that aren't bad with Captain Price written in capital letters with an underline on the box. It's butter chicken over rice, and you've honestly never been so excited for it. Waiting for it to heat, you hear the sound again. You turn and realize that there are two men across the room watching you. Through squinted eyes, you see that it is Captain Price and Gaz having tea together. Whipping back around nervously, your fingers tap on the counter, waiting forever, it seems for the microwave to ding.

Just before it does, you hear, "Butter chicken. My favorite," in your ear, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

"S-sorry, Captain. I missed lunch and dinner. I'll order some fresh tomorrow to make up for it. Please."

"I'm just teasin ya, doll. Eat up. You know we never remember to eat our leftovers." He winks and walks off, catching up to Gaz.

#konig x reader #könig x reader #call of duty #ghost cod #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #captain john price

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usermischief · 11 months

Text

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Warnings: — ♚ Words: 907 ♚ Dialogue Prompt: “You're right.” - "I know... about what?" ♚ Mini Fic Roulette: 33/∞

---

Rolling over in the middle of the night to find one side of their bed empty is not unusual, yet Stiles still sits upright with panic when he notices Derek’s absence. Because Derek isn’t the one who leaves the bed in the middle of the night. He is the one who shuffles into the living room or the office to try and coax Stiles back to bed. That’s how their nights are, that’s their routine. Changes from the routine are never a good sign.

Stiles rubs his eyes, listening to the silence of the night. At first, he doesn’t hear anything other than his heart pounding in his chest then he catches the soft murmur of voices. Derek watching TV in the middle of the night is almost more unnerving than the prospect of someone breaking into their apartment which is probably saying a lot something about him. However, it’s hard to be scared of criminals while living under the same roof as an alpha werewolf.

Huffing out a breath, Stiles rolls out of bed. Even after years of being together, having to coax Derek back to bed is still very much unchartered territory. But on the rare occasions it happens, Stiles at the very least has an inkling as to what’s going on. Today, however, he has no clue what could possibly keep Derek up at night. There are no monsters causing mayhem in Beacon Hills. Nobody in the pack is in any sort of danger. Everything should be fine.

But apparently not.

Stiles tiptoes out of their bedroom and down the short hallway towards the voices coming from the TV. By the sound of it, Derek put on a rerun of Friends. He pushes the door open, not entirely sure what to expect — and he sure didn’t think he’d find a wolf curled up on the couch. “Derek, seriously.” Annoyed, Stiles flicks on the lights in the open-plan kitchen. “Get your filthy paws off my furniture.”

Derek’s ears flick in his direction. He doesn’t move immediately but decides to follow the command after a few seconds of contemplation. Judging by the way he stretches languidly, it seems like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

If Stiles has woken up in an empty bed for nothing, he’s going to be pissed. He grabs the sweatpants from the backrest of the armchair and tosses them at Derek. “Unwolf and explain yourself, Mister.” His least favorite past-time is forcing his fiance to talk to him about feelings. No matter how long they’re going to be together, Stiles doubts Derek will ever be able to communicate freely about the shit that bothering him. So, occasionally Stiles has to get a little mean to make Derek open up. Cuddles can come after.

The enormous wolf makes a sound akin to a huff. However, he shifts back into a human — not without a disgruntled rumble though. He still cooperated a lot faster than Stiles expected. Nothing would’ve stopped him from simply staring him down as a wolf, looking adorable as hell. Well, nothing but the knowledge that not even Derek, as emotionally constipated as he might be, is able to out-stubborn Stiles.

“So?” Stiles asks and switches the TV off. “What’s going on?”

Derek studies him as he slips into his sweatpants, head slightly cocked in a way that’s reminiscent of an animal. It always takes a few moments to leave his wolf behind. He blinks slowly, once then twice, and flares his nostrils just enough to be noticeable; almost as if he’s trying to figure out how mad Stiles really is — and truth be told, he isn’t mad, just a little frustrated that Derek decided to eat his feelings instead of waking him up. A conclusion his dear fiance clearly came to as well because his shoulders slump and he crosses the distance between them. “You’re right,” he says almost reluctantly before pulling Stiles into a hug.

“I know.” The response is more instinct than anything else. After all, when is he wrong? Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and squints at him. “About what?”

“Peter doesn’t have an emergency.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “She’s not going to eat you alive.” His grandmother has always been more bark than bite, but since Stiles is her favorite grandchild, she might be a little bit overprotective.

“I’m not sure about that,” Derek mutters, and he looks genuinely worried.

It takes everything in him not to bring Red Riding Hood into this conversation. “Babcia knows you make me happy,” Stiles reminds him, wrapping his arms tightly around Derek’s middle, and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “That’s all she needs to know to approve of our marriage.”

Derek doesn’t reply immediately, instead, he leans back a little and studies Stiles’ face again. “Am I?”

“What?” Stiles raises his brows.

“Am I making you happy?” That question could’ve only come from Derek. They’re engaged, about to be married in three months, and have lived together for the last four years. Still, he questions whether or not Stiles is happy, as if he’s the one burying his emotions under abs of steel.

After kissing Derek once again, Stiles leans back and sighs. “That depends.” His attempt at keeping his face straight fails almost immediately. He grins slightly and cups Derek’s face. “Are you coming to bed?”

Laughing softly, Derek hoists him into his arms and carries him back to the bedroom.

#sterek #eternalsterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #derek x stiles #stiles x derek #minificroulette #*tv:teen wolf #*w:complete #*s:sterek

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austinsmutler · 2 years

Text

The Walls Have Ears | Austin!Elvis x Reader | One-Shot

Summary: While on tour with the carnival, Elvis takes you into the hall of mirrors for some privacy. Smut ensues.

Pairing: Austin!Elvis x Reader (can also be irl Elvis x Reader)

What you’ll like: Smut, dom!elvis, Elvis adoring every bone in your body, Elvis being a cocky little shit, established relationship

Warnings: semi-public sex, teasing, light choking, creampie, general sexy fanfic stuff. Minors dni.

If any of the above will trigger you, go read Just Pretend instead- it's light, fluffy, and comes with 0 content warnings!

Word Count: 2846

A/N: Good lord this was fun to write. I hope you like it.

Masterlist | Requests are currently open (Please tell me everything you want! Confess your sins, spill the gossip! Have a good time with it!)

“You can do anything, but lay offa my blue suede shoes!”

With a twang of the guitar, the song was over, and the audience (mainly young women) began pelting your boyfriend with their undergarments. Dating Elvis was many things, but you weren’t sure you’d ever get used to the sight of him smirking, holding up a particularly lacy pair of pink panties. The stage was so covered, it was a wonder anyone in the crowd had clothes left. He probably could have found a matching set if he’d looked hard enough.

Instead, Elvis laughed and tossed them at Scotty’s head, lowering his voice for the next song.

“If you’re looking for trouble…”

You looked away before the next volley of intimates could be launched. Dating Elvis the man was easy; dating the god who took over onstage was hard.

“He certainly has a way with the women, doesn’t he?” The Colonel chuckled, coming up beside you backstage. You had a perfect side-view of Elvis, could just make out the sea of women in front of him past the glow of the stage lights.

“He’s always been good with a crowd. Ever since our first school talent show, I knew he was special.”

The older man studied you from the corner of his eye. “Yes, special.”

You ignored him as best you could- everything about the way the Colonel moved, looked, spoke, gave the impression he was hiding something. Making his own plans that nobody else could see coming. You watched every show from the sidelines with him, and he never seemed interested in Elvis or the music, never once swayed or tapped his foot. No, his eyes stayed glued to the crowd, the rapture on every young girl’s face as Elvis swayed and sang his heart out. The Colonel only ever saw dollar signs on that stage.

Anyone who could look at Elvis on stage and feel nothing was someone you couldn’t trust. But Elvis trusted him enough for the both of you, always insisted ‘He’s done alright by us so far, hasn’t he?’ and so you continued touring with the carnival.

That didn't mean you had to stick around with him giving you that odd look, though.

You were walking around the fair grounds alone, waiting for the show to wrap up, when a hand grabbed yours from nowhere. You span around to see two blue eyes gleaming in amusement.

“Hey baby. Didn’t mean to startle ya.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “I wasn’t scared.”

“No?”

“Nah. I knew you’d be coming to find me sometime soon.”

“Always.” Elvis promised. His eyes were wild, clearly still high from the adrenaline of his performance. He gave your hand a hard squeeze. “C’mon. Let’s go have some fun.”

He was dragging you forward before you could ask what he meant, leaving you almost running to keep up with his big strides. He was breezing past all the usual favourites: the ball toss, ferris wheel, rollercoaster, past the cotton candy, peanuts and popcorn. Soon a very specific destination came into view: the hall of mirrors.

It was closed- had been all week.

“Elvis?” He slowed to let you catch your breath, arm around your waist to tug you close. You could feel how warm he was through his black lace shirt, the sweat from his performance palpable, even through your plain white button-up… not that you minded.

“Elvis? It’s closed.” You repeated with a frown.

Elvis looked down at you with that famous lopsided grin- one you had been the first to see from him, which he’d mimicked in publicity shots because he knew what it did to you. It was meant as an inside joke on his first album cover, and now girls around the country were fawning over that smile. But it was all yours.

“I know. That’s why we’re going in.” He leaned so his breath was close to your ear, sending a shot of warmth right to your core. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You whimpered and tried unsuccessfully to cover it up with a cough. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Come on.” He was tugging your arm again, but this time it was gentle, as if he wasn’t sure you’d follow, even as he held the door open for you. He made sure to close it shut behind you so nobody would see anything awry, even if they were looking.

It was lit up inside the hall as Elvis led you through, one hand in yours, until you were deep in the maze, surrounded by your own reflections.

It was quiet in here- the music and noise of the carnival damped by the thin walls and mirrors. You knew how the maze worked- it needed people inside the walls to open the exit, and since this attraction was closed, there was no way out. So why had he insisted on coming?

Soft lips on yours answered the question. His kiss was firm but exploratory, testing the waters. Despite dating for years, some parts of your relationship were still so new he treated them like fine China. Physical acts were one such thing.

While your parents had allowed you to tour with your boyfriend for the summer, it was under the express rule that you slept in a separate hotel room, and that nothing untoward would happen.

Well, the Colonel did book you a lot of rooms. Whether or not you slept in them was another thing entirely. You and Elvis were young, dating since the first year of high school, and had other ideas. In your eyes, you were as good as married- and the first time he pressed into you, even though it was in a cheap hotel room, you were wed.

This was different, though. You were careful not to be seen together in public acting too much like a couple. The way his hands were snaking up to cup your ass and wrap your legs around him, you weren’t exactly being subtle. The thought of that unlocked door at the beginning of the maze made your heart pump faster, the idea that anyone, at any moment, could come in and find you like this made every touch burn.

“This okay, angel?” Elvis murmured against your ear.

Your arms held on to the back of his neck for dear life as you nodded, biting back a moan as he rubbed against you in just the right way. He was painfully hard between your thighs, and every thrust sent a shot of warmth to your center. The sounds leaving your mouth were pure scandal, muffled only when he kissed you as deeply as his tongue could reach.

“I’ve been thinkin’ bout this all day.” Elvis breathed, one hand snaking up your thigh to reach beneath your poodle skirt. He moved so slow it was hard to tell if he was testing or teasing or both. From the way his darkened eyes studied your every move, it was probably both. “Been thinkin’ bout taking you in here. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“What do you want to do?” You whimpered, his fingers coming to a pause just outside your underwear.

Elvis pressed his forehead against yours and breathed, “Everything.”

You rolled your hips, trying to get him to move his hand, to rub against you, anything. How could he say that and stay so perfectly still? The smirk that overtook his face was infuriating as anything. Elvis knew the effect he had on women, but better than that, he knew the effect he had on you. He could have you melting into a puddle on the floor without even touching you, as long as he gave you the right look and said the right words.

His fingers found their way under your panties, teasing your entrance, and he let out a groan. “So wet for me already?”

“Always.” You met his gaze and wrapped your legs around him that much tighter. “Please, Elvis. I need you.”

You let out a yelp of surprise when his hand withdrew and he unwrapped your legs from around him, quickly spinning you around so your back was to him. Not that it mattered- you could see him from every angle in every mirror. More than that, you could see yourself for the first time, cheeks flushed, lips parted with want, eyes dark with lust.

“You’re so beautiful, baby.” Elvis held your gaze in the mirror, his arms wrapping around you from behind to touch you everywhere. He cupped your neck for a minute, squeezing lightly, before making his way down to your breasts, unbuttoning your shirt just enough that your bra was visible. His fingers trailed down the sliver of skin between your breasts before making their way back up. Then his hands were under your bra, ghosting over your nipples and pulling unsightly sounds from your lips. “I want you to see what I see.”

His voice rumbled low, growling to himself as he trailed open-mouth kissed up your neck. That alone was almost too much: seeing his eyes so dark, the dishevelled look of you, the way you shook in his arms as you fought your own weak knees. You screwed your eyes shut, earning a sharp pinch to your nipple that made you jump.

“No.” Elvis said simply. “Look at yourself, baby.”

Against your own feelings, you opened your eyes in time to see his hand making its way to the hem of your black poodle skirt, slowly hiking it up your thigh. You were completely leaning on him now, acutely aware of his hardness pressing into your ass, grinding slowly as his hand moved under your skirt.

“Keep them open.”

His fingers were back in their rightful place- just outside your underwear, shy of where you wanted them by less than an inch. If you moved right, he’d be on your clit. Unfortunately, his strong grip on your hip prevented any such rebellion.

Instead, the hand under your skirt played rhythms on your inner thigh, ghosting over where you needed them most. Your breath hitched as his finger traced over your slit, no doubt feeling your wetness through your panties, but if it affected him he hid it well. His face didn’t change, studying yours in the mirror as you grew more hot and bothered by the second.

“Good girl,” He groaned into your ear, finally letting his fingers put pressure on your clit. You moaned so loudly he clamped a hand over your mouth. “Shh. The walls have ears in this place, baby. We gotta keep quiet.”

How was that possible when he chose that moment to plunge a finger into you? Elvis smirked at the sound you made through his fingers, hand not leaving your mouth. He found your favourite spot and ran a finger along there, concentrating his attention in a way he knew would drive you towards the edge, fast.

Your walls began to flutter around him and your eyes rolled into the back of your head, shutting tightly as you prepared to ride out-

His fingers stopped where they were, still inside you, knuckle-deep. You opened your eyes and shot Elvis a look that made him chuckle.

“I said keep your eyes open. You shut ‘em, not me.”

“Tease.” You rolled your hips, hand reaching up behind you to tangle in his hair. “They’re open again now. Wide open.”

His eyes darkened as you tugged, dragging his head close to the sweet spot on your neck. You knew what pulling on his hair did to him, especially when he had it all gelled up for a performance. The mussed-up look it gave him was one he wore only for you.

You batted your eyelashes and breathed, "I'm watching."

He swore. Before you could breathe, he had you face-first against the mirror, arms pinned above your head and hips pressed against him.

“I was gonna wait, but…” Elvis licked his lips and looked at you in the mirror, the hungriest look you’d ever seen on another human being. He looked wild, nothing but mussed-up hair and blown-out pupils as he pulled his pants down just enough to position himself at your entrance. He paused and caught your gaze in the mirror. Even now, a question flashed through his eyes: Is this alright with you?

“Elvis.” You shifted your hips and met his gaze evenly, “Fuck me.”

That was all he needed. The hand that wasn’t holding your arms in place grabbed your hips and he entered you in one thrust, pulling a yelp of pleasure from somewhere deep within you. Your head fell down as you had no time to savour the sensation before he set a wild pace.

Elvis pulled your hair back, forcing you to look at him. Your walls fluttered at the look on his face, the way his jaw was set and teeth grit as he fucked you with everything he had.

Your hips rose to meet his every thrust- he was good with his fingers, but you were sure his cock could cure you of the worst moods. It had many times before. You were certain it would continue to do so. Elvis reached around and began rubbing your clit in a frenzy, breathing against the back of your neck,

“S’tight, baby, I ain’t gonna last long. I need you to come for me.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice. Between the way his cock worked in you, hitting your spot with every thrust, the way his fingers worked you with the expert skill of a guitar player, and the way he was looking at you in that mirror like you were the only thing that mattered- you came undone in moments.

To his credit, Elvis slowed after your orgasm, giving you the short, deep thrusts you knew were designed to milk your pleasure for as much as it was worth. You could tell he was close, holding back by a thread. The renewed tension in his shoulders as his hands took your hips again, fingers digging into the flesh there with bruising strength; the way his eyes bored into you, not studying you, no deep thoughts bubbling in his mind. When he looked at you like that, it felt like the most honest way a man can look at a woman.

“S’good for me.” Elvis panted, pulling you up by the hair as his thrusts became more erratic. Your back was flush against his, the lace of his shirt rubbing harshly through the fabric of yours.

The image in the mirror was positively debased. Your mouth hung open, red lipstick smudged ever so slightly. Your breasts bounced with every thrust inside your slightly-askew bra. Elvis had his head nestled in the crook of your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses there, never once breaking eye contact in the mirror. He looked just as debauched as you, despite his clothes being mostly-buttoned, pants pulled down just enough to do what he needed to you. Then there was the look in his eyes that told you how much he was loving this.

Elvis' breath fanned out over your neck as he panted, “I perform, and when I look at that crowd I know I could have any woman there.”

You whimpered as his hand came back up to your throat with a possessive squeeze.

“But I don’t want any of them. Never. Not one of them is as good as you.”

You believed it, too. The desperate look in his eyes begged you to believe him. His thrusts were faster now, pulling delicious sounds from your throat that only egged him on.

“They throw themselves at me, and all I can think about is finally getting off that stage and finding you. Doing this.” Elvis growled against your throat, pushing you until you were bent over, leaning on the mirror for balance. You kept your head up to meet his gaze and watch as he repeated the same words with every thrust, so low you could barely hear,

“Only you. Only you. Just you.”

Then he came, taking a second orgasm from you as he went, your walls milking him for all he was worth until he went still, withdrawing after a long moment of panting against your back, one arm around your waist as Elvis struggled to hold you both up.

Afterward, you helped him put himself back together, smoothing down his hair and re-buttoning his lace shirt. He did the same for you, re-buttoning your shirt with such tenderness it would have been hard to believe he’d just taken you so fiercely, the evidence of which was safely hidden beneath the many layers of your poodle skirt and petticoats.

Elvis pressed a kiss to your lips. “Thank you. I needed that.”

“Thank you.” You couldn’t help but giggle, sore in all the right places. “I hope this place stays out of order.”

He gave you that lopsided grin again before taking your hand. “C’mon. Lemme get you something to eat.”

“Popcorn?”

He tucked you close to his side with one arm around you, feeling for a way out with the other.

“Whatever you want, baby, I’ll give you.”

#austin butler fanfic #austin butler fic #austin butler #austin butler imagine #austin!elvis #austin!elvis x reader #austin butler x reader #elvis 2022 #austin butler elvis #austin butler smut #elvis smut #elvis presley smut #50s elvis smut #austin!elvis fanfic #austin!elvis x y/n #austin!elvis smut #austin!elvis imagine #austin elvis imagine #austin elvis smut

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pettyprocrastination · 1 year

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Abby x reader head canons?

I will say may not be the best representation for her character because I've only watched (many) play troughs and not played the game yet cause I no longer have my play station :( but I am absolutely horrendously down bad for her ngl so here we go (also abby is closeted wlw in this sorry guys)

warnings: repressed sapphic feelings, gets a little sexual at the ending but nothing major, jealousy, mostly just fluff here cause im easing myself into her character

I feel like she's not particularly into pda? not anything egregious but she'll have an arm around you is enough, maybe a hand in the back pocket to give you a lil bum squeeze but even that's pushing it. She doesn't want to be obnoxious like *those* couples (she does actually) but she wants people to know your hers.

connecting to this I feel like she gets jealous pretty easily. Not from a place of seeing you as property but from her own insecurities and worrying that you'll find somebody "better" which means sometimes she'll give a snide little comment when you've been hanging out with somebody else that makes you pull back and go "excuse me?" often leading to her either talking herself into a corner or going silent and passive aggressive until your able to pull the truth out of her, often times after the anger has fizzled out hours later and she slips into your room with a soft mumbled apology when you tell you that you love her and only her but that doesn't mean she gets to be an asshole to you for it. (she makes it up to you though. all night long in fact)

braid her hair. please braid her hair. It's a small sign of love that makes her go absolutely crazy. The feeling of your nails gently scritching her scalp has her stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam on a lazy sunday afternoon. She'll set her head in your lap while you undo the braid and run your fingers through her soft locks until she slowly drifts off to sleep because she just feels so at peace with you that she's comfortable letting her guard down and falling asleep

even if you have very short hair, you probably end up wearing one of her hair ties on your wrists because she tends to lose them + its a little part of her to keep by your side :') (i will say its interesting that in the show, it seems like ellie keeps her hair tied back with a hairtie that seems to have been cut, so she has to wrap it around and then tie a knot which makes sense because i'd gather that elastic isn't that easy to come across post apocalypse yknow. I think it'd be cute if you like. found a scrunchie or smthn for her that even though its not her style she's still wear it cause its a gift from you :'))

that being said? i imagine after everything she's been through she's a pretty light/paranoid sleeper so if you slip from the bed for any reason be ready to see her padding after you, squinted eyes and grumbling with sleep still in her voice as she mumbles 'where you goin'?' because babygirl woke up without you by her side and it caused her to panic :(

confident in her body. She's worked hard on her physique and she knows you enjoy it, so don't be surprised to see her not-so-subtlety flex if she catches you eyeing her up. You'll roll your eyes at her peacocking but it doesn't stop that lovesick smile from growing on your face that makes her feel all giddy. Bunch of goofballs in love right here <3

idk why but she gives me a bit closeted energy growing up. I feel like she probably got plenty of shit for being a tomboy and she gives me the energy of those girls who are like "women can be masculine and straight you know >:(" but so incredibly gay lmao (knew countless gals like this god bless them all) but yeah she'll huff and puff because just because she's not girly doesn't mean she's gay but also likes it when you sleep in her bed and you guys tell stories and fall asleep in eachothers arms, sometimes she'll stay awake so she can watch how peaceful you are and maybe maybe think about kissing you and how soft your body would feel in her hands and the little noises you'd make and that makes her feel something owen never did. but yknow. she's still super straight

#abby anderson x reader #my apologies if this isn't in character! i havent really ever..done anything for her before!#abby anderson x you #abby anderson x female reader #but yes lets talk about this beauty <3

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flawiette · 1 year

Text

His life

Pairing: Eddie munson x y/n

Summary: when life gets hard, eddie knows who will have his back

Warnings: mention of killing in horror movie, mention of past abuse

“What the fuck!” You screamed looking at the tv in front of you.

“Language darling…”

“I’m sorry Wayne but come over here!”

“That crap of a movie has been on for 30 minutes and nothing happened, it can resist without me for a second…”

Yours had become a permanent presence at the munson’s trailer, and there wasn’t a day passing by that didn’t prove to you how loved you were in there.

Your whole relationship with Eddie could be read looking at every angle, every corner, every insignificant detail for anyone else who might look, but that meant everything to you.

As an example, looking at the little kitchen table in the living room you could see your’s and Eddie’s first date, who had the both of you soaking wet after running home from a restaurant.

Poor Eddie was mortified and couldn’t stop apologizing while you kept laughing while hugging your body: he had reserved the table for the day prior.

The two of you ended up eating cold sandwiches at that table, still giggling from the accident.

Or looking at the little kitchen ile you could picture your second date.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way really.

Him, being ever the gentleman, had asked you on a second date swearing he’d “get that right next time”, but you beat him on time, and knocked on the trailer door on a random night with your arms full of pizza dough, flour, tomato sauce and so on, demanding to make pizza together.

The two of you may have eaten the most carbonized pizza ever seen on the planet, but the memories of the two of you playing with flour and smiling like fools enjoying each other's company in such a mundane activity was what really mattered.

That’s how you ended up here, curled up on the munson's couch, which apparently now you had the domain of the left side by the name of “angel’s kingdom” as Eddie named it, watching Friday the 13th with Wayne.

“Oh my god!”

“Y/n darling are you serious? Did you get scared over those silly thin- HOLY SHIT”

“I TOLD YOU SO”

“TAKE THAT MASK OFF!”

“Hate to break it to you but that wouldn’t be good for him” you laughed with tears in your eyes at the sight of Wayne munson, a man whose face and hands showed the signs of someone who not only fought but that had to fight, jumping because he got scared of a crappy horror movie while dropping a whole bowl of freshly made popcorn.

You kept laughing with furor as Wayne kept insulting those on the screen like they could stop being chased around by a guy in a mask who wanted to kill them, turn around, check what happened and apologize to him; and maybe make other popcorn as well.

“How can he enjoy this stuff! I only rented this because he said it was good!”

He had been watching the whole time.

After graduating he wanted to save as much as possible to build a life with you, so he took every damn job he could find, usually ending up overworking himself.

Today had been quite a hard day for Eddie.

He woke up already feeling like the past was weighing on him too much, making him feel miserable just like he did not long ago.

He tried to shake away those voices telling him that “that was going to be all he’d get”, that “he was a good for nothing”, that “you would just abandon him in the end”, because why wouldn’t you? It’s not like he could give you more than just himself.

Those were whispers from the past and he was aware of that, he knew them really well, but the only thing he wanted in the world and had craved for the whole day was to see you.

To keep him company during the ride home, those voices decided to get louder and meaner, louder and mean, louder, and louder, and louder and louder and louder-

Until he saw you.

At your sight everything stopped.

The love of his life looking happy, healthy, beautifully wrapped under a blanket he had been using since he was a child, laughing with his dad.

You were trying to speak but you couldn’t get anything out if not for that sweet sweet melody you were playing.

You got up and went towards Wayne’s direction but saw a ball of hair at your door that had you run to it and open it with that smitten smile of yours.

Your eyes were infused with adoration as they looked at him but were quick to turn into worry after studying his expression.

“Are you okay baby?” you whispered while cradling his face in your soft hands.

“Am now my love” he said as he hid himself in your neck while leaving open mouth, ever so gentle, wet kisses over every inch of skin he could reach while hugging you like his life depended on you, because it did.

He let himself hold onto you for a bit, remembering everything he thought during the day: every mean word full of venom and harm, who had him question everything he had worked so hard for.

He thought about that for a second, then he pulled a bit back and put a strand of fallen hair behind your ear, letting all of those thoughts disappear as the proof of their falsity was in front of him.

“I am okay when I’m with you my love” he said looking at you with so much hope and devotion.

This was his life, not what those people made up about him, not all of those years he had to suffer in silence, to accept the abuse anyone would give him.

No.

His life was in front of him with kind eyes, red cheeks and in his home, your home, right where family belongs.

“Is someone gonna help me clean here or do I have to call a priest to marry the two of you to acknowledge me?”

Hi! I know this is relatively short but I was about to go to sleep and this idea just came to mind and… could I really not write it??? As always tell ma what ya think 🫶🏻

#eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson comfort #fluff #stranger things fanfic

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akajustmerry · 6 months

Note

the one thing i can't wrap my head around is how nobody else has spoken out against rtd like eccleston has. don't get me wrong i'm not doubting eccleston he has always been very consistent about his story. but then you have billie sitting next to him and she's not saying anything and it's just odd. usually when you have these bad working conditions there's a pattern, it's not seemingly a one off. and maybe he has grown and changed like you said but idk. there's something off about this almost like there's more to the story.

It's really common for cast and crew on productions to sign NDAs, even when nothing Bad™ has happened. Usually, it's to protect the copyright of the production, etc. But they also can be used to protect privacy of individual talent and, yeah unfortunately, to keep people quiet about uncouth happenings. If there had been as much shit going down as is implied by Eccleston, it's likely they signed NDAs under threat of being blacklisted if they broke them. Eccleston spoke up about being blacklisted for criticising the BBC. It's likely that was a direct consequence of breaking his NDA, probably because he knows as a well respected actor that he can break it and still get employment. But for smaller actors who are less established like Billie, the cast and crew, etc. the consequences of breaking the NDA might mean losing a huge hunk of their livelihood. I'm sure Chris understands that too because in his memoir, he talks about leveraging his status as the Doctor on set to get better conditions for the crew who can't complain without risking getting fired. There's undoubtedly more to it, but so long as RTD and the current producers are still in charge, no one will risk losing potential employment and if the strikes this year taught us anything it's that employment in production is VERY precarious. Despite appearances, not everyone can afford (even though they absolutely should have the right to) to speak up about unfairness in the workplace.

#anon

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greenninjagal-blog · 5 months

Text

Deja Vu pt 12

Hey, pretend it hasn't been eons since the last update!

If you’re new around here you can find the first chapter [here] or if you just want a refresher you can find the previous chapter [here!]

Summary: Remus is falling, and he's just now realizing that he's been falling for a lot longer than he thought he'd been.

Word Count: 10901

Read on Ao3 || Hero Worship Series || My General Writing Masterlist

The thing about freefalls is that there’s absolutely nothing freeing about it, but there’s a whole lot of falling.

Sometimes minutes, sometimes seconds, sometimes years and eons and eternities and blinks: sometimes Remus doesn’t realize he’s falling at all because his brain has mentally reset too many times and he forgot there was ever a feeling that was not falling and then the weightless, worriless feeling becomes its own type of prison because he can’t do anything but fall.

It doesn’t feel like falling though. It feels like floating, like if he closes his eyes he wouldn’t be moving at all, like he could breathe and float and enjoy the dose of overwhelming euphoria that comes from his brain trying to make sense of all the alarms going on inside of him. He’s stuck and he’s floating and time means nothing, and existence means nothing, and Remus Regis means nothing.

Here’s the other thing about freefalls: they don’t end softly.

The sidewalk outside a skyscraper in Detroit that he gave himself access to on a Tuesday afternoon at 3:46 pm, the water surface that tastes like cement when Remus’s foot misses a step on the bridge railing on a summer night so hot it feels like his skin is peeling off, the rocky bottom of the shallow end of the pool from the hotel balcony when Remus got too curious, too tempted, too alone, the windshield of an SUV at 3 AM.

There’s no cushion. No parachute. No hidden cartoon trampoline or careful hands wrapping around his waist to drag him back from the plunges that he’s taking bites out of like they’re all midnight secret pleasures.

Remus steps off that solid sturdy ledge and there is no other ending. There’s no way for him to say wait, no way for him to scream hang on, no way for Remus to think I didn’t mean to lose control like this, please let me take it back, please let me kiss Janus one more time, please let me try on Virgil’s sweatshirt just for a second, please let me see that Roman fucking does care just this once—

Remus would know.

They don’t end softly. But they do end.

But hey, maybe that was for the best. Remus had spent his whole childhood choosing who gets to live and die. He’d been selfish and arrogant and Roman Roman Roman and now the universe was telling him he used up all his good will: the headaches and nose bleeds were all warning signs to knock it off and instead Remus flipped a coin in the air and told Janus that he was going to see this through.

((Remus is twenty one and he knew kissing Janus was like letting go of the railing. Is it any surprise that there’s no soft ending to this either?))

Remus’s body had curled on instinct: wrapping himself around the kid— Logan’s kid brother, Remy— so that Remus would hit the ground first and maybe his body would break the fall for the kid so he didn’t die due to Roman’s shitty ass powers and poor Library structural upkeep and Remus’s own stupid part in all this.

He’s never jumped with someone else before. Never had something to hold close as the tattering, violent winds and the heavy iron chain of gravity, and the long, drawn out, endless, breathless space between his heart’s rapid fire beating and none at all, work in tandem to make his last moments the most memorable. But despite it all, Remus’s arms wrap around Remy’s head and the impulse to protectsavekeepalive consumes the last of his mind.

(He can’t be older than sixteen, maybe seventeen, he can’t be any more enamored with his older brother, he can’t be aware yet that all older brothers are shit and they stand at the top of staircases in houses that don’t feel like home and they say I don’t need you, Remus— )

The noise around them turns to static and Remus can’t hear Remy’s scream, but he can feel it in how Remy clings desperately like he hadn’t been fighting to get away like a wild animal less than thirty seconds before.

Remus braces for the floor, for the pain, for the end because he doesn’t have any type of control and there are no soft endings and he was an idiot for ever thinking he’d get to have anything soft in his--

R emu s wak es up thi nki ng abou t sh ards of gla ss in his spine, barbed and jagged and clinging to his insides, because his inner organs are much warmer than the cool night air and much more accepting than the windshield frame.

There’s blood in his mouth, cotton in his throat, a bursting, bulging headache behind his eyes. The rest of his body almost feels like nothing in comparison. His limbs are a distant memory, or maybe a dream? He can’t quite remember what it’s like to have them, even as his left arm wavers in the air over his head and limp and heavy and Remus shakes it just to see if his wrist will fly off and toss his hand into the fuzzy world around him.

He’s lying on the ground.

His spine is still intact by some miracle. His skull isn’t shattered and his brains aren’t spilling across the white porcelain tile floor he’s on. He doesn’t even think his ribs are fractured although they ache and whine with bruises that match every other part of his body. If it weren’t for the dizzy, distant feeling of needing to vomit up all his organs Remus would think he just fucking died and this was his shitty prize in the afterlife.

He blinks a few times trying to… trying to focus his mind on anything. The taste of saliva in his mouth, or the scent of coffee and Lysol hovering in the air, or the pins-and-needles feeling of his fingers twitching as if they had lost all blood circulation in the blank space where Remus’s brain refuses to make any connection as to what is going on, what had gone on, and what is going to happen now.

It’s like scratched DVD in a video player: his memory plays perfect scenes, Blue Ray edition of his tragic life, right up until the floor breaks— until his arms wrap around Remy— until he tries to brace them both for the impact— then there’s a jump-skip-scratch and Remus is staring at blurry, fuzzy drop ceiling tiles and the outline of fluorescent lights that do not belong in the public library that Remus spent all of the night prior memorizing the layout of.

There are desks, a couple dozen, all around him; a giant window, partially weeping condensation and the blinds slightly bent that colors the entire set in a gold-yellow filter; cement brick walls painted a truly inspiring shade of off-white and if Remus squints he can make out pencil sketches of dicks dusting over the closest wall. But the masterpiece that ties it all together is the shitty poster handing right over Remus’s head, staring down at him in some type of mockery.

You miss 100% of the chances you don’t take, it reads. There’s a hockey puck and a net and fine white print of a “Wayne Gretzky” that makes Remus want to claw his skin off.

Remus is twenty one and he’s staring at a shitty drop ceiling feeling like he’s seventeen again and one of Roman’s friends just laid him out in the five seconds the teacher turned her back after the bell rang to release them. Remus’s lungs hurt as he laughs because— because his head swivels around and the cloudy surroundings begin to piece themselves together, creeping out of the fog to say hello, hello, do you remember the worst years of your life, Remus? We remember you!

He is not in a library. He’s not in the library. Remus thinks he’d rather be dead in that library than lying on the floor in a high school classroom.

It’s not even a classroom he recognizes. But the suffocating feeling of his mother forcing his jaw open and the powdered pill taste overwhelms all the other sensations in his disconnected body. The memory of snipped comments from his teachers rings in his ears, living ghosts that Remus hadn’t been able to shed no matter how loudly he’d screamed and hadn’t been able to outrun no matter where he’d gone. His eyes are burning, but he’s certain that if he closes them he’ll wake up again as that same stupid seventeen year old that let Roman’s shitty friends ruin his life on the blind hope that Roman wouldn’t turn out like them too.

Remus had met people who said they peaked at high school, that college had broken their spirits and grinded their souls to dust, that life after schooling was lofty and uncertain whereas high school had been crafted with such rigid rules and a constant social struggle that surpassing expectations had been a breeze that they no longer could grapple with not having. Remus doesn’t know much about normal people, normal lives, normalness, but he remembers very vividly thinking of blood dripping off his lip onto the boys locker room bathroom tile and knowing that he’d met people whose cruelty peaked at high school too.

((Fourteen year old Remus had been excited for high school. Seventeen year old Remus had gripped the edge of a gas station sink debating which hurt worse: getting run over, or knowing that Roman had chosen those asshole high school friends who were going to kill him at a party Remus hadn’t been able to convince him not to go to over his own brother.))

The sterile silence breaks suddenly with a soft snore, and abruptly Remus is very aware that the reason he can’t move the right half of his body is because there’s someone on top of it.

There are no soft ends to freefalls, but Remus’s chin is pressed against the dark curls of Logan’s younger brother who is completely asleep on top of the other half of Remus as if they hadn’t ever been in danger at all. The kid is drooling, lips barely parted, salvia dripping out onto Remus's leather jacket. The fake bomb vest Remus had been wearing is completely crushed, the edges of the cardboard digging numbly into Remus’s ribcage as the kid just curls up on him like a human sized koala.

“What the fuck,” Remus rasps out.

The kid doesn’t stir. Remus uses his still strangely disconnected left hand to shove at the kid’s body, bapping his face just enough to wake him, but the kid’s face scrunches and he nudges his face deeper into Remus’s chest, perfectly content to continue using Remus’s like a giant awkward pillow.

“Kid. Kid. Damnit fuck— Remy.” Remus says. Then louder. “REMY! Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He shoves the kid off his right arm in a slow painful movement that is not made easier by the fact that Remus can’t feel anything that had been pinned underneath the kid, but after all the shoving, Remy still just gratefully curls up on the floor as if he found that just as comfortable as a king sized bed in heaven itself, and lets out a drowsy mumble of syllables and goes back to snoring.

Remus’s head throbs distantly as he tries to put anything together, come to some reasonable conclusion, remember if this was some part of Janus’s plan that he cleverly forgot about. He shifts slowly trying to leverage himself into a sitting position and still Remy doesn’t make any move to wake up and start screaming.

There’s a tsunami of panic in the back of Remus’s mind, blocked behind a glass wall made of confusion, just so that Remus can wave to it casually, experiencing microdoses of jitters that usually would have put him into a frenzied state of needing to drive a car into a guard rail. He needs to get up, he needs to find Janus and Virgil, he needs to find out if they’re okay, if anyone is okay, he needs to figure out what the fuck miraculous thing happened to save them both and why Remy then decided to curl up on a known villain, who may or may not be the most wanted man in the country and take a fucking nap.

He needs to— he needs—

They’re both at the back of an empty classroom and had been awkwardly crumpled against the back wall. Several of the desks closest to them are spread in some sort of weird ass pattern which, at first glance, Remus had assumed all teachers who needed to be on pills much more than Remus ever needed to be liked to put their desks in, but at the second, more clear glance, all the desks at the front are lined up in exact rows facing a wall mounted white board with the words “Homework: pg 234, odd problems ONLY!!” printed on it in blue expo marker. In the back closer to where Remus is, the desks were tossed out in some chaotic, nearly artistic design, swirling inward.

But the more Remus looks at it, the more purpose everything has: almost as if someone or something had rolled a giant human-sized, bowling ball into only the third row of seats.

It’s another second before Remus notices that where the figurative bowling ball would have ended is exactly where he just woke up with Logan’s kid brother solidly asleep on his shoulder.

“Ah,” Remus says to an empty classroom. “Fuck.”

Remus isn’t a genius, but well. He can see the future and Janus can shapeshift into animals and Virgil can talk to targeted people on frequencies no one else can hear. There must have been a reason Logan and his brother were both at the FBE.

All of Remus’s bones crack as he stands up, even bones Remus hadn’t been sure he had anymore. His neck aches so dramatically that would have made Roman jealous of its performance and his ribs are certainly whining like a little bitch and the taste of blood in the back of his throat might be real or it might be a side effect of reenacting a swan dive off a hotel balcony in a thunderstorm this time with the supporting cast of a teenager who may or may not be able to teleport on command. The clock on the wall is covered up with a handmade poster stating that a watched clock doesn’t learn math and Remus thinks that he hates this teacher more than he hated any teacher he actually had.

He squats back next to Remy, watching him sleep for a long second, the subtle in….hale and ex….hale steadily unconcerned in all the ways contrary to most people when a sociopath is this close to them. He’s got all the marks of being Logan’s brother, to be honest: the same nose shape, same eye shape, the same hair color although there’s a distinct lack of gel in his hair compared to Logan’s over-saturation. He’s wearing a black, unzipped biker’s jacket, and skinny jeans with white T-shirt that reads “I’m SLEEPING” in Times New Roman Font, like a joke that someone had half heartedly put together and abandoned half way through.

Remus taps his fingers on his knee twice before he makes up his mind. “If you wake up now, I’m going to shove a calculator down your throat.”

And then he starts a quick process of checking the kid’s pockets for his phone. Jacket pockets, inside jacket pocket, jeans front and jeans back as quick and formal as a bouncer at a casino checking someone for bugs. Remy snores deeply, and his breaths even out again and Remus steps back a healthy distance, filled with a relief he’s not going to acknowledge, and holding a slick black iPhone with a kawaii coffee cup hand painted on the case.

It's one thing to be on the FBI’s most wanted list for super villainy. It’s another thing for him to be on the list for the combination of an empty classroom, a sleeping teenager, and Remus’s reputation for being unhinged.

((Seventeen year old Remus remembers a party that he begged Roman not to go to and twenty one year old Remus sucker punches him in the face so he will shut up and stop bringing those memories up.))

The lock screen is a picture of Remy and Logan standing in front of some model spaceship. Logan’s expression is uncharacteristically open and excited, as if he’s experiencing true joy in the face of a hunk of metal. He looks….normal. Human. As if Remus hadn’t watched him die, as if Remus hadn’t feared that smug smirk on his face, as if Remus hadn’t heard Logan use whatever his bullshit superpower was to utterly dismantle all of Remus’s part of the plan, start a gunfight that could have killed them all, and look fucking good while doing it.

Remus could play the logic game here: the back right pocket is where Remus found Remy's phone, so it's a 56.734% or whatever likely that the kid uses his right hand to unlock. But in all honesty Remus “Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Fuck-This”-ed it and chose the right hand.

The kid’s hand is limp and cold as ice. It startled Remus for a whole moment, sending cracks along that glass wall holding back his panic. It if weren’t for the obvious respiratory movements, Remus would have thought he was handling a four-day-old corpse in the middle of a winter snow storm.

But he presses Remy's thumb to the sensor (a very logical finger choice and not at all picked at Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Fuck This again) to unlock it. And then, once Remus has congratulated himself on his very exciting first time hacking the mainframe, he swipes away every. Single. One. Of the billions of notifications the kid has. Even as he's doing it the kid gets fourteen more, each bright and shiny and terrifying to someone who only gets notifications when his phone is almost out of battery.

Instagram reels being sent by four people, text messages from a group of people who don't know how to say everything they need to in one message and aren’t afraid of double-quadruple texting, TikTok videos alerts, gacha game reminders, six calendar notifications for today alone--

The home screen is a selfie of Remy in a big group of kids, all laughing and smiling and holding boba cups and peace signs in the middle of a cafe. It's a bright day in the photo, and several school backpacks shoved under the table as if all the kids had run to this cafe after school on a whim. Probably Remy’s based on how he’s in the middle of it all, looking rather smug for someone who’s personal space had been reduced to a negative.

"I bet you and Roman would get along fucking great," Remus says.

Remus still stares at it for a long minute longer, analyzing the various smiles and fending off the bitter gritty feeling in the back of his throat that comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

"Whatever," Remus says, clicking the call button.

Nearly a dozen suggested contacts pop up when Remus starts painstakingly typing Janus’s phone number, with someone having the same number until the very last digit. Remus's thumb hovers over the call button, his eyes flicking to the dutiful clock in the top left corner of the screen (already crowded by new notifications again).

Math has always been one of Remus's more average skills: his perception of time and his ability to count are probably superior to any living being on the planet, but a childhood plagued by the constant visions of the most important person in his life dying meant that his focus had never actually been on his classes. His report card read out half the alphabet, but he especially cheesed his way through his math classes, using a hand full of futures to copy the answers off tests of various studious kids around him, instead of actually learning how the fuck to solve a triangle.

((Remus had been seventeen when Mrs. Copperson had decided to start making him take the her pop quizzes and tests out in the hallways by himself on account that his psychiatrist mandated drugs made him a distraction in her class and Remus liked adding "uck" after the giant red F's she stamped on his papers.))

Still, it throws Remus for a loop, checking the time and then the date because at most he thought he managed to buy Janus twenty minutes of distractions so that he could download the FBE's records and upload a virus that Virgil made which had the defining features of being able to eat through the rest of the system like acid and leave the FBE and Janus’s mother with nothing. When Remus had woken up in the stillness of this classroom it felt like his entire body had been in stasis for eons; a crumpled ragdoll that didn't need bones, left forgotten in the back of a closet or a computer suddenly being booted up but the whole rest of the world didn’t exist anymore thanks to one apocalypse or another.

In fact, Remus thinks that he might have just woken up from the best sleep he's had since he was eight.

But despite the surge of energy, the distant rolling anxiety, the strange suffocating stillness of the atmosphere, and how deep of a sleep Remy is in, the time reads of less than seven minutes since Remus guessed he'd been in the library surrounded by gunshots, clinging to a railing, and facing Roman’s maybe-brainwashed ass.

Remus thinks he might have spent all of it just getting his fucking barring on the new surroundings and the sleeping child and not being dead and buried in a library he’d never stepped foot in before today.

Janus and Virgil probably hadn't even made it out of the library themselves yet, assuming the entire library hadn’t come down with them.

Remus closes out of the call screen, searching through Remy’s apps for a news app that he doesn’t have, before Remus caves and pulls out DuckDuckGo. The top stories are already flashing on the screen: six different news sites with live reporting videos of what is happening at the FBE center in Portland. Remus taps on one that has a frozen picture of Kidnapped Virgil’s panicking face as the thumbnail.

“—et Down! Everyone, get down!” The female reporter is yelling. Underneath her, the border headline of the new site spells out Karen Davenport: Reporter. LIVE ON SCENE. As if the background wasn’t already enough to show what was going on. The tinted glass windows of the library shatter over the frame, and the camera fumbles as the glittering shards dance through the air to the tune of gunfire.

“Are you getting this?!” The reporter yells, caught between fear and excitement. Her hair is frizzing, a strand of it stuck to her pink lipstick, as she crouches with the other reporters and civilians at the front of the crowd, ignoring the police and hired guards and common fucking sense trying to back them away. The camera doesn’t seem to know what to focus on, struggling to jostle between the reporter and chaos in front of them.

Several people rush out of the doors of the library, nearly tumbling down the staircase and into the crowd, screaming. Remus’s heart thunders as he looks at the glimpse of faces contorted in horror for the people he’d recognize or a flash of those blue-grey eyes that no other person in the world has.

“John, are you seeing this?!” the reporter repeats. “I’m here, live at the newly registered FBE headquarters in—”

The camera and the cameraman pitch to the side, disrupted by the chaotic crowd rightened only at the last second before it topples to the ground. Remus has to wonder how much the person behind the screen is being paid, and how they could possibly think it's enough. The bruises on Remus’s ribs ache distantly and his tongue remembers the taste of tear gas and blood and—

By the time the camera rightens again, Virgil is skidding on the platform at the top of the concrete stairs leading up to the front of the shuddering-but-still-standing library. His mask is down, hung around his throat, and displaying his fangs for the world to see. Janus tumbles into him, nearly knocking him down the flight, and his mouth moves in a WE CAN’T LEAVE HIM way although the crowd and the reporter are too loud for Remus to truly make it out.

Virgil grabs Janus by the shoulder, yanking him down several inches and a blast of Patton’s white, power stealing light explodes over their heads in a narrow miss that makes someone to the left of the report scream so loud it peaks the microphone.

“Where is The Prince?!” The reporter’s mic picks up from someone nearby as the camera zooms in on Janus and Virgil arguing. “He was just here!”

“—where it appears a super power aided fight has broken out with no sign of The Prince. Twenty minutes ago, the controversial twin brother of the Prince, previously identified as Remus Regis, armed with a hostage, charged into the building igniting what was sure to be a direct confrontation with The Prince. However, no new information could be captured by our cameras until moments ago when gunfire from inside the building signaled some type of gunfight breaking out. Sources have even suggested that the Mezzanine level inside the building has taken significant damage and gave way— HEY!”

Logan materializes from the side, ripping the microphone away from the reporter with all the finesse of someone who previously owned it. His black jacket is dusted grey with the dust from the collapsed level inside and there’s a scratch along his hand that’s bleeding bright red. Still he shoves the reporter back and brings the microphone up to his own mouth even though his gaze isn't on the Library or the camera.

“The Prince was inside,” he says to the crowd of people still pressed together at the barricade line. “He managed to move fast enough to save all of those underneath the collapse and barely sustained any injuries himself. Statistically—”

“Give that back!” The reporter says lunging at him.

The camera frame latches on to Janus and Virgil as the camera man probably tries to help his coworker get the microphone back. In those precious seconds, Janus’s head snaps over his shoulder and he shoves Virgil back, pushing him down the stairs and towards the crowd and sets himself in front like a human shield. There are too many voices picked up by the reporter's mic— the fight between her and Logan has it jostled in every direction and the confusion must have jostled the settings, but Remus feels his stomach sink all the same when the library doorways fill with those guards and their guns.

“GET DOWN!” Virgil’s voice booms in the area, echoing off the buildings like a scream in a cavern. The rest of the windows in the library and the surrounding buildings shatter at the sudden pressure, the screen of the camera fractures, but it still gives a decent view of Janus throwing off his stolen lab coat, and the acute tips of his wings slicing through his shirt.

Remus feels like he’s underwater. Like he’s stuck floating in space as his arteries burst from the low pressure. Like he’s watching another (and another and another and another and anoth—) future and he can’t change it despite the fact that it's not 3 AM and there’s no thunderstorm and he’s not falling.

Janus’s wings erupt from his back, flaring outwards and unfurling like yellow and black caution tape, covering the civilians behind him like a burning shield. Virgil grabs the nearest person, Logan, and yanks him and the reporter under the cover, under the protection of Janus, and Remus wants to scream at them to forget the people, to leave them, to run, but he can’t breathe around the sweltering terror that sweeps through the open area leaping from the phone screen right into Remus’s chest.

“—police would know better than to fire into the crowd—” Logan’s voice says desperately.

“Oh MY GOD!” The reporter screams.

The light seers into his eyes with crackling, horrific popping noise. It's like popcorn, or Pop Rocks, or the Pen Clicker Douchebag Olympics and all Remus can think of is the noise that the bones in the human bone make when bullets splinter.

The camera does not catch Janus’s face, and the microphone doesn’t catch his screams over everyone else’s, but his body jerks, his wings tremble, and blood sprays up into a mist over the crowd. Remus thinks he might be dying too, thinks that he might have stopped breathing, that he’s seen Janus die a million times and it should have stopped feeling like he’s being ripped open.

“JANUS!” Virgil’s (unmistakable, indisputable) voice yells, sharp and cracking like lightning, and the blowback over the microphones would break the eardrums of anyone listening with earbuds.

“— multiple people have been reported to have survived being shot that many times!” Logan’s voice tries.

The camera gets a single shot of Virgil’s eyes widening, of his mouth opening, of his hands reaching out to Janus as he drops, wings still flared out trying to protect people who were too stupid to leave, who won’t even thank him, who don’t know his coffee order or how he likes to organize his stacks of stolen dollar bills or what size oxfords he likes to wear.

And then Virgil looks up, at the top of the stairs, opens his mouth, and everything explodes away from him. The camera frame flings into the air, swirling around in a epileptic nightmare of colors before slamming into something and the frame goes completely black.

On the news app, holding a phone in both his hands Remus stares at the “[The video you are watching is experiencing some connection issues]” message with white knuckles, but the video stays cut off, the screen frozen and broken and dark and Remus is left drowning during what feels like the end of the world from the other side of the universe a million years after it's happened.

“H-ha,” Remus’s mouth twitches, a rumble clawing up his throat with fingers made of his stomach acids. He desperately covers his mouth with a hand, pressing the meat of his palm into his lips if only to keep the laughter from tumbling out into the air like a freefall because there’s no such thing as a soft end and Remus was stupid for ever thinking so.

He thinks for a moment, that he’s back on that staircase staring at Roman knowing that what he says next is going to be the wrong thing, that he’s on the ground at a mall blinking away visions of flame grilled corpses and words that Janus doesn’t mean, that he’s in a crowd staring at an empty stage seconds and seconds and seconds too late for someone who trusted him more than Remus ever deserved to be trusted.

(How can he always be too late?)

The ground is solid and sturdy under his feet, but Remus is falling anyway. Suspended in the middle of a jump he hadn’t meant to take, his stomach is swooping with the acceleration pressing up into his lungs until he can’t force them to accept any oxygen anymore and his limbs are tingling in that disconnected way that makes them seem like they belong to someone else, something else, somewhere else.

He had fallen asleep, fallen into a wonderful dream, fallen and kept falling and forgotten that the real world didn’t end softly. A scream creeps up Remus’s throat, inch by inch, wriggling and thrashing and tearing horribly against his lungs.

His fingers tremble over the phone, fumbling through the apps for the phone even though he knows what's going to happen, he knows what’s coming, he knows, he knows, he knows.

The buttons are not stiff. Remus’s knuckles are not bleeding and they don’t leave behind traces of his blood as he dials. There’s not a gritty feeling along his teeth and the bottom of his mouth from the Cliff Bar that he ate at a rest stop an entire lifetime ago. His knees tremble to the sound of the ringing, leaving him swaying in the too-long silences, in the bated breaths, in the calm before the hurricane that’s left him at the only survivor when he was supposed to be the only casualty.

The line is ringing and Remus is standing in a high school classroom, shaking apart even though he knows that Janus is not going to answer. The line is ringing and Remus is standing at a payphone knowing that his mother didn’t try half as hard for him as she did for Roman.

The line is ringing and Remus is listening to a generic voicemail and his fingers are canceling the call just to start it again because maybe this time he’ll pick up, maybe this time Janus will huff at him for not believing in him, maybe this time Janus will snap about Remus not following a plan, maybe this time Janus will pick up the phone.

Remus remembered leaving his own phone in his bag, stuffed inside a pair of socks that he stole from Janus the second week they’d been together. He knows he watched Janus leave his in his own bag, grinning as Virgil and him had been bickering about if pumpkins were a fruit or a vegetable. So he knows, he knows, that Janus doesn’t have his on him, that answering a phone call would be the least of his concerns after— five, six, seven— bullets landed in him, that no matter how many times Remus’s fingers dial out the number, Janus still isn’t going to miraculously answer and beg him to come home and call him the wrong name anyway.

He’s twenty one and Janus is not going to pick up the phone call.

He’s twenty one and he thinks he’s been falling for far too long. He’d gotten too used to the jolt of adrenaline and taste of the winds. He’d been treating his four-year fall like a never ending dream that he could live in forever, and now he was waking up with a start in his bed with all his muscles contracting and remembering that the real world is a fucking nightmare.

Remus could have call himself a free fall expert, with all the times that he’s tipped himself over the edge, with how many times he’s merged himself with the concrete sidewalks, with the number of times he’s seen the great THE END to his own story but this… this—

He’s been falling for so long he forgot he’d been falling at all.

“I need to go back,” Remus gasps out.

The idea latches on suddenly, and Remus is suffocating in it, trapped in a void that’s approaching absolute zero at rapid speed. The anxiety swelling around him crashes down like a guillotine’s blade, sharp and merciless in all the ways that Remus has always known the universe to be and forgot anyway.

His hands are shaking and his knees give out but it's fine because he landed next to Remy’s sleeping form. He reaches out and shakes the kid’s shoulder, hard enough to jolt his entire body.

“Kid, Remy. Wake up. You gotta take me back. I need to get back to him.”

Remy's head lulls to the side, his skin an icy cold compared to the burning in Remus's veins. There's no movement behind his eyelids, no sudden jolt that knocks him awake, no grimace of his face or swallowing as he drags himself back to consciousness.

“It’s time to wake up!” Remus says. “You have to take me back!”

Because if he can get back he can— he can— Janus was on the ground, they were shooting at him, Virgil was screaming and Remus can see the future and they need him. If he can get back Janus can tell him what he needs to do to save him and Remus will kiss him and tell him and tell him he’s stupid and he’s sorry he left him. If he can get back— He needs to get back, he has to get back because they need him and Remus pinches hard on Remy’s cheek, but even that doesn’t cause the teenager to flinch.

“I have to fix this. Take me Back! Take me Back There! TAKE ME FUCKING BACK THERE!”

Remus shakes him, and Remy’s head makes a dull thud as it bumps the ground with each shove. Remus barely notices; his brain is counting every second he spends here, scrambling to catch the passing breaths like they're grains of sand in an hourglass counting out Janus's life while Remy dreams so soft and peacefully.

“REMY!”

--There’s no bump or bruise or anything under the dark curls, and Remus doesn’t even have a memory of hitting anything on the way down, not even the fucking floor and so there shouldn’t be shit causing him to be this fucking out of it. Janus was dying and Remus was here with an idiot fucking teenager who was sleeping like they had all the fucking time in the Fucking World. If it weren’t for Logan, if it weren’t for Remy, if it weren’t for Remy’s fucking horrible power that Remus didn’t ask for him to use--

--There’s no bump or bruise or anything under the dark curls, and Remus knows too much about being splattered on the ground to think that they might have hit it like that, to think they might have died, to think that the bitchass kid in front of him is doing anything other than pretending like they have time to pretend to be asleep when Janus just took seven bullets for people who don’t love him and wouldn’t care if he was dea--

--There’s no bump or bruise or anything under the dark curls, and Remus took the brunt of whatever hit they did have, was ready to fucking die when Remy did whatever the fuck he had to get them out of there, wasn’t going to let Remy get hurt and he didn’t get hurt so Remus shouldn’t need to keep shaking him to get him to wake up because they need to get back to Janus who just got shot and shot and shot And Shot AND SHOT and Remus needs to fix it because Janus wasn’t supposed to die, he wasn’t supposed to be alone, Remus promised to stay, promised to help, why aren’t you waking up What is wrong with youwakeup,WakeUp WAKEUPWHATDOESITTAKETOWAKEYOUUPDOYOULIKETHIS?DOYOUTHINKITSFUNNY? STOPMESSINGAROUNDHE’SGOINGTODIEICAN’TFIXITICAN’TSTOPITWHATDIDIEVERDOTOYOU?--

Remus blinks his eyes, just barely manages to stop himself from ramming the kid's head into the porcelain tile floor again.

His hands are around Remy’s head, cupping his ears, and Remy’s limp body is impossibly still, barely breathing and the golden yellow light reflects off the poster over them creating a red hue over his pale skin.

There’s no blood.

Remus can’t breathe anyway. His hands are trembling, his fingers stiff and robotic and bending like metal spoons when he pries them off Remy’s uninjured head. The kid’s skull lulls to the side, a soft huff, another snore, and Remus thinks he’s losing his mind.

The cold silence of the classroom has the walls closing in around them, the cinder blocks exchanging knowing looks because even if Remy didn’t wake up, even if that future— those futures— didn’t happen, even if Remus backs away now and swears never to get near the kid again, the sticky feeling of brain matter on his hands won’t leave.

He can't be older than sixteen.

There’s something in Remus's throat that tastes like blood and feels like live bees and burns like tear gas and hot sauce. He scrambles away from the kid, slamming into a desk so hard that his ribs displace further than the desk does as he flees the room.

((He remembers running through halls like these once, remembers his nose feeling like it was broken when one of Roman’s friends grabbed his hair and slammed his face into his locker after the last bell, he remembers leaving his bag behind in his panic to get away, scrambling on nearly on his hands and knees with blood from his second broken nose trailing down his lip. He remembers the laughter of billions of students as he ran away, and he remembers Roman waiting impatiently at his car later, asking where he was, why he took so long, doesn’t he know that Roman has play practice at the community theater today? Why would you deliberately try to make me late? I’m not even going to ask what happened to your backpack. I should have just left you here, Re. Come on, Let’s go.))

He remembers blood on his hands and on his face and a hundred billion bathroom mirrors that show a person he doesn’t recognize and hasn’t recognized for a long time.

The posters on the walls are colorful smears and Remus wants to drag them down one by one and tear them apart as he runs. His shoes skid on the polished tile and he takes the corner so sharply he slams into the lockers and remembers the sound of a sleeping teenager’s cranium shattering under his fingers.

Remus hits the ground, panting, laughing, choking, crying until the world around him blurs. He’s suffocating on oxygen that tastes like tar, on breaths that congeal in his lungs like molasses, on gasps that harden like stone in his tightening rib cage. It burns worse than a fireball to the face, searing, smoldering, scorching his entire body.

And Remus— Remus can’t— he can’t get it to stop, every inhale throttles in his throat wheezing out through the hundreds of puncture holes in him that match every gunshot wound that Janus is currently dying out from, eons and realms and miseries away, because he believed in a promise that Remus had never been able to keep to anyone.

Stupid, idiot Remus.

Murderous, psychotic Remus.

Sick, sick, so fucking sick Remus.

Who kills— who killed— Roman. Remy. Who got Janus killed and dragged Virgil in this. His parents. Those people at school. Those people on the street. Everyone. All the time. Sick, stupid Remus.

Who can’t just fucking seem to kill himself and make it stick.

Fuck. Fucking Fuck.

He can’t breathe.

He’s aware of every oxygen atom fizzling in the air around him, laughing as he gasps for some type of stability, like he’s on the Mezzanine Level of a library that’s centuries away, feeling the floor crack under his feet and staring at a brother who doesn’t love him and probably never has. His throat is sandpaper and dried stucco and blood and every version of I love you that he never said to his father and when he blinks his eyes, the ghosts of every person he didn’t save, couldn’t save, hadn’t saved, are screaming around him because he can’t do anything right, he can’t save anyone, he’s a murderer and always has been and he’s been pretending this whole time that it was Roman’s fault, but it wasn’t, was it?

It’s just Remus. Sick, stupid Remus. Who should have died getting hit by a silver sedan going twenty over the speed limit instead of Roman.

It would have been better if he had. It would have been right. It would have been— It would have been—

Fuck. It would have been good.

Because if he hadn’t survived, Mom would have never known how to be disappointed, Dad would have never stopped coming home, his friends would have never turned into the monsters that he’d brought out in people. Janus never would have been attracted to a Casino where rumors of a person who never lost were and he never would have died a billion times for something as meaningless as money and Virgil never would have been dragged back into this fight kicking and screaming just to watch his best friend, his lover, his everything die in front of him.

Remus laughs, tears dripping off his chin into the polished floor, splattering over the shadowed silhouette of his reflection. He presses his forehead into the tile, squeezing his eyes closed because if he can’t see— if he can’t see it then— then— fucking then—

It would have been better if he hadn’t been born. All he’s done is ruin things and people and places. He’s brought out the worst pieces of people, like a magnet for every terrible thing that the people he loves are capable of doing: he’s stained through the family portrait and leaving black smears on everything he touches.

He’s seventeen again standing outside Roman’s room staring at a closed door and wondering why Mom didn’t come to break them apart, why Dad hasn’t been home for dinner in months, why the future he saw didn’t line up with what happened and why he can’t stop laughing and why he hurts and hurts and hurts and why Roman seems so certain that he’d be okay without Remus when Remus had given him everything there was to give of himself? Why is he the only one hurting? Why is he always the only one hurting?

He’s seventeen and he’s twenty one and he’s eight and he’s eleven minutes younger than Roman and he wishes that he’d just died instead of growing up.

Because— Because if he stares at his reflection and sees that kid, that stupid idiot sick little kid he’d wrap his hands around his throat and s-squeeeeeeeze just to put him out of his misery because it didn’t get better. Because it only hurts more. Because he wanted to be so right that he stopped listening and maybe those pills had made him better and—

Remus wheezes against the stranglehold on his own lungs, painful and grating and choking as his eyes fight against tears he didn’t give permission to leak out. There’s a person staring back at him in the polished white tile floor, and he looks like a boy who he once saw get run over by— fall off of— dropped a toaster in with— scissors— keys—

A hundred million deaths and Remus didn’t learn from any of them.

There’s a reflection of every person Remus didn’t want to become staring at him and then there’s not because there’s a purple blob covering right where his right eye would be.

Remus gasps for air, sucks in, gulps, and his fingers scrabble over the item: small, round, fits in his palm. His thumb grinds into the imprint on the flat side, his nail chipping along the irregular shape, the irregular grooves, the irregular scratches and gouges and furrows.

The color is plum purple with intersects of off-white eroded with wear until its nearly gray and Remus hysterically remembers bruises on his own skin, on his throat, on his ribs, on his shoulders, on his knuckles. He’s staring through burning eyes, through lava tears, through ashy eyelashes thick with slag and he’s thinking, a coin, a casino coin, a casino chip, a promise made between business partners in a hotel room of a place that housed a million deaths for both of them before Janus’s death had meant anything to him.

There’s a snake on the coin, jaw agape, with fangs on display inviting danger, courting risk, encouraging peril because it’s survived it all anyway. There’s gash across one of the unseeing eyes, notches in the scales, scrapes along the trimming edge from Remus’s special brand of stupid, idiot carelessness, but the dirt and grim has been cleaned from it by Virgil’s gentle, kind hands. There’s a coin in his palm that Janus once bet with, bet on, bet for.

Remus’s lungs ache and weep and Remus squeezes the coin to his chest, and breathes.

His chest shudders in rebellion too short, too quick, and Remus’s fingers ache from how they cling and hold and stay. He breathes, he breathes, he breathes. Even when it feels like he’s trying to move a mountain, even when it feels like he’s trying to climb his way to space, even when it feels like he’s trying to un-bury himself from the grave his family put him in at eight years old.

Remus is twenty one years old and he breathes.

When it stops feeling like he’s drowning after every breath, when the fireburningacidic sense pitters out like a resilient spark being snuffed along hot coals, Remus finds himself sitting against a row of olive green lockers. His head feels cotton stuffed all over again and he uses his sleeve to wipe his face numbly, only managing a wince when he tries to uncurl himself from the ball he coiled into. His spine creaks, twinges, complains and whines and Remus makes an awful noise when he straightens out and takes another look around himself.

Right. Hallway. Highschool. Right.

“Fuck,” Remus rasps.

The hall is empty, and Remus almost laughs at the passing thought of hundreds of students being in the building peeking out of the classroom to see a wanted supervillain having a breakdown in the corridor. He’d be the picture perfect symbol of “Reasons to Stay in School”, and he could almost hear the squeaky voice of a well-meaning, underpaid educator clicking their tongue and saying “And this is what will happen if you don’t clean up your act and focus on passing your classes. Do you want to be this type of embarrassment to yourself?”

Jokes on them, Remus thinks idly. He’d been an embarrassment to himself for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. He was— is— a mess, the stain and splatter on a blank canvas that ruins it for the artist, the blemish in a glass that causes it to shatter at the slightest touch.

He’s also alone, and not falling, and holding a coin made of a thousand promises. He’s a mess and he’s Janus’s mess.

The thought sends a pain down his throat, an itch that only another round of sobs would satisfy. If he closes his eyes he can picture Janus sitting next to him dressed up in that suit he likes, yellow and gold and dangerous. He can picture those blue-grey eyes that only ever looked at him with kindness, and hear his haughty tone repeating that he does have a poker face thank you very much, and smell the cardamom scent that follows after him like a cloak. If he lets himself sink, he knows he’ll fall into that memory of Janus carding his hands through Remus’s hair, warm and gentle despite all the ways that Remus continued to fuck up.

But he can’t let himself. Remus shakes with his whole body, dislodging the warmth of the anamnesis.

He’s not sure where he is, or what he is, or who he is anymore. But he knows he can’t stay here. He knows he doesn’t want to stay here.

His list of other places to go is short— achingly, brutally short— but it's okay because Remus is not exactly in the mood to do a lot of thinking. He feels like someone came and stole all his skin while he wasn’t looking, like he’s raw and exposed for all the world to see and not in a fun way. The walls aren’t leering at him; they’re sharing side eyes with each other, snickering and whispering about Remus just loud enough for him to know they think he’s irrational and weird.

There’s a chill ghosting along his limbs that he hadn’t noticed before, something plucking at his skeleton, wrapping him in a cocoon of cold. He feels sluggish, and distantly hungry. The thrumming of his headache is back, pounding in his skull like a car alarm someone set off in a hit and run.

He drags himself back to his feet, hugging the lockers as his legs wobble and his vision blurs. It clears after he gives himself a frustrated tickticktick of a second.

He can’t go back to that Library. Remus’s mind creates the picture of it without prompting: the gaping broken structure marked off with caution tape and police officers and all private security; News reporters and cameras flashing because horror sells more than common sense; Roman. The frozen picture left of the news video has Remus’s lungs combusting. How many people got caught underneath? How many people got hurt when Remus managed to get out without more than bruises? There’s a body cooling at the top of a concrete staircase for everyone to see, a martyr made of love for strangers who never fucking deserved it.

If he goes back, walking on his own two feet, he’ll fall to his knees next to that body, and that fall will have so much collateral damage that Janus’s sacrifice would mean nothing.

He can’t go to Virgil’s apartment again. Remus knows that like he knows he can’t trust himself to drive a car without losing track of the speed limit. If he thinks too long about Virgil’s apartment, he’ll remember what Janus’s lips taste like, what level of softness Virgil’s clothes feel like, what warmth and safety and hope could be like, and the stability that is keeping Remus’s feet underneath him will give away. If he goes to Virgil’s apartment he’ll remember everything that could have been and he'll try to figure out he's supposed to do without....without.

And if then he’ll tumble off Virgil’s little balcony and the thing that crawls out from the splatter— because something will crawl out— will take a retribution in pieces from every person it sees after that.

((His bones are humming, rumbling, vibrating with the horrible horrible urge to go anyway.))

He can’t go back to the hotel room he shared with Janus just three days ago, before Roman had reappeared, before the world knew his name, before Janus was Janus and before Remus let himself admit that he wanted to be loved like loving him wasn’t a fucking nightmare that got people killed. For all Remus knew the organization of the parking lot, and the sounds of the city at night, he couldn’t remember the name of it as much as he could remember the taste of rain during a thunderstorm.

He breathes. Forcibly.

Remus is awake, jolted out of a dream he didn't know he'd been in and now he doesn't recognize his surroundings anymore and doesn't think he can fall back asleep ever again.

There's no Idahoan Mall. There's no stolen cars with seats reclined enough for Remus to throw his feet on the dash. There's no generic diner with waitresses that will scream over a kiss. There's no casino with sparkling chandeliers and smiling strangers waiting to be business partners.

That’s nothing new. Remus hasn’t had a stationary place to stay since he was seventeen. He slept in cars and in back alleys and hotel rooms he jimmied the lock to. He hitchhiked his way from the east side of the country to the west with nothing but a bag of two outfits and a pair of boots he stole.

Now he’s twenty one and doesn’t even have a bag.

Well. Remus blows out a breath. He doesn’t have his bag yet. The fragments of the plan are coming back to him, like broken puzzle pieces: Janus had drafted up the entire thing on the napkins on Virgil’s coffee table until Virgil had relented into giving him paper. For all that Virgil had been stubborn about not being involved, he’d been drawn into the planning phase like a comet falling into a blackhole, vetoing ideas left and right as a one man council and poking holes in others like he’d been possessed by a bored second grader left alone with a hole puncher and a stack of report cards.

Janus had picked out Linda Maddock the chocolatier and her daughter as his own way in (after several arguments over how to approach the situation: Janus had wanted to give the mother plausible deniability by not telling her at all, and Virgil’s voice had found a pitch that could make glass shatter), and negotiated Remus’s way in with an antsy vampire who didn’t like the idea of having all those eyes on him for such a long time (a whole five minutes). After about an hour of pointless back and forth, Remus had stepped in to personally promise that Virgil wouldn’t be the center of attention for more than thirty seconds; Remus would steal the show himself or he’ll brighten the ever present spotlight on Roman. Virgil had been soothed with promises of being labeled as a victim of a horrible kidnapping, and subsequently forgotten after he’d been “saved” just like all of Roman’s other damsels-in-distress.

“Alright, fine. Fine! Stop looking at me like that!” Virgil had said, chewing on his lip with his fangs. “You both have a way in. How are you idiots going to get back out? Other than in body bags after this blows up in your faces.”

They had a bunch of contingency plans for their exits. The first was if everything went according to plan and it meant that Janus would sneak his way out through the back entrance of the library and then welcome himself in from the outside through the front for the cameras to catch, swooping in to drag Remus out before anyone could figure out what happened. It incorporated time for Janus to throw a few misleading comments about where he’d been, and for him to flash a smile at the cameras, both of which Janus had insisted were non-negotiable points for himself and Remus had kissed him for it.

If Janus got found out and an alarm got pushed, he was to ditch the flashdrive entirely and get himself out by any means, Remus would leverage the bomb threat over Roman and the security until he got outside and then Janus would find him and fly them to safety. If Janus didn’t meet up with him again (meaning he got caught or injured enough that he couldn’t heal), Remus was supposed to use the crowd to get away, stealing what hats and other clothes he could until he was a few streets away and felt safe again. If no alarm went off but Janus wasn’t appearing for their escape, (meaning that something worse than being caught or injured was going on) then Remus was supposed to ditch entirely, use the crowd to escape, and let Virgil figure out what happened.

If Roman called Remus’s bluff immediately, the whole plan was to be ditched and both him and Janus were to leave by any means possible.

If Dragana Witchall appeared at any point, the whole plan was to be ditched and they’d escape by any means possible.

If aliens attacked—

Remus is pretty sure they had everything covered except for what to do when Logan steps forward and steals the whole show. Revealing the bombs were fake, incentivizing the gunfight with innocent civilians around, having Remus suddenly outnumbered and forcing Virgil out of hiding just to save his life…Remus hands shake thinking about freefalls.

In every version of the plan they said goodbye to Virgil at the library, never to see him again, but amidst the gunfire Remus had hesitated leaving him there and it had caused their escape opportunity to explode into fragments and bring the Mezzanine level down on their heads literally.

But also in every version of the plan, their place of residency to lay low after it all is a motel several counties away that Virgil drove to after he’d done the honors of tossing the molotov cocktail through the library window at nine thirty and checked into and left their bags at.

So. That’s where Remus’s best bet is to gather his unstable, unsteady, un-fucking-believable thoughts and figure out what to do next. The Motel. He can get Janus’s things. He can get his own things. He can figure out a plan to get Janus’s body back and he can bury it somewhere safe and gentle and and and—

He takes a step away from the lockers he’s leaning against and the batshit fucking insane amount of exhaustion yanks at his bones. As if someone amped up the gravity on earth and Remus was the only one to get the fucking memo, or maybe the one who fucking cared to notice all the hard work the universe was doing.

The thought nearly drags a laugh out of his abused strained lungs: wouldn’t that be grand? If the universe took gratitude that Remus was paying attention to it and decided to repay it with even the tiniest smidge of kindness? Wouldn’t it be amazing to wake up in a few seconds and realize his entire life was just one nightmare that never happened? Wouldn’t it be fucking fantastic if he could shed this reality the same way he shed every single one of his deaths?

The more he looks around the less the hallways mimic the ones that he’d grown up in: the brick pattern here is off-white and green and he grew up with gold and reds and blacks, the walkways are wider, polished and there’s no graffiti on any lockers that point out exactly who everyone had collectively decided didn’t belong. The lack of real color has him feeling off-balanced and the haze of weariness has his footsteps dragging like a dream he didn’t remember entering: there’s a taste in the air that reminds him inexplicably of being in the middle of a crowd and seeing flashes of white light wrap around him until there’s nothing left of the world he knew.

He only barely knows where he ran, barely realizes that he’s retracing his blurry fuzzing panicky paces until he’s nearly walking right by the only classroom with an open door.

Remy is still laying there, on the floor, unharmed and asleep, chest rhythmically lifting and falling with a deep unconsciousness. It feels like no time has passed, like all the time has passed, like the world is gone and they’re the only ones left, and at any second Remus will turn around and find a billion people behind him watching and waiting to prosecute him for the mistake he makes.

He hovers in the doorway, hands dragging along the fringe of his shorts, and fingers catching on his fishnets. His feet are waiting to walk away, to sing adios as he leaves the kid right there, to forget about the feeling of brain matter on his hands and the shine of blood on the off colored brick walls.

No one would have to know about a future that didn’t happen, and he could keep running away.

But Remus can’t help thinking of the snippets of blurred futures where Remy got shot in that library for the crime of being behind Remus when he dodged and how Logan screamed like the world was ending. Remus can’t help but think of a home screen of a boy surrounded by more people than Remus can count. Remus can’t help thinking that people would miss the kid in front of him more than they had ever missed Roman Regis’s weird younger brother.

“Okay,” Remus says to himself. “Okay.”

He’s not Janus. He’s not a shield to defend against attacks, throwing himself forward without a hesitation to take the brunt of something he won’t survive. He’s not and never has been, but if Janus were here he could never leave this kid to wake up alone after dying or near dying or almost dying or dying-but-not-this-time or not-dying-but-I-thought-I-was. Remus is not a comfort, but even he wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.

He shoves his way into the classroom before he can think anymore. The desks flinch apart with a little persuasion from Remus’s hands, jolting like they’re afraid of him, of what he did to Remy, of what he could do again. The small shrieks of noise pick and pluck at Remus’s resolve, until he’s moving on adrenaline and animal brained instinct only.

((There’s a phone on the ground, face down, with a coffee cup winking up at him, and Remus’s hands shake as they pick it up. It’s not covered in blood and his hands are not sticky and there’s a billion notifications dinging on the screen and not a single one talks about a murder that just happened on live TV to a man whose last act was trying to protect people.))

But he can’t think about that. He won’t think about that. He told himself not to think anymore, and so he doesn’t, not until he has Remy’s arm pulled over his shoulder and he’s dragging him towards the hallway again, and then after that, the only thing Remus is focusing on is getting them both to somewhere far, far away.

[Next Chapter]

#deja vu au #Remus sanders #Janus Sanders #Remy Sanders #Lets goooooo #sanders sides #demus #dukeceit #tw: panic attack #TW: temporary character death #Remy's existence is enough to get him into Situations(TM)#That Feral Type of Love That Makes You Commit Crimes

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