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macfrog · 8 months

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

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

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

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

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

word count: 9.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now he has it. Now he has you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he’d bolt them back up.

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

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

“Joel? You down there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mornin’, pal! You in? You up?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I’m up. See you in a bit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what’s your point?”

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

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

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

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

And then he leaves.

----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Joel looks up, and she smiles again.

“Not for you, then?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Just the messenger.”

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

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

“How’s Sarah doin’? She home yet?”

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

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

He scoffs. “Yeah,” he croaks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope. Just me ‘n a few beers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Funny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----------

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

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

“Kid, I…”

“No. What? Because of a fucking bag?”

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

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

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

You ask if he wants to tell the truth. That thought scares him just as much. Knocks him back a few steps. No, he doesn’t want to come clean.

The words fly back and forth like a tennis match. Too fast for him to keep control of what he’s saying and how you’re hearing it. He wants to break it off – is there anything to break off? – but he doesn’t want to lose you – how can you lose something you never had? – and then: did he ever have you in the first place?

You’re standing over him, between his knees. “End it,” you tell him. “I’ll go.”

There’s a casualness in the loose shrug of your shoulders that scares him more than the prospect of you actually leaving. How easy it looks like it could be, for you to just wander out. Sling your bag over your shoulder and revert back to the start of the summer, when he was just a ride home after a rainy day at work.

Forget how to touch him the way he’s certain only you can, forget the secret language between you, forget every stolen glance and whispered word and every thought that ever translated from your brain to his as easy as they would pass between your lips.

“You don’t mean nothin’ to me? That what you think?” He’s laughing. Disbelief, fear, shock. Whichever one it is, it pulls across his cheeks painfully. Somehow, you’ve ended up at the foot of his bed.

“Well, what else am I supposed to take from this, asshole? That you’re fuckin’ in love with me?”

It’s cold water over an already-dying fire. The words smother into ash on his tongue. No more come to the front. He just stares at you. His phone starts to chitter out into the silence between you.

You take a step forward. Your voice is low. “You don’t get to do this, you know. You don’t get to pull me in and then drop me…once you’re done with me.”

“Don’t.”

It’s not much, but it soars from the pit of his stomach, through his throat and past his lips like a final arrow. All he can muster up.

“Don’t.”

There’s a weight where the words originate from. Something deep in his gut, an ache pulling its way upward, swelling across his chest. His ears are screaming.

Of all the things you might think – he’s an asshole, he’s a liar, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing – the worst one would be that he spent this entire time leading you on. Making you feel special. Making you think you were something to him.

You are something to him. You’re – you’re fucking everything to him. It’s why he’s doing this, right? Going against every instinct, every gut feeling. To protect you. To do what’s right by you. He’s not fucking done with you. He wonders if he’ll ever go another day in his life without thinking about you.

“I can’t read your mind anymore…” you whisper, and his lungs steal a breath. His lack of response flattens your expression.

Joel might not be done, but you are.

He can feel you slipping from his grasp like sand through his knuckles. Each grain rocking itself loose, choosing to throw itself to the depths below rather than spend another second wrapped in his clutch.

He’s trying so desperately to hold onto you. Listen to me, he thinks, and he knows you can’t hear him anymore. Because now you’re really going – you’re tripping out of his room. Your heel catches on the threshold, like one last-ditch attempt from fate to pull you back into him, but you stop yourself and spin, fleeing down the hallway.

He takes a loose grasp of your wrist, fingers barely meeting on the other side of your skin before you tear it away from him like he’s scalded you. The look on your face makes him think for a moment that he might actually have done it – burned you. Pained you. Raised the skin below your gentle palm in a furious, red glow.

He’s swapping words out like they’re tools, each one immediately breaking and being flung back into the box. He’s trying any combination, any useless, futile order of words to make you stop in your tracks. You know how much I care about you, ‘s why I’m doin’ it, baby, come back, we can talk about this.

And he opens his mouth to give voice to the only words he knows would stop you – the reason why he’s doing it in the first place, the only thought he’s had anytime he’s looked at you for the last couple weeks. He opens his mouth to say it, or say something like it, when the machine silences the ringtone and the pair of you, too.

Her voice is like ice down the back of his shirt. He stares at the machine, red light blinking like a rag to a bull. He could walk over to it and smash the ever-loving fuck out of it with his fists until it’s dust on his coffee table. Until it shuts the fuck up, stops interfering with his fucking business.

And then he thinks about Lois, and her cream blouse, and her red nails, and her big, blue eyes, and her soft drawl and everything about her that is so entirely opposite to everything about you.

And how much – despite how nice and friendly, or funny and good-natured she is – how much he hates her right now, and how much he fucking loves you.

But you’re gone, now. Washed away by the tide. No more sand in Joel’s palm.

He tries to stop it. Tries to wind back a little, tries to make the sea cough up what it just stole from him. Give her back, you fuck. His eyes are stinging like salt water. Why are they stinging? There’s a roaring in his ears – the waves laughing in his face. Sickly and deafening.

He’s doing his best to keep a hold on his trembling voice. He knows he sounds pathetic. But yours is louder, stronger, steadier. And when you talk, it’s with an air of finality. Like you’re turning over the horizon. The last time he’ll ever see you again.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Joel.”

----------

He doesn’t call or text you that night. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Doesn’t even know where he’d begin. You’re mad, and Joel figures you got every right to be. This entire thing – today, this weekend, the whole month you’ve been together – is one big fucking mess.

He spends the afternoon hunched over his kitchen table, trying to distract himself with work. Twirling a pencil between his fingers, reading three, four, sometimes five times over the same building plans before deciding that the words and numbers won’t fucking sink in. He leaves them strewn across the table, wanders aimlessly upstairs and takes a cold shower.

Sarah’s flight gets in at 8PM. Joel’s sat curbside, truck engine humming, scanning every single figure that walks out of the airport building. When he spots the gray hoodie, the brown hair tied back with a pink scrunchie, the much-too-big-for-four-days-away suitcase rolling at her heels, he gets out.

She hugs her friends, they nod in passing greeting to him, and she skips over.

“Hey,” he breathes as she wraps her arms around his waist. “How was your flight? Saw you comin’ in.”

She shrugs in response. “I’m hungry. Wanna go get McDonald’s?”

Joel grumbles, slotting her case in the back of the truck. “You don’t wanna get home? Take a shower first? You smell like plane.”

“Ha! No.”

She opens the passenger side door and hoists her foot up on the seat, retying her sneaker. Joel’s already in and buckled up, hands on the wheel, watching her blue nails loop the laces.

“There’s one, like, ten minutes away.”

He’s shaking his head. “We got food in the house.”

Her gaze lifts. Her foot drops. “Oh, c’mon, it’s on the way home. We’ll be, like, five minutes. I just got off a two-hour flight, dude, right through dinner. I’m starving, I –”

“Would you just get in the damn truck, Sarah?”

It’s shorter, snappier, angrier than he meant. But he’s parked in the middle of the packed pick-up area, and the rattling of suitcase wheels and the whistling of cab drivers and the fucking roaring of planes overhead are making the headache behind his eyes worse.

Sarah freezes, one arm still leaning on the doorframe. “Jesus. What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, shaking his head. “Sorry. Just – get in.”

“No need to be an asshole about it,” she murmurs, pulling herself up into the passenger seat.

Joel’s face is in his hands, elbows atop the steering wheel. “I’m not tryna be an asshole,” he says into his palms.

His daughter looks at him. Concerned. “Somethin’ happen? While I was gone?”

He shakes his head again.

Nothing happened.

He’s quiet the rest of the night. The rest of the week. Sarah notices, he knows she does, because she pries. In her own way. She’s smarter than he is. Less obvious.

She’s already up and in the kitchen when he rises on Tuesday morning. Spins around at the toaster, tells him the machine’s ready for his coffee. Asks if he wants her to make it. Asks if he wants any breakfast.

Thanks, kiddo. No, I’ll get it. No, you’re good, thanks.

They sit opposite one another in silence, save for the crunching of Sarah’s toast. He can feel her eyes on him, same way he felt Lois’s. Trying to burrow deep inside, take a look at his brain. Catch a glimpse of the words he’s thinking over and over and over.

There ain’t no words, though. It’s just images. Video replay of your back as you strode down his driveway, the way the wind caught your hair and brushed your cheek, the way your hand came up to wipe your tears. And the way he stood there, like a fucking idiot, and did nothing.

His chest hurts any time he thinks about you. Pulls in, knits itself together in knots. He’s good at pushing feelings down, good at turning them away from the sunlight like faded pebbles. But this is different. It’s a different kind of hurt.

It’s unresolved, it’s an open wound. It’s you. And it’s every time he hears REO Speedwagon, every time he pulls a flannel over his shoulders and catches the scent of your perfume on it, every time he’s flicking through the TV and catches a flash of a hospital setting, it’s a pair of hands deep inside the wound, pulling it a little wider.

It aches. It stings and it aches and it winds.

And then he turns the pebbles around. Back to the shade. Over and over and fucking over.

On Wednesday night, he caves. Asks Sarah if she’s spoken to you.

She’s chewing on a slice of pizza; licks the grease from her fingertips before she answers. “Not really. She’s been quieter than usual. Why?”

“She’s been quieter than usual?” he repeats, playing off the way his head shot up by looking straight back down at the pizza box.

Sarah narrows her eyes. “Yeah. I figure she’s working a lot.”

“Right. Right.”

“She gets tired of being in the house all the time, I think. Getting treated like a kid still. So I guess the more time she can spend outta there, the better.”

Joel nods slowly. He already knows that much.

Sarah studies him. Watches his hands as he dabs a pizza crust into the dip. When he tosses it in his mouth, he looks back up at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “You want the last slice?”

“You take it,” he mutters, sitting back and wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’m stuffed.”

She hums, reaching forward. “Whatever it is,” she says, pulling the dough apart, “that’s got you this down –”

“Ain’t nothin’ got me down, kiddo.”

“– whatever it is,” she continues, “I bet it works itself out.”

Sarah stands up, taking her water with her, and wanders out of the kitchen.

----------

Joel struggles through another sleepless night, Thursday through Friday. His eyes don’t close over once. He hauls himself out of bed early in the morning, forces a black coffee down his throat, and heads off to work.

He’s up at some new client in Waco. Andrew Curtis – or, well, Andrew Curtis’s father, but Joel’s been dealing primarily with the son, and the guy’s a fucking imbecile. Doesn’t know his head from his ass, probably. And he has a voice like nails on a damn chalkboard, and his shirt’s untucked around the back, but Joel ain’t got a tone kind enough, or half the wordsmanship, or an ounce of energy to tell him.

Anyway – he spends all day at this dusty site, trying to work and instead, thinking about whatever the fuck you’re doing. Wherever you are, whoever you’re with. It’s almost seven by the time he’s leaving, packing up his truck and watching Andrew Curtis across the yard. He’s spotted his own shadow; he’s twisting around to reach the ducktail poking out from above his belt loops.

Joel thinks to call you about it on the way home. Tell you all about the guy: his dry conversation, his flannel, the fact he kept calling Joel Joe all day. He figures it would make you laugh, least the way he’d tell it, and he reckons that’s exactly what you need right now. That’s exactly what he needs, right now.

When Clark’s call him, he dials your dad. Has his ear blown half to hell by the speakerphone. Learns midway through the conversation that you’re right there in the car, too, and bites back a stream of incoherent, senseless words. Settles for a quiet reminder: he’s right here if you need him.

He doesn’t expect you to take him up on it. Knows you got better things to do than deal with some asshole who’d rather break your heart than have a few difficult conversations. You’re probably having fun, probably finally feeling good again. You’re probably fine.

But still. He doesn’t sleep that night, either.

It’s just gone two when Anna calls. He’s lying in bed, some shopping network on loop on the TV. His tired eyes bore into the screen, defocusing over the pixels, not watching nor listening and barely fucking breathing until he picks up the phone. Her voice is panicked, shrill, and shaking so much he wonders if his own phone is trembling with it.

“Mr. Miller?” she asks, and Joel sits up. “Got your number from Yelp. ‘m sorry it’s so late, it’s…oh, fuck – it’s, like, 2AM.”

“Anna,” Joel says hoarsely. Get to the fuckin’ point.

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.”

It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks –

“Where is she?”

“We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –”

“’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

In one long, drawn breath, she spills. “She was fucked from the second we walked in here; she drank too much too quick, Mr. Miller – Joel,” she says when he corrects her, “and then she just – I dunno, she just – fucking disappeared with these guys, me ‘n Kara never saw ‘em in our lives – and they went upstairs we think, and she came back smelling like weed, and then this guy – he just, like, scooped her off, Mr. M– I mean Joel, like, totally dragged her away, and then –”

“Who–? Anna – Anna, wait,” Joel says, shushing her between her rambling, trying to rein in what she’s saying. When she finally shuts up, he speaks slowly and calmly. “Who dragged her away?”

“We don’t fuckin�� know!” she almost shrieks down the line. It cuts out for a second and Joel’s heart stops dead.“– so we don’t know,” she says when her voice filters back through into his ear, “but Sam said he saw the dude drop something in her bottle when he turned away. A pill or something.”

Joel’s body tenses. Freezes solid, with the blood in his veins. His eyes fix on one spot on his dresser: the loose handle that sits a little squint. He stares at it until his peripheral starts to blur.

“He – say that again?”

“He roofied her, we think. But we can’t fucking find them. Sam and Kara are in there just now looking. The guy pulled her away, that’s what I’m tryna say!”

“Right,” whispers Joel, nodding. He drags a heavy hand over his eyes, tries to push the image of you in danger out of his head for one second so he can figure out what to do.

Anna doesn’t hear him. She keeps talking. “…and then Sam said she told him not to call her dad, but I had to call someone, y’know? You’re the only person I think she wouldn’t – I think she wouldn’t mind me callin’. Please.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs, arms pushing through the sleeves of his shirt. He keeps the phone against his cheek when he bends to reach for his boots, ties them loose and grabs his keys.

“You call me as soon as you find her, you hear? I’m on my way,” he tells Anna, and hangs up.

He’s panicking. Fear, transferred between her cell and his, creeping over his shoulders, wrapping long, cold fingers around his throat. He’s panicking. He’s panicking. He never panics. Where the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you with?

There’s barely any traffic on the road, but the drive takes for-fucking-ever. The lights at the side of the road blur into long, thin streaks of orange. His hands are tight around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. Your name lies loose on his lips.

He pulls up right outside the bar. There are small clusters of people, congregated tight together under the streetlights; cigarettes hanging from lips, bottles loose in hands. He shoves by them on his way to the door. Some guy shuffles out of his way, looking up to cuss Joel out and quickly dipping his head again when he locks eyes with the grizzly expression.

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, and spots you instantly.

----------

His knuckles are throbbing. Skin stretching anytime he moves his hand, searing hot and sharply stinging across the bone. Your touch is the only thing soothing them right now.

He got two good punches in. Just two. Burst the guy’s nose. He would’ve kept going, had he not been in a bar full of people – people who knew who he was – and had you not been stood behind him, body liquid-like from how much you were swaying.

But he has you home now. Up in your room, settled in bed. You’re safe. You’re with him.

You’re fucking wasted. Like, can barely lift a glass of water to your lips unaided wasted. He spent the entire drive watching over you, stealing glances when your head turned or your eyes lulled closed, checking you were still awake, still talking, still fucking breathing.

Whatever that asshole gave you, you don’t seem to have had enough for it to do too much damage. The alcohol is the real culprit. Though you were cognitive enough to yell at him over Lois in the kitchen, which relieved him for a second before it fucking crushed him. He’s lying awake right now – listening to the sound of your snoring – replaying the argument in his head. Over and over.

You’re an asshole and a liar. Just stringing me along this whole time.

He’s some awful cocktail of angry and terrified and fucking heartbroken. You’re lying inches from him, your hand resting softly on top of his, and yet – you’re miles away. The space between you both – fragmented, treacherous.

In a perfect world, he’d have wrapped his arms around your shoulders. He’d have pulled you against his weight, against his strong, steady form. And he’d have walked you, as slow as you needed, out of the bar and to his truck. Maybe laughing. Maybe singing.

He’d have told you everything was fine, told you he loved you, told you he was gonna get you home, make you feel better. He’d hold you until the sun came up, and then hold you until it went back down.

He’d love you. And you’d let him.

Maybe that world doesn’t exist, Joel thinks. And maybe that’s for the better.

It fucking hurts, though. Stings like a hot blade through his chest. All this time, messing around, pretending there was nothing more to it. Letting his feelings through like water in a fucking dam. It was bound to break eventually.

And maybe he really thought, even just for a fleeting moment, there could be something here. Something worth holding onto. More than two idiots messing around, more than sex and secrecy.

He didn’t even realize. Didn’t notice the shift. When did he start feeling…more? When did it cross that line?

He’s staring at the end of your bed. Thinking about you under him, gripping onto his shirt, his hand between your legs. The very first time. And every other fucking time since then. Which one was the threshold? Who pushed who?

His ringtone bursts through the silence, making him jump. His arm swings to fish it from the nightstand, swiping to answer before he’s even read who’s calling, just to shut the thing up.

“Hello?” he murmurs.

“Hey, Joe? Uh, I mean, Joel? It’s Andrew Curtis here.”

He rolls his eyes. For fuck’s sake. “Mornin’, Andrew.”

“Hi. Sorry, I know it’s super early. I’m just checkin’ we’re still good to go. I got my guys ready, we’re rarin’ to get goin’ whenever you are.”

Joel clears his throat, pushing slowly off the plush mattress, resting your hand on the sheets. “Yeah, uh…” He slips out of your room, hopping over to the bathroom and closing the door over. “…I had a, uh…a family emergency durin’ the night. I’m gonna be a little late, but I’ll be there.”

“Oh, gee, I hope everything’s alright?”

He phrases it like he wants Joel to clue him in. He considers for a second actually saying, Yeah, my best friend’s daughter – who I’ve been sleeping with for the last month – got plastered at a bar – Frank’s, local place, you heard of it? – because I broke things off with her – but I didn’t want to, I was just tryna be fuckin’ noble – and I went and picked her up, punched a guy who was tryna hurt her, because guess what, Andrew – I’m in fuckin’ love with her.

He sums it up with: “Yeah. Everything’s fine now. Thanks.”

“Alright, well, great news! Call me when you’re twenty minutes out, I’ll have the guys here for you arrivin’. Safe journey, Joe!”

Joel breathes an Uhuh and hangs up, holding the bridge of his nose. He has a headache, like he’s the one who’s been drinking. It’s only going to get worse, too, heading off to go spend his Saturday with Andrew fucking Curtis and his loose flannel.

The sun’s rising slowly, lighting the hall in a warm glow. Joel pads quietly into your room and pulls the cover back over his side of the mattress. You stir; your head jerks only to move some hair from your face, and then you sigh, sleep pulling you back into its arms.

He watches you for a second. Wishes he could run a light hand down your cheek, kiss your head. Whisper a goodbye, the same way you did to him almost a week ago.

He shakes the thought, collecting his boots from the floor. His hand hovers over his shirt for a moment. And then he lifts it by the collar, lays it neatly on the pillow by your head, and leaves. You can keep it, trash it, burn it. But it’s yours. Everything about him is yours.

In the kitchen, he stands by the sink, nursing a cup of coffee. It’s a quarter to six. This early on a Saturday, he figures he’ll be in Waco by seven, seven-thirty latest. His eyes fix on the spot you two stood last night, yelling back and forth about Lois. She seems so far away, now. He can barely remember the shape of her face, the sound of her voice.

His grip tightens around the mug. He places it in the sink, and grabs his keys. As he passes the stairs, he pauses. Leans on one foot, head tilted to listen out for any sound of life. Any fucking sound – the creak of a floorboard, the squeak of a door handle. Anything to keep him here. Anything.

Nothing comes. No sound, no movement, no you.

He closes the front door gently on his way out.

----------

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cordeliawhohung · 3 months

Text

Headache

mafia!Gaz x fem!Reader | no major warnings: minor descriptions of wounds and blood, both you and gaz have a lot of sass |

mafia!141 consider this a part 2 to Siren

maybe one day you'll learn how to keep your mouth shut

Things were never quite silent in Kyle’s apartment, but they weren’t exactly loud, either. Well, apartment was a bit of a misleading term considering he had an entire penthouse in one of the most expensive buildings in the city all to himself. Still, it didn’t change the fact that he always kept quiet music playing through the speakers in the living room or turned on a white noise machine in order to sleep. Kyle had never had a quiet life as a kid, and finding himself as an adult surrounded by nothing but silence was more than enough to drive him mad.

However, the only thing more irritating than silence was the grating sound of someone trying to buzz up into his apartment. It was as if they took the world’s most annoying sound and turned it into a doorbell, and it was so blaring he could hear it all the way from the bathroom in which he attempted to shower. He had just finished his workout and he wanted to wash the sweat and stink off of himself, but it didn’t seem like he would get the opportunity. Whoever it was trying to get in was certainly adamant, because the buzzer sounded at least four different times before he was able to reach the door.

“Hello?” Kyle greeted as he jammed his finger against the intercom button. If this was Soap, he was going to be pissed.

“Mr. Garrick.”

It was your voice, he was sure of it. Even through the crackling speaker of the intercom and your heavy panting it was easy to make out that confident snark that exuded from every word you spoke. The way you soaked his name in it had him huffing in annoyance already.

“How did you find me?” he questioned as he rubbed his face with his free hand.

“Let me in and I’ll tell you,” you teased.

“Not happening,” he retorted.

Your groan came through all too clearly on the intercom and Kyle had an easy time imagining the way you most likely rolled your eyes. So far, his only interaction with you had been that night a few weeks ago when he failed to get that USB off of that politician in the strip club. After all that blew over, he had a hard time getting you out of his mind. You knew about his mother, and more importantly that he was her bastard child, and that knowledge seemed to haunt his thoughts night and day. You appearing on his doorstep didn’t help to quell his worries, either.

“Come on, Garrick,” you urged. “I just need a place to crash for the night, I’ll be out of your hair by morning. You wouldn’t leave a girl out on the streets all by herself, would you?”

“Do you not have your own friends you could bother with this?” Kyle asked.

“Awe, are we not friends?” you patronized. “Besides, none of them live in what I can only assume is Fort fucking Knox with this security system.” Your voice paused, and something in your tone changed when you next spoke. “I’ll be gone by morning. Promise.”

And he wanted to say no. To turn you away and leave you to your own devices. You were plenty capable of taking care of yourself, you had proved as much all those nights ago when you stole the data from under his nose. But there was something pleading in your tone, almost tired, even. He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. Kyle wasn’t known for having a cold heart.

Without so much as a single word, Kyle pressed the button that would unlock the lobby door for you and wandered off into the living room to sit and wait for you. Surely it was a mistake to let you in. Riley didn’t seem to trust you nearly as far as he could throw you, and while the man didn’t trust many people, there was something different with the way he acted about you. It was like you were some feral creature, or a ticking time bomb. Perhaps you were something to be handled with care. Or just to be kept very far away from.

A few minutes later a knock sounded at his door, announcing your arrival, and Kyle couldn’t help but groan as he pushed himself up from the couch. His sweat from his workout had caused an odd, damp feeling to coat his body, one that he wasn’t all too fond of. Still, he did his best to ignore it as he opened the door to greet you.

It was strange seeing you without the makeup, wig, and skimpy outfit, as it was the only outfit he had seen you wear before. The woman who stood in front of him was completely unrecognizable, and you nearly looked… shattered. Your clothes were bulky and much too big for your body, and there was an obvious and odd tatter that tore the bottom of your jeans. A fair layer of sweat coated your forehead, and it looked as if you had escaped a prison rather than gone for a nice night stroll.

“The hell happened to you?” Kyle asked as he took a step back to give you space to enter.

“You don’t talk to women very often, do you?” you retorted, half annoyed.

“Most women I talk to don’t look like they were just dragged through the bin.”

The door closed shut behind you with a click and Kyle was quick to engage the lock while you strolled into his apartment. Quiet music continued to hum through the surround sound speakers, and your eyes seemed transfixed on the dim lighting and his impeccable interior decorating. A small black backpack rested on your shoulders, and you adjusted the straps as you took your time meandering throughout his living room. Despite your apparent desperate need for a place to stay, you didn’t seem all too intent on divulging why you showed up at his door of all places.

“Seriously,” Kyle continued, “what happened?”

As if annoyed with his question, you turned to face him fully while you gave him a careful look up and down. It had been a long while since Kyle had last felt like a specimen, as if someone tore apart every single piece of his appearance with just their look alone, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it coming from you or not. Luckily, you decided to be kinder than he had been and you kept quiet about his disheveled appearance.

“Had a little run in with Makarov’s men. Nothing I couldn’t handle, but I just need a place to lay low for a bit. Persistent bastards,” you explained simply.

Makarov. Kyle tried not to concern himself too much with the inner workings of the mafia world. The only reason he was involved with that mess in the first place was because John Price wasn’t a bad friend to have, and his mothers job and status made it easy to bend the rules a little in which he would receive good payment in return. But Makarov was a name that even he grew to fear. A ruthless man, his schemes often seemed to be more terroristic in nature rather than selfish like most other syndicates.

The fact that you took on his men alone and came out unscathed was a miracle.

“Oh,” Kyle said as if the answer was obvious. “So you just brought them straight to my front door then?”

“Don’t be rude,” you said with a glare. “I’m not stupid enough to have someone follow me. I know when I’m being tailed. Trust me, you and your penthouse Fort Knox are fine.”

Frustrated, Kyle ran a hand over his hair before he gave you the most unamused expression he could muster which only had you rolling your eyes, an action you seemed to do quite often. It was as if his confusion and concern was below you, like you expected him to just blindly go along with whatever you said.

“Anyway,” you continued as you turned your attention to his apartment once more, “can I borrow your shower? You know, since it looks like I’ve been dragged through the bin and all.”

As much as Kyle wanted to say no because he had planned on showering, he didn’t want to be a bad host. And really, you looked like you needed it more anyway, especially after running into Makarov. So he showed you to his stupidly large bathroom, complete with a garden tub and tiled shower. The vanity was large enough that three people could fit comfortably side by side, and the mirror casted a beautiful glow along the marble flooring with its backlit LED lights.

“Fancy,” you commented as Kyle handed you a fresh towel.

“Do you need a fresh change of clothes?” he asked while he ignored the way you gawked at the room.

Smirking, you looked at him with a raised brow as you tugged on the straps of your backpack. “Cute, but I’ve got it covered.”

“Alright, just… don’t take all the hot water. I’ve gotta shower, too,” he said as he stepped out of the room.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Once the door closed behind him, everything started to hurt, and you could no longer keep up that snarky facade. Your backpack slipped off your shoulders and landed on the floor with a dull thud, and you wasted no more time stripping your bulky sweater off. Blood soaked through the side of your shirt, causing the tattered mess to cling to your skin with its coagulated stickiness, and you were unable to hold back your grimace. The large rip in the side clearly showed the gash that plagued your waist, and while the blood flow had managed to slow, a steady trickle still continued to seep into your shirt.

You could already hear Shepherd’s voice calling you a failure. Not only did you fail to steal the laptop he ordered you to grab, you had gotten yourself injured in the process like an amateur. There wasn’t any room for failure in his business. Least of all from his daughter. You wouldn’t be able to show your face for a while, not without punishment.

Everything you did to clean yourself up was meticulous. You couldn’t afford to seek proper care, and you certainly didn’t want Kyle Garrick of all people figuring out what exactly you had gotten yourself into. So your bloodied shirt was shoved into your bag as you pulled out your first aid kit. Cleaning the wound was near agonizing, and having to twist your body to the side just to reach it didn’t really help, but you wouldn’t be able to superglue it with scabs crusting over your skin. Any materials that you used to patch yourself up were also thrown back into your bag for disposal at a later time.

Leave no trace.

Never let them see you bleed.

That night you slept out on Kyle’s couch, much to his protesting. Despite the fact that you were probably the least pleasant person he had to deal with, second only to his mother, he still insisted on being kind and trying to take care of you and offered you his room instead. While the notion was noble, it honestly made you a little sick, so you burrowed into the couch with a borrowed pillow and blanket and slept the best you had for a long while.

When morning came, a hand on your shoulder shook you awake and your arm reached out with a jolt. As your body and mind began to wake up, you quickly realized it was Kyle who attempted to wake you, and your hand gripped the collar of his shirt like you were ready to fight. He looked down at you with a raised brow as he slowly removed his hand from your shoulder.

“Gonna kill the man who made you breakfast?” he asked in an attempt to tease you.

Sighing, you relinquished your grip on his shirt and rubbed at your face. “Depends on if it’s a good breakfast or not.”

Once you had the chance to wake up a little more, you followed Kyle into the kitchen where you were painfully reminded of everything that had happened to you the previous night. Your wound had the time to grow sore, and even the simple act of standing or sitting was near agonizing, yet you kept quiet as you sat down on the opposite side of the island from him. Everything about his apartment was impressive, from the full unit kitchen with a gas stove, to the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the city. Even you had to admit you were a little jealous.

Kyle had cooked up a few light and fluffy pancakes, complete with fresh cut fruit and other sides for you to add to your heart's content. Really, it was quite good, and you were able to momentarily forget about your unfortunate predicament. Though, the fact that you were in Kyle Garrick’s apartment was still something on your mind, and his too apparently, as he hadn’t let your omission from last night go fully unpunished.

“So, you never did explain how you found me.”

There it was. You knew this conversation was going to happen sooner or later. Your vast knowledge often unsettled and even intimidated people, and it seemed like Kyle was no exception. Of course you could have done the smart thing and stayed quiet. Opening that can of worms would only get him to ask more questions, ones he wouldn’t like the answers to, and yet you owed him at least a bit of an explanation.

“Your mother’s financial assets go to different places every month, but there are a few that are always split the same way. First goes to the mortgage on her rather extravagant mansion in some bullshit gated community. Next is a direct route to a bank account, which I can only assume is yours. Ten thousand a month is a rather generous allowance, honestly. Especially since none of it has to go towards rent or bills, because the other place her monthly payments goes towards is the rent on this penthouse.” You paused to shove a rather large bite of food into your mouth before you looked up at him with a smile. “And before you ask, I found this out due to a data breach in her bank. Stuff happens all the time, really. Can’t trust anything electronic these days.”

Kyle wasn’t sure if he should laugh or yell at you. Not only had you gotten every single detail right, but you were much too smug about it. While your banter always seemed lighthearted and friendly, there was something more insidious about it; or maybe he just felt threatened by you. Difficult to tell, but he knew being wary of Shepherd’s daughter wasn’t a bad idea.

“Alright, that still doesn’t explain how you knew who my mother is,” he said, the irritation already beginning to show in his voice. “You mentioned it the first time we met like you were holding it over my head. Care to explain that?”

Humming, you swallowed the food in your mouth before you leaned against the counter. “Not sure if you want me to explain that one.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Kyle snapped. “Does it make you feel strong? Holding personal information above people’s heads like this?”

“No,” you corrected with a slight bite in your tone, “it makes me feel safe.”

With a short pause, you set your fork down on your plate before you crossed your arms in your seat and stared up at Kyle. Without a chair for him to sit in on the other side of the island, he stood much taller than you, almost intimidatingly so, yet you didn’t falter.

“I’m very confident in my ability to kick someone’s ass, but the real weapon lies in knowing shit. It gives you the upper hand, keeps you from getting hurt,” you explained.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted. “You flaunt it around like some all knowing being and then laugh in my face when I try to ask questions.”

“Oh, is it knowledge that you want?” you challenged. “Because I could tell you anything you wanna know. Like how your friend Soap would have certainly gotten himself killed if he didn’t join up with Price because the people he worked for previously never intended to let him get any information and live because they don’t like loose ends. I also happen to know that the girl Riley keeps hanging around is a hot fucking mess, and he’s gonna find himself in a world of hurt if he keeps trying to pursue her. It’s always the quiet ones who have the most baggage, after all. Or that Mrs. Price’s dad wasn’t killed in a fucking accident like the papers would have you believe.”

Eventually the adrenaline in your body built up too much for you to stay sitting. There was just something so infuriating about Kyle Garrick. Maybe it was the way he looked at you while you spoke, jaw tense and eyes refusing to tear from you. Maybe it was just that despite how terrible of a person you were being, he still showed you more kindness than you deserved.

“Your dad is sick. Very sick, and has been for a long while,” you continued.

“Don’t you fucking talk about him,” Kyle snapped as he took a step closer to you, and yet you ignored him.

“Despite his illness, he works as a janitor five days a week for one of the elementary schools here in the city, but can only afford to go part time, so he doesn’t have a lot of disposable income. You love him. With your rent paid for, and more money than you know what to do with, you give a lot of your income to him instead so he doesn’t lose his home. You visit with him every Sunday for dinner, probably to also watch football. He’s the only reason you even work for Price. You’ll take any extra income you can get if it means expediting his treatment and keeping him comfortable and alive because he’s the only person in your life who ever actually gave a damn about you.”

The silence that followed was the most uncomfortable one that you ever had to endure. You had read Kyle like a book, and all he could do was stare at you with some twisted look of understanding and betrayal. Finally, his eyes tore away from your face for the first time in what felt like ages, but you didn’t like where he looked next.

“Is that blood?” he asked as if the conversation the two of you had was completely forgotten.

And it was. That deep red color seeped out of your poorly patched wound and soaked into the fresh cotton of your shirt. Superglue was able to hold it together throughout the night, and yet the moment your heart rate went up from that petty display of power, you paid dearly for it. You weren’t sure what hurt more. The unhealed gash on your side, or the fact that Kyle still showed you such softness despite everything you had said to him.

“I should go,” you excused yourself as you turned to march off towards the living room. “Shepherd will start to worry if I’m gone too long, and it should be safe for me to travel now that it’s light out.”

Without hesitation, Kyle followed close behind you as you made a beeline for your backpack. It didn’t take you long to fish your bulky sweater out, and you tried not to think about all the bloody items that you had shoved in with it the previous night. Really, even if you showed your face around him that morning, you still weren’t safe. You failed, and yet facing Shepherd seemed more favorable to you than spending another moment with Kyle.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he tried to reason, “if you’re hurt I know someone who can help. Soap’s girl patches up people all the time.”

“She’s an ER nurse who works day shift,” you said as you shoved the sweater over your body with a restrained grunt. “She’s got people in real need to worry about.”

It all happened too fast. You had spent a night under his roof and Kyle didn’t even realize the pain you were in, and that felt wrong. Yet, you were leaving. And some terrible part of him didn’t want you to, so when you turned to march towards the door with your bag slung over your shoulder, he grabbed your wrist in some last attempt to get you to stay. Instead, he got nothing out of you but a pained squeak, and the moment you turned to face him with wide eyes, he let go of your wrist with the word sorry written all over his face.

He was pretty. He really was. It was annoying.

“I lied,” you suddenly admitted. “There was no way I could have known that you give a lot of your money to your dad. I don’t have access to your banking records, and never really had the need to. I only mentioned it because it fit you. It just seemed like something you would do.” You paused to swallow as you reached a hand up to your side. You could already feel the way the blood caused your shirt to stick to your skin, yet you forced yourself to endure. “You’re a kind person, Garrick. It’s a shame you ever got caught up in this kind of life.”

There was nothing either of you could say as you turned your back to him. Nothing would change the fact that you were the bleeding enigma walking out of his penthouse, and all Kyle could do was stand there and watch as the door closed behind you. Maybe some other time he would be able to coax your history out of you. For the time being, you were still just Shepherd’s daughter, the woman whose name he didn’t even know, and yet the woman who turned to him when you needed it most. Maybe one day you would let someone care for your wounds.

That day just wasn’t it.

#gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #mafia!gaz #mafia!141 #f!reader

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good--merits-accumulated · 16 days

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If we for a moment forgo canon events and disagreements then I do wholeheartedly hope and believe that Todd and Neil get married during the '70s. It's a sunny afternoon on the perfect day in mid-spring and the light is at its thickest and most golden and Charlie got registered as an officiant just for this day and not everybody's present - Meeks can't make it from Switzerland on short notice, but they get a photo of him and prop it up on the coffee table at the perfect angle to see. Neil keeps wondering if he's going to get the pre-wedding jitters and does end up pacing around the living room early in the morning, but it's less cold feet and more impatience. (Turns out it's kind of hard to get cold feet when your almost-husband is sitting drowsily on the couch to keep you company and he keeps almost nodding off and you keep remembering all the ways in which you love him.) Ginny barges in at noon with hairspray and a sewing kit and insists on making bouquets with shitty grocery store flowers for both of them and Todd's suit ends up with a hastily added elbow patch and Neil's tie doesn't match his pocket square, because one's from Cameron and the other's from Knox. (Something borrowed, something blue...) It's perfect. In the end they go out on the balcony and Charlie's wearing this really tacky priest outfit, just really shitty fabric so that he's probably sweating bullets, and the collar's come untucked, and at the last moment Chris shrieks, "You forgot your bouquets!" and throws one with such good aim it hits Todd in the face. But they get through the vows and both of them only cry a little, because Cameron cries enough for all of them combined, and then that's it - over - and married. And as Charlie beams and says they can kiss there's a well-timed shower of rice from the balcony above, and congratulations, from some upstairs neighbours and well-wishers. Pitts catches the kiss on his expensive video camera and he also catches the cheering, which is so loud that, four blocks away, a lone man packing up his street food van pauses in closing boxes and thinks that there must be a party going on. He's right. And at the end of the night when the last loved one leaves and shuts the door gently behind them to not disturb the newlyweds lying together on the couch, silent with happiness, it's still perfect. At that moment it doesn't matter that there is no piece of paper, or no registry office, or that if Todd has an accident Neil might not be able to visit him in the hospital room. There will be tears for those things, but they come later. For now they're married. The beautiful thing never changes.

#reader i will freely admit - i HAVE spent all of today reading articles about the 2004 San Francisco Winter of Love.#and i HAVE spent all of today crying about it in intermittent bursts. you would too #anderperry #dead poets society #todd anderson.#neil perry #dead poets society fanfic #dead poets society fanfiction #anderperry fanfic #anderperry fic #tristan writes #i guess. this got away from me #also. go listen to vienna teng's song about this - city hall - right now

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ufcconor · 1 month

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Come on, baby

Knox x F!Reader

(Y/n) Brandt has a history with her fathers most trustworthy hit man

SMUT SMUT SMUT

Getting the call from Gerald Brandt was a surprise to say the least. “Knox, I need you!” “What do you need?” Gerald screams into the phone, “Knox, my Idiot son is fucking things up!” “I’ll leave right away.” “And Knox, look after (y/n).” Knox pauses, excitement brewing in him. “You know I will.”

I see a man walking down the dock to the shitty houseboat named so cleverly “The Boat”. I sit up from my chair, holding onto my hat in the low wind as the boat rocks in the water. “That’s the new bouncer at the roadhouse Ben keeps going on about?” The smirk grows on my lips. My friend meets my gaze, staring at the man as he steps onto the boat and shamelessly begins to work out in the sun. “He’s hot.” I lean on the railing.

I wave my hand towards him as my boat sails by. “Looking good over there!” He stops mid-sit up and waves with a small smile before continuing his set. My friend scoffed with a smile. “I'm assuming you’re taking a trip down to the bar tonight.” I shrug sitting back in my hair and sipping my margarita. “Might be.”

I walk into the bar and scan the scene. The music is upbeat, and the people seem to be calm… for now at least. I allow my eyes to scan the entire place until I see him. Sitting at the bar, and quietly observing. I walk to him and take the seat directly beside him. I smile at the bartender, “Rum and coke please.”

The man beside me smirks as I mindlessly pat my fingers on the bar looking around. I meet his eyes and drop my jaw dramatically. “Well, what are the chances? Hey there handsome.” “My name’s Dalton.” I shake his hand, “(y/n). Nice to see you again. Shirt on this time, but we can work on that.”

Night after night I’d go to the roadhouse and sit with Dalton. Flirting and talking, were all fun. When there was an issue he’d get up, handle it with some sarcastic banter and strong punches, and then he’d be back beside me with a cheeky smile as if nothing happened. I like a man who can handle himself. He was a sweet guy to top it off. He definitely shouldn’t be the one to be here taking care of this matter. He shouldn’t have to be the one to deal with my idiot brother and his schemes.

I put six sandwiches on a plate and exit the home to the back patio. “Sandwiches are on the bar!” I yell to the boys as I sit down in a chair, opening my book. Not long after I gained inner peace, a loud collision struck right in front of the house. I tear my shades off as a figure enters. “Who the fuck put those bikes in my way?” I watch as Knox strolls in. “Who the fuck are you?” Clyde asks. Knox raises his hand to his face, “Shh.”

He walks to the bar and praises the leftover sandwiches. “Thank you, God. Sandwiches. I’m fucking famished.” He bites into the bread with a growl.

This can not be happening. I was set on the fact that I would not have to see this asshole ever again. The memories flash so quickly. A day full of shopping. The 4 bottles of wine at the most expensive restaurant in Rome. Romantic walks down the streets. Long nights full of him showering me with endless pleasure.

Moe bursts in quickly, “He knocked all the fucking bikes over!” I roll my eyes going back to my book. I’d rather not be involved in whatever the hell he’s doing. I turn the page in my book trying to focus on the words cascading down the page but I can feel his eyes burning onto my frame. Clyde towers over him. “Now you got a big ass problem, bucko.”

Knox nods, mouth full, “No shit! First off, I’m going to need more than 3 sandwiches.”

“I wasn’t done talking.” Clyde cuts Knox off.

Knox glares at Clyde, meeting his gaze with power. “Actually, that’s where you’re wrong, lad.” He pushes past Clyde and nears my chair. He stands next to me, looking down at me. I put my book down with a huff. Knox smiles, “What darlin’? Not a word for me? Thought you’d be happy to see me.” I stand up, bumping his arm as I walk past him.

Knox plops down in my seat, lounging back. “Aye, baby. Are you going to make me some more sandwiches or what?” I flip him off as I slam the door shut. “Stupid mother fucking Irish asshole.”

I tear my bathing suit off in a rush. Why the fuck has he come here? Something to do with my father no doubt. I step into the shower trying to calm my nerves, trying to burn out the heat that ignites in my core. He always had this effect on me. I can't help but remember the night.

I lay back on the couch, my dress hugged my body tightly. Knox saunters over with another glass of wine for me. “Mhh thank you,” I mumble out. He takes a seat next to me. I lay my legs over his thighs, beginning to look over his entire frame. He was big (no doubt everywhere). I run my foot over his crotch. He narrows his gaze at me. “Nah, lassie. That’s not in the cards for you.” He grabs my ankles putting my motions to a stop. I sigh before standing, rolling the wine into my glass. “I thought you were fun.” I lean down to my phone, putting some music on. I sway my hips, my back facing Knox. I down my glass of wine, turning around and arching my back on the wall. His eyes glued to my frame, his orbs burning into mine. I take a step forward, lowering the zipper of my dress with each step. I stand in front of him, zipper completely down, the dress hanging loosely. I lean down, my hands on his shoulders. “Still not in the cards? Even for me?” Knox chuckles, forcing his eye contact to the wall. “You father would have my ass, baby.”

I stand straight again. “Hm, that’s a shame.” I let the straps of the dress off my shoulders, it cascades down to the marble floor delicately. Only clad in my panties and expensive heels I turn away from him, leaving the dress at his feet.

“Fuckin hell.” He mumbles.

Before I know it I’m tossed onto the bed and Knox is kissing up my body and pampering my exposed breast with kisses and bites.

Soon his fingers pumping deliciously in and out of my heat. I arch up with a loud cry as an orgasm races through me. “There's a good girl."

I splash water onto my face. I can’t allow myself to get tangled in with him again. There’s nothing there but an empty promise. I know the bed will be cold by morning.

I step out of the shower and dry my body with the towel before hanging said towel up on the door. I bent over, flipping my head over to start drying my wet hair.

“I always did adore this side of you, love.”

I shoot up and turn around. “What the fuck!” I snatch my towel off the door and hold it up in front of me. “Get out!” He doesn’t. Instead, he walks closer causing me to back up until I hit the countertop. He places his arms on either side of me, making a chance for an easy escape difficult.

He bites his lip looking at my poorly hidden body. He catches the hem of the towel in his fingers. “Why don’t we catch up?” I look at him with wide eyes and anger boiling in my chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Knox sucks in a breath. “Now listen, I know how it looked back then.” I scoff and push him away. He doesn’t fight me and allows me to pass. “Hate to see you go, but I love seeing you walk away, baby.” I enter my bedroom and with one last glance at Knox, I slam the door shut.

Ben walks into the back patio and sees Knox sitting in a tanning chair, eating a plate of sandwiches. “I’m sorry, who the fuck are you?” Knox nods, “Hey. I got a message for you. From your father.” He stands facing Ben.

Bem furrows his brow, “A message? My father? And what… What is this “message”?” Knox pops Ben in the nose quickly before tossing his arm over his shoulders. “You’re Ben, right? Jerry’s son?” He chuckles removing himself. Knox admires the house. He points to the pool shed. “This is where I’ll store my stuff. And that master bedroom up there is mine. Move your sister's shit in with mine. You can take her room.” Ben shakes his head, confusion clouds his mind. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”

Knox grabs a golf club. “Your dad says you’ve been fucking things up.” He turns to Ben, who backs away. “He asked me to lend a hand.”

Ben scoffs, “How would my father know? He’s in a prison, rotting in a cell.” “Don’t be silly. Your father has spies everywhere.”

“Well, you can tell my father…” Ben starts but gets cut off by his sister (y/n) coming out. “Where are you going?” She rolls her eyes. “Why do you care?” She takes a step and Ben grabs her arm. Knox straightens up, anger brewing within him. No one gets to touch her.

“Is it the road house? To see your little boyfriend?” (Y/n) rips his arm off, “Believe it or not but I’m actually likable unlike you.” She walks off. “Don’t go to that fucking bar, (y/n)!” She turns around with a smirk. “Or what?” Knox watches her such as predator watches their prey. Fire brewed within his chest at the thought of some other man touching her, touching what he had claimed.

Ben runs his fingers through his hair, frustration existing on his face. “She’s such a pain in my ass.” He turns back to Knox. “I don’t need your fuckin’ help. I have it all under control.”

“No, you don’t.” Knox swings the club, making Ben back away again. “Yes, I have people out there right now… cleaning up this final issue, and that’s all…” Knox ignored Ben’s confident plan. “So, where’s this bouncer asshole?”

I enter the road house and move to the corner expecting to see Dalton but to my surprise, he’s nowhere in sight. Laura slides my drink over. “He’s late.” I furrow my brow. “That’s a first.”

An hour later Dalton comes in looking a little disheveled. He sits beside me taking a breath. “Hey.” “Hey, what’s going on?” He shakes his head. “Had a little mix-up with the sheriff.” I cringe internally, “A mix-up?” My brothers doing. Laura leans over conserved. “What are we talkin’ about?”

A surprising guest speaks a few seats away. “Yeah, what are we talking about?” Ben walks over, taking the seat next to me. “Hey, sis. Thought I told you to stay home.” Ben averts his attention from me. “I’m curious to hear what you were gonna tell her, Dalton. I’m Ben Brandt. (Y/n)‘s brother.”

Dalton smirks, “Let me guess. It’s your turn now.” “My turn?” “You know, to threaten me. Tell me to get out of town. Like your buddy, Big Dick.” Ben chuckled. “No. No, I get the impression that you can’t be threatened.

I wish you could be, but… I’d even bribe you if I thought money would work.” Dalton nods, “Really? How much we talking?”

“Ben, can you just fuck off?” He turns to me, anger in his eyes. “(Y/n) doesn’t it make you curious what an outsider like him… thinks he’s doing here.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t know, Ben. Nor do I care. Just get the fuck out of here.”

Ben ignores me again. “So, I guess my question is… Why? Right? It can’t be just some competitive thing, you…you’ve won the fight. You can back off now. But you… you don’t. You just keep… punching and punching and punching. So, why? Why don’t you just stop?” Dalton stays silent causing Ben to exit like a toddler, anger blowing from his ears.

Dalton raises a brow. “Your brother, huh?” “I like to think I’m adopted.” The door opens and Knox strolls in with the bikers behind him. I watch as Knox scans the room making eye contact with me.

Knox strolls around, picking at two separate tables. “Hey, fellas. Looks like you’re havin’ a smashing night!” He swings the golf club smashing every bottle and glass off their table. Knox successfully starts the bar fight and chaos consumes the entire building.

“Dalton! Dalton! Dalton!” Knox screams as he scans the room. I stand up and walk towards him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Knox chuckled, lowering his head, our noses brushing. “A lot of shit. You wanna try to fix me?” His smirk grows.

“Dalton! Dalton!” On-demand, Dalton yells from the top of the steps. “What?” Knox looks over him as if inspecting. He tosses his head back. “This is the guy?” He asks me, I can see jealousy glowing in his eyes. “Leave him alone, Knox.”

He points to Dalton. “You know, I got sent here special. Just for you.” Dalton stays calm, taking a glance around the chaotic scene. “And you brought all your friends with you?” “I thought you might miss havin’ an audience. I was trying to be thoughtful. Like on pay-per-view. 25 quid. Watch me pulp your face!” Panic pumps through my veins. “You can’t fucking do this, Knox.”

Dalton stands a few feet away now. “You know this guy too?” Knox smirks and looks at me, waiting for my answer. “He’s my father’s employee.” Knox places his hand on his chest, acting like his feelings are damaged. “Aww come on, baby. Don’t be like that.“ He takes my chin between his fingers, his face inches from mine. “How do I know that you squeal when having your pussy eaten just, hm? Right here.” Knox sticks his hand down to my clothed crotch and pats my pelvic bone lightly. I gasp and move away from him. The act so bold in a public setting had my cheeks glowing red and a pool between my legs.

Dalton grabs Knox and shoves it away. “Don’t touch her, man.” Knox smiles at Dalton. “Nah, mate. You don’t get to touch her! SHE’S MINE!” Knox swings his club at Dalton hitting him in the stomach, before punching him and starting a brawl between the two.

I follow some of the bikers outside as they file out. “What the fuck was that?” I scream at Dell. “Stop it, (y/n). You know Brandt wants the road house.” I roll my eyes, “a shitty bar? For real?” I turn on my heel to walk back into the bar, but Knox catches my upper arm and pulls me to his car. “Let go of me, Knox.” He opened the passenger door and oh so helpfully assisted me in. “You and me. We’re going to have a little chit-chat.” He fumes. He’s angry. He flies off, tearing up gravel as he speeds out of the lot. He maneuvers through traffic, passing cars at high speed. “If you slow down we won’t live long enough to talk,” Knox smirks at me. “Ah baby, I’ve missed that smart mouth of yours, truly.”

Knox drifts into a lonely dock and slams the door as he gets out. “Let’s go.” Knox strips his shirt and shoes. I step out and lean against the front of the car, the sand damp on my feet.

Knox shakes his finger at me. “This ain’t you. Where’d my girl go?” I glare at him, “Maybe she’s back in Rome where you ditched her two years ago.” Knox, only a couple feet away smiles again. “All that? Baby you know your father had me running around for him.” “You left me alone with no explanation. You dipped that morning and never spoke to me again.” Knox nods, “Yeah, I did. That’s what your father told me to do.” “Yeah, and you always do what he says huh? Like a dog.”

Knox drops his smile. “And what have you been doing? You used to listen like a good girl. Now look at ya. Fucking around with these assholes.”

“Better than you.”

Knox grabs my arm pulling me to him. “Aww, now I see it. You’ve not been fucked real good in a long time. That it?” I raise my hand and slap him across the face. He pauses for a moment before a dark smirk grows across his lips. “There’s my tiger.”

Fuck it. This is toxic as hell.

I wrap my arms around his broad body, attacking his mouth. He holds me up, holding our bodies as close as possible. Our tongues battling, the passion seeping from each other's mouths. The clawing and scratching of our hands. He kisses down my neck, running his tongue over my collarbones. The hot breeze sticks to the moist surface. He pushes me back onto the hood of the car. “I’m going to fuck the brat out of you, but first…” he flips the hem of my dress over my thighs, and separates them. “I need to taste ya.”

He kisses the soft skin of my inner thighs. A drunken state unraveled within me. Knox pulls my panties down, taking a look at my private. He nestled between my thighs, "Such a pretty cunt. How did I ever let you out of my sight?" The praises leaving his mouth caused me to gasp. I am unable to speak, unable to ask if he wanted to do this out here, on the beach, given any surprise visitor. All I could do was moan and arch my back onto the cold surface of the car. My heart was racing, blood rushing, toes being forced to curl.

His tongue brushed through my folds, collecting drops of the hot arousal. He moaned against my cunt, sucked on the pulsing bundle of nerves. “Knox," the call of his name made him chuckle against my skin. I had never known such pleasures besides him. I was already close to letting go, his mouth latching onto my clit, once again leaving me to arch her back off the hood. "Let go for me, darling."

With another breathy moan, I release, eyes rolling back into my head, fingernails about to claw stripes into the pain of the car. He lazily licked my slit for a few more seconds before he pulled away, moving up her body to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Knox, fuck me please," I whined, looking into his eyes, pleading. He smiled and followed my order within seconds.

My legs lay wide open for him to enter and while his hands hold my waist tightly. He shoved himself up my pussy with such an ease.

"You feel perfect, angel. Nothing changed." he moaned, his moves quickened fast. Noises of skin slapping against skin filled the area. "So fucking good" Knox panted in between harsh thrusts. My lower body just perfectly crashed together with his. I was in heaven as I felt myself coming closer and closer to my end. "I'm gonna cum." | whimpered so quietly that he could barely hear it. “You're the only man who can make me feel this good,” I whined, I was all his.

His movements grew slower, and he heavily breathed into my face. “You’re mine, (y/n).” I was so close, my body was burning. I nod breathlessly, “I’m all yours.” Waves of an orgasm beautifully crashed in, and it was only a matter of seconds before I would cum.

"Good girl." Knox panted and I knew he was about to cum. His hand wandered to my clit and circled it at a fast, pleasuring pace. That was it. I felt my orgasm finally coming in and I let out a loud moan. Knox growled into my neck and bit into my shoulder as he came right after me, releasing all of his warm cum inside me. He kept moaning and growling into my skin, both of us exhausted and in a blissful state. His body was limp on mine.

We laughed into each other's faces and after a moment of silence and just looked at each other. He moved over to his car, retrieving a blanket. “What are you doing?” I ask still lying in bliss. He spread the blanket on the sand. “A night under the stars. What do ya say, lass?” He picks me up and lays us down on the soft blanket. His hands went over my back, and it sent shivers down my spine. In this moment the world was perfect.

#conor mcgregor #ufc conor mcgregor #conor mcgregor x reader #road house #Knox road house #Knox x reader #roadhouse

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iravaid · 2 years

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ily 2004 vampire the masquerade bloodlines.

Ily janky ass unplayable combat mechanics and rushed ending levels entirely dependent on combat. Ily people trying their goddamn best to translate the pen and paper rules over to video game rules and still not Quite getting there but still having some things good to show for it. ily grungy disgusting streets and alleyways and sewers and warrens and bars and murder scenes and the strange people that inhabit them. Ily Confession and Asylum and Asp Hole and Last Round, and how distinct the bars are from each other aesthetically. Ily goth and punk fashion and music inspiration. Ily fangs showing in vampire npcs as they speak. Ily the absolute shitshow LA is and that you can see how the city is being pulled apart by the goddamn seams because of the brewing tensions and that no matter the outcome, the city loses.

I love you John DiMaggio's performance as Smiling Jack and his behind the scenes scheming and meddling and violence. I love you Grey Delisle’s performance as Jeanette and Therese and the reveal of the sisters for first time players. I love you incredibly animated character performances in both voice and character model, leaving iconic and lasting impressions from multiple characters. I love you detailed monster designs from Ming Xiao’s cephalopod war form, Andrei’s draconic Zulo form, the many szlachta of the sewers and their small details people would otherwise miss but are still there regardless, and Zygaena’s hammerhead shark hengeyokai form. I love you Pisha and her weird little organ pit in the abandoned hospital. I love you zombies in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery whose presences are never really explained. I love you ghouls who are both normal and Freaks: Mercurio and Knox and Romero and Vandal. I love you Nines' faint country accent. I love you Chunk <3

I love you asshole women Imalia and Damsel and Therese. I love you bitch men Gary and Isaac and Beckett. I love you Lacuna Coil playing during the credits. I love you Lecher Bitch playing in the Last Round. I love you Bloodlines Theme and the rest of Rik Schafer’s album. I love you Deb of Night. I love you utter terror of the Ocean House Hotel ghosts and Griffith Park werewolves. I love you malkavian insight and nosferatu isolation. LaCroix. I love you Rosa and her prophecies and the replayability of the game from both a clan and informed context perspective

#anyways i finished my fifth replay of the game and have emotions #vtm #vtmb #vampire the masquerade #Vampire The Masquerade Bloodlines #vtmbposting

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ayyko-rona-yoo · 7 months

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐱 𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐑!𝐟!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none. 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Remember that the Soviet Union is not only Russia. 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞. 𝐒𝐨 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.

First, let’s figure out how someone from the USSR could have ended up in the States. There were only two options: either you were stripped of your citizenship or you fled the country. Let’s take the first one - suppose your father was a writer and he was stripped of his citizenship because he was writing literature that was against the country’s ideology (I won’t go into details because in reality things were more complicated and scary). You don’t know how your father had connections there, but pretty soon your family got invited to the United States. The person who invited you was Mr. Noel. He also allowed you to stay at his house until you find a place to live.

He’ll probably see you for the first time when he goes to Chris with Knox to give him moral support, and if he’s hesitant, kick his ass.

You didn’t go to any school because you didn’t have the proper documents for enrollment yet, but every morning you walked Chris to her school.

"Where is she?" Charlie asked.

Knox looks at the crowd for a few seconds and points to Chris walking next to you. You stop at the entrance and she goes inside. You wave your hand at her and turn around to walk away. And Charlie stunned.

"Well, this is… Chris? You certainly have less chance than Denburry."

"I know… wait, who are you looking at?"

The next day he’ll try to get to know you. Like… It’s Charlie. I don’t think he’d wait long if he was up to something. The only reason he didn’t do it yesterday was because he didn’t want to hurt Knox’s feelings. He was quite sure that charm you would be as easily as possible. However, he did not expect that you would not be very talkative. And one more thing. Obviously, your English isn’t the best at the moment, and that complicates things, too. But the other problem is that his manner of speech and his behavior… scared you off a bit.

'I’m not serious at all, and I pass no skirt by' - that’s what you’d expect from a guy like that. In the society you grew up in that kind of behavior was discouraged and considered suspicious.

So the only thing you could say when a guy you didn’t know stopped you on the street with a playful grin was quick 'Sorry, I have to go'.

And now Charlie stunned again. How is that even possible? Back at Wellton, he didn't say a word when the poets asked him how it had gone. He told them so confidently that you won't be able to resist him. So how can he now admit that you ignored him?

Of course he’ll be teased about it, especially by Cameron. "Our Nuwanda can’t pick up a girl, huh?"

"Just shut up."

Again, this is Charlie. I believe he wouldn’t give up so easily. So now you meet him almost every time you walk Chris to school. And honestly, it was pretty creepy.

But then again, he didn’t do anything… outrageous, right? He wasn’t stalking you, you two were always out in public, so if you needed help… I think it’s clear what I mean.

At first, he just said hello and asked how you were doing. Then, when you didn’t answer, he said something about himself, about how his day was, complaining about Mr. Nolan. And even though you didn’t understand half of what he was saying, over time, you got used to his company. It took a long time, but Charlie was on cloud nine when you first answered him, "Not too bad… You?"

He was so proud of himself, so that night he wouldn’t shut up. Even after Cameron threw something at him for the third time in a row, so that he would stop talking and let him sleep.

Charlie finally got your name. You’ve had no contact with any of the locals other than the Noel family, so you’re not sure how anyone would react if they knew who you are and where are you from. What’s your name got to do with it? Well, it sounds unusual at least, so… easy to guess. Anyway, Charlie only knows your first name. So far.

Before you knew it, you were waiting for him to show up. Soon you even began to answer him with short simple phrases and laugh with his jokes, if you understood them.

Poems. Well. It’d be weird if he didn’t come up with a few poems about you, right? But you’re not used to the sound of English poetry. Although it’s better to say poetry in English.

I’m not sure how to describe it, but poems in Russian are very rhythmic, they hold a permanent rhyme. They sound different. So when Charlie first read you a poem, you didn’t even get what it was. Congratulations, this is the second time you’ve broken his heart.

One day you offered to walk you home. You’ve known each other for almost two months, and you’re in a good mood today. Why not spend more time with him? And, of course, Charlie could not refuse such an offer. While you were walking, you were talking about yourself more than usual, and even though you were still afraid to tell Charlie the details, you were very eager to give him a hint.

"Was it a poem again?" you said, standing at the front door.

"God, don’t say that, you’re making my heart bleed!"

"The only thing that bleeds is my passport," you opened the door and entered the house. "See you tomorrow, Nuwanda."

The next day he’d walk you home again. You said you had to hurry somewhere, but he insisted. Actually, Mr. Noel was supposed to be taking your family to the embassy today, so when you came, everyone was getting in the car.

You wanted to say goodbye to him, but he asked, "What you meant by 'the only thing that bleeds is your passport'?"

Should you tell him now? You looked him in the eyes for a few seconds, then sighed and took your passport out of your purse and handed it to him.

"I guess now you see what I meant," you muttered with a shy smile.

Its cover is red. Yellow letters, two words – 'СССР ПАСПОРТ' (In fact, red passports were introduced only in the 1970s, but it's not an archive document and I’m not here to teach a full history lesson. So let’s pretend that in 1959 it was already red, not gray).

"Are you coming with us, miss?"

"Yeah, I’m coming." You grabbed your passport out of his hand and went to Mr. Noel’s car, waving goodbye to Charlie.

Well. When you’re a guy from a wealthy American family who goes to a prestigious private school and lives a quiet life, the chance that you meet someone from the USSR… Is there even a chance?

Anyone would be shocked, maybe scared even. But Charlie… Of course he didn’t expect it and he’s surprised. But given his personality and character, I think he would rather be pleasantly surprised. Perhaps even excited.

Now it all makes sense. That's why you avoided him at first, why you spoke rarely and why you seemed to have a slight accent. Turns out he was right about the last one.

He’s definitely gonna be proud that he’s the one who got such an unusual girl like you. He’ll tell the dead poets about it as soon as he gets back to Welton. Cameron will be the only one who won’t believe him.

After that, you became more open with him. You’re still embarrassed by your poor English, which Charlie secretly likes. You told him why you live in the Noel house and about your friendship with Chris. You didn’t tell him the details of how you got here. He asked you a lot of questions, so you had to say it is very painful memories and you’re not ready to talk about it.

Charlie wouldn’t be Charlie if he didn’t ask you to teach him Russian swearing. He literally begged you to, so you had to give up. Now it's the best way to shut Richard up when he does something annoying. He also mutters the curses under his breath when Mr. Nolan gives a speech.

You grew up in the Soviet Union, where a working woman was a normal thing (it's a myth that there was full equality of men and women in the USSR; but again – it's not a history class). So when the question arose of how to renew your visa, you immediately began to think about how to get a job. And Charlie sincerely does not understand this. You can just get married, can’t you? It’s the simplest and seemingly obvious option.

He’ll ask you to marry him. Many times. Every time you start talking about how hard to find a way to stay in the States is. Maybe it’ll sound like a joke at first. But the embassy continues to reject your application, so he starts talking about it more seriously.

#charlie dalton #charlie dalton headcanons #dps #dead poets society x reader #dead poets society #charlie dalton x reader #dps x reader #dps charlie

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no-spices-just-pisces · 4 months

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Foxes Gang Au part 1

The Foxes, Ravens and Trojans were rival gangs on the Palmetto territory

The Trojans came to an begrudging peace with the other two gangs as long as blood wasn’t spilled

They were the ones that wanted to do their business without being at each other’s throats, thanks to their leader Jeremy Knox, whose ever present smile had a subtle treat to it only the trained eye could notice

The Foxes and Ravens were notorious for their rivalry, no peace would ever be settled between them

The Ravens won in numbers and resources but the Foxes won in heart and ambition

Even with so little members, they fought like they had everything to lose, they were a family, pulling each other to the top

The tension between them was always well known on the streets of Palmetto

Dan Wilds, leader of thee Foxes cared about her members like her own blood, always putting their safety first over money

Riko Moriyama, leader of the Ravens, was the exact opposite, sacrificing and torturing recruits left and right for the sake of profit and his own personal satisfaction

Their bad blood only increased as Riko’s second in comand, Kevin Day left the Raven and joined the Foxes after Riko left him broken handed on the streets after a job went wrong

Still, the Ravens took offense as if the Foxes stole their property from then, and war started

The first move was when Fox member Seth Gordon was shot in the chest in the middle of the day by a Raven

The second move was when Seth’s girlfriend, Allison stabbed the Raven in the chest 17 times

Foxes were restricted from walking Palmetto’s streets alone from then on

The Trojans made their statement of neutrality known, but there were whispers stating that they would take the Foxes’s side if things went too far

No one would have thought that the factor that would settle the war between the two gangs would come in the form of a 5 feet 3 redhead with attitude problems

Nathaniel Wesninski grew up around violence, being thought from an way too early age that his he would grow up to inherit his father’s crime empire and rule over Baltimore with a hand of steel

His mother didn’t want that future for him, so she ran away with him in the middle of the night when he was 11

They had been on the run for 8 years until their father had caught up with them and took away the only person who ever cared about him

He managed to escape his father a second time, but barely

Without his mother his life didn’t look like it was going to last much longer, his father would eventually catch up to him again

Nathaniel, now under the identity of Neil Josten, ran to Palmetto, the last place he had been with his mother before they ran away, remembering the power that place held, hoping he could find someone more powerful than his father to either protect him or kill him first

His salvation came in the face of Ichirou Moriyama, who didn’t take Neil under his protection because of his heart, but in need of a mean to tighten the leash he had on his younger brother

Riko had too much power in Palmetto, being given that territory by their father, since he could never interfere in their business

Neil, being recognized by Ichirou, was sent in the heart of the gangs’ war to survey everything happening and report back

This was against everything his mother had wanted for him, but this offered him protection against his father, so it worked

#aftg #palmetto state foxes #edgar allan ravens #usc trojans #neil josten #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #kevin day #dan wilds #allison reynolds #renee walker #matt boyd #nicky hemmick #seth gordon #jeremy knox #jean moreau #laila dermott #catalina alvarez #riko moriyama

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seize-the-dms · 2 years

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Fanon Knox and Todd would be besties and spend hours talking about their crushes bc nobody else will listen. In this essay I will

#dead poets society #dps #dps fandom #dps head canon #Knox over street #fanon Knox #Todd Anderson

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thegettingbyp2 · 1 year

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Just recently discovered your work and I’m obsessed! Definitely fulfilling my Knoxville dreams. I saw that your requests are open and I was wondering if I could request a fic about Knox and his girlfriend getting caught by the paparazzi with some PDA and everyone in the press discovering and discussing their relationship. Maybe could even lead to some smut? :)

Let Them Watch

Every other article you scrolled past on your phone was the same picture of you and Johnny lost in each other as you shared a kiss while you were out together yesterday afternoon. You’d been dating for about two months and you were both impressed at the fact that you had managed to keep it your little secret. However, now the truth was out and it was everywhere.

‘Why are people so interested in who other people are dating?’ you asked incredulously as you opened yet another article, this one about the age gap between the two of you and how Johnny was most likely taking advantage of you. ‘See! They don’t understand that I love you and you love me! They just care about how it looks!’

‘Sweetheart, it’s alright, I can handle people thinking that about me, I’ve had worse things said about me in the press. The only thing that matters is that the two of us know that we’re both in this for the right reasons.’ Johnny replied, pulling you up from your seat on the sofa to end up straddling his lap as he leaned up to press a quick kiss to your lips.

‘I guess,’ you shrugged, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers playing with the hair at the back of his head as you looked at him. ‘Is it always going to be like this?’ you asked, sighing as you pressed your body against his.

‘Most probably, sweetheart,’ he said, his fingers moving up and down your spine in a soothing pattern. You sat in a content silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company in the privacy of your home, the sound of the rain thudding on your windows causing your eyes to flutter shut.

‘I have an idea, come on,’ Johnny said suddenly, landing a light spank to your ass to encourage you to move. Once the two of you were stood up, he began to lead you to the front door.

‘What are you doing, it’s tipping it down outside!’ you protested half-heartedly, not being able to hide your amused laughter.

‘Exactly!’ he replied excitedly as he led the two of you out onto the street in the rain. He turned around to face you and cupped your cheeks in both hands before leaning down.

‘Johnny,’ you sighed, turning your head so his lips brushed your cheek. ‘Someone’s going to see and the next thing we know, we’re going to be plastered all over the internet again.’

Johnny’s hands gripped your cheeks a little tighter as he turned your head to look at him. ‘So, let them watch,’ he said simply before slamming his lips onto yours, one arm wrapping around your waist as the other moved down your body to rest on your ass, smirking as he squeezed lightly.

#johnny knoxville #johnny knoxville x reader #johnny knoxville imagine

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downtownbunnybaby · 1 year

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JACKASS HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

Jackass Group x G!N Reader!

4140k

Description: Halloween Activities With the Jackass guys. Fluff. SWF. Johnny Knoxville romance subplot (if you squint..maybe)

WARNINGS: emetophobia, swearing, alcohol consumption, romantic Johnny Knoxville subplot ?

A/N: Part 2 of the little Halloween special from yours truly. let's pretend it isn't November and this fic is super late. Okay, thank you, much love.

It was a week before Halloween, and you and Knoxville were in the van watching Pontius perform his Devil skit, patiently waiting to film your stunts.

“Any plans for this weekend?” He asks, taking his sunglasses off to get a better look at you.

“Back home, around this time, my friends and I would rent these cheesy horror movies and spend all right eating sugary snacks and trying to scare each other.” Knoxville smiles fondly at your little anecdote, allowing you to rant about your high school endeavors.

“How about you come over to my place Friday night? I'll buy some snacks, and you bring your favorite films,” Your eyes widen at his proposition, rapidly noddy, fumbling into another rant about your excitement.

“Alright, doll, save the excitement for Friday.” He chuckles, watching you blush at the pet name.

By the time Friday rolls around, you’re simply beaming. You had spent hours inside Blockbuster selecting only the highest quality cheesy horror films for you and Knox to watch. Practically sprinting to his front door, you knock, rocking on your heels and waiting for him to greet you. A few seconds pass before Knox answers and welcomes you into his home.

“Excited for tonight?” He asks, despite already knowing the answer. Taking your coat, he leads you to the living room.

“So I was thinking we should start with A Nightmare On Elm Street, then move on t—” You’re interrupted by an assortment of voices. All of your Jackass friends were present in Knox’s living room.

“Heard you and Knoxville were having a horror marathon,” It was Steveo. “Couldn't let you two have all the fun.” Winking, he takes your bag filled with VHS tapes, forcing you to sit on the couch next to him. You thank Knox for putting this together before being silenced by Chris as he inserts Scream, despite your previous mentions.

You were halfway through the fourth film, and no proper scare had occurred. The screams of Boo! from Chris and Wee-Man, not doing it for you anymore. Sensing the lack of tradition, Johnny catches your attention, motioning to the rubber snake next to his side of the couch. Bam would be your first victim of the night. He hands you a tape recorder filled with several snake sounds. The two of you had spent weeks retrieving the sounds and would randomly play them around Bam to scare him. Getting up from the couch, you ask the group if they need anything from the kitchen. The lack of responses, especially from Bam, confirms they had no idea what you and Knox had planned. You watch Bam from your position near the light switch. He looked so vulnerable. Huddled near Ryan, his hands subtly shield his eyes from the Gorey scene displayed on the TV. Johnny pulls the snake from his side. Quickly, you shut the lights off and play the recording as Knoxville tells Bam to watch out.

A high-pitched scream is heard, followed by several gasps and laughs from your friends. Turning on the lights, you were all sent into hysterics. Bam was standing about 10 feet from his original position, and the rubber snake flung across the room.

“I swear, Y/N, Knoxville, I will kill your faces so hardcore.” Crying with laughter, you and Johnny make your way over to Bam. Like a child, he pushes the both of you away, mumbling about how he wasn't scared.

The following hours are relatively calm, except for the occasional giggles from you and Knoxville. The rest of the guys try their best to ignore it, knowing the two of you were planning a bigger and better scare than before. Like a circus clown, Johnny pulls several mouse traps from his pocket.

“Get Ehren, and I’ll get Dave.” He whispers, handing you a couple of traps. Dave and Ehren sat below you, Ehren practically using your leg to cover his eyes. The two of you wait for the perfect opportunity to snap them. Counting down with your fingers, you prepare the mouse traps. 1…Johnny Depp is sound asleep on the screen. 2…Freddy Krueger's hand pops up from the bed. 3—The knifed hand pulls Depp into the bed, clasping Dave and Ehren's ears with the traps. The loud SNAP, mixed with the jumpscare of the film, causes everyone to jump and let out a yelp.

“Knock it off!” Ehren shouts, removing the trap from his stinging red ears. Giggling at the infamous line, you snap his ear again.

“Why—why would you do that?!” Dave says, confusion and pain clouding his mind.

Knoxville answers for the both of you, clutching his chest and teetering on the edge of the sofa. “Because it’s fun.” He was right. Of course, this was way more intense than what you did back home, but that’s what you liked about this new tradition. You look over at Johnny, who is already staring at you with a sly smirk. You couldn't wait to tell him about your Winter Holiday traditions.

—

“Hi! I’m Johnny Knoxville, and this is a dumb idea.” Johnny sighed, holding a semi-rotten pumpkin.

“Man, this is so gross,” Steveo says, gagging at the rotten vegetable. The two men were on the roof of the Jackass offices, waiting for their fellow castmates to walk below them. “I see someone! Drop it.” Johnny peers over the ledge, seeing you, Ryan, and Bam walking idly to the entrance.

“So you’re going as a cooler version of yourself?”

“Beats going as a rabbit,”

“Not a rabbit, a bunny,”

“I’m going to wear a bear hat,”

“Dunn, Shut u—” Your conversation is promptly interrupted by someone yelling, Happy Halloween, followed by a loud squelching sound as something lands by your feet, barely missing your bodies.

“Dude! What the hell?!” Ryan gags at the sight of semi-fuzzy pumpkin guts covering his shoes and pants. You see Steveo and Knoxville cackling as they make their way down. You turn to Bam and Ryan, and a malicious smile adorns your face as Steveo and Knoxville head your way. Grabbing a handful of rotten pumpkin guts decorating your brand-new shoes, you throw it at Johnny.

“Y/N! Stop!” You and Johnny run around the lot like cartoon characters. “These are new shoes, Knox,” Bam and Ryan mimic your actions, chasing Steveo around with the guts as he gags.

You smile wide into Kosick’s camera, “What a great start to the episode.”

“Welcome to the first annual Halloween Vomelet eating competition. Johnny stands in front of Dave, wearing a hazmat suit. Dave takes a bite out of a bat-shaped cookie and spits it on a plate, signifying the commencement of the competition.

“What exactly makes this a Halloween competition?” You ask.

“The costumes, Y/N,” Johnny replies matter-of-factly, motioning to the cast and crew dressed in terrible costumes. He playfully rolls his eyes before continuing, “Right, moving on, Dave, will you explain what you will be preparing tonight?”

“Well, I will be preparing a standard Vomelet,” The camera pans to Steveo, who is already gagging at the idea. You and Preston sat next to him, dressed as skeletons, shaking your heads.

“Why did I volunteer to do this?” You ask into the camera, hands in your face. Preston reaches over, grabs your shoulder, and says, “If you win, you’ll get a sweet trophy,” He points at Bunny, holding a “gold trophy” shaped like a chef's hat.

Dave begins his horrific meal, taking bites out of several vegetables and regurgitating them into the egg mix. Johnny, Chris, Wee-Man, and Ehren laugh at your reactions. Steveo looks like he’s in pain, despite just sitting there. Preston is giggling at your face. You’re staring dead ahead, not a single thought or emotion behind your eyes.

“Now that we have our ingredients mixed up,” Dave pauses, showing the camera the light brown mixture. “We are going to cook it in this skillet,” The smell following the sizzling causes everyone in the room to cover their noses. “See, already smells delicious,” Toothy-grin adorning his spit-covered face,

“That’s fucking disgusting,”

“Preston, come back,” Johnny tries to coax Preston to return between laughs. “Don’t think about the smell,” With Preston forfeiting, you motion Pontius to join. He grins, happily joining you and Steveo without hesitation. “See, I’m a vegetarian, so this is good,” He says, earning several laughs from the cast and crew.

Once Dave’s abomination is finished cooking, he carelessly places bits and pieces on the plates in front of you. “Bon appetite!” He exclaims, tossing the spatula in the distance to focus his attention on the three of you. You simply stare at the “meal” in front of you, regretting every decision that led you here. Dave interrupts your thoughts, “Come on, take a bite,” Johnny does the same, edging the plate towards you. You’re incapable of moving a muscle, so Johnny takes the liberty of lending you a hand. Grabbing the fork, he makes train sounds, “Open up Y/N. Here comes the train,” Eliitcing a series of laughs, including your own, he takes the opportunity and shoves the fork in your mouth. By some miracle, you managed to keep the bite down. Everyone cheers as you open your mouth to reveal you DID swallow the abomination that was the vomelet. Dave hands you one of the many Halloween-themed cookies on his side of the table as a reward.

“Steveo, Bunny, your turn,” You mumble, several cookie crumbs falling from your mouth. The two boys look at each other, nervous smiles turning into full-on grins as they link arms, feeding each other. Knoxville is the first to ask them anything. “So, how is it?”

“It’s not that bad,” Chris replies, masking his gagging with laughter. He and the camera turn to Steveo, who looks like he might collapse. “O, any tho—” Bunny is promptly interrupted by Steveo spitting the egg dish and vomiting onto the plate.

“Hey!” Dave says, hurt laced in his tone. (You couldn't tell if it was fake or genuine hurt.) “I made that for you.” Chris then does the same, causing you to jump from your chair to not get any bodily fluids on you. Everyone is in hysterics as you gag at Steveo and Chris, covered in their vomit.

“I should have gone with Preston. That’s fucking disgusting.” You grab the plate of cookies, leaving the mess behind you as you exit the room, but not before receiving your trophy.

Wee-Man hands you the gold trophy as Johnny emphasizes your victory. “The winner of tonight's competition is Y/N! Who managed to eat one bite of Dave England's vomelet,” You smile, gloating in your victory. “I’ll give you another reward at home if you take another bite.” Johnny loudly whispers, winking at the camera. You gag, rushing to the bathroom. The idea of taking another bite makes you feel nauseous, causing your stomach to rumble. You hear Chris “comfort” Knoxville after you rush out of the room.

“Rejection is hard, but there’s always next time.”

“Y/N, I have to say, you make one hell of a bat,”

“Thank you?” Johnny smiles at your confusion at his odd compliment. He was currently holding you up so you wouldn't fall on your face wearing roller skates. You had no idea why Dave chose you to do this bat skit with him. You were probably the most uncoordinated person in the group, well, second to Knoxville. Although most of it involved the two of you hanging upside down in several spots to scare pedestrians, several scenes involved you skating. Dave skates over, informing you that it’s time to film.

You and Dave screech, flagging the start of the skit, and skate down an empty sidewalk, but you're quick to stumble and fall on the cement.

“Dave! Go back. Y/N fell again,” The cast laughs as Johnny picks you up and helps you move to the first scary location.

You can’t help but giggle at your position. Dave shushes you as he hears people approaching. At the count of three, you both screech and spread your arms, showcasing your bat wings. Naturally, the recipients scream in terror, dodging imaginary attacks. The night goes as such, except for a few montage scenes of you and Dave skating while holding hands.

“Y/N, if you’re going to fall, let go of my hand,” Says Dave, eyeing you worryingly as you stumble to stay upright.

“I’m not going to fall! Now help me climb the lamppost,” Reluctantly, he helps up the shady-looking pole. You hung upside down for several minutes, waiting for someone to pass, but no one seemed to be in the vicinity. You whisper to the microphone attached to your chest, a link to you and the crew.

“Guys, I might pass out if someone doesn't come soon,”

Jeff is the first to respond, “Don’t,” He laughs as you complain about his curtness to Dave. “Unbelievable!” You begin. “I do all this shit for him, and he can’t be bothered to be worried about me. Let me tell y—” Jeff’s voice rings through your ear as he silences you, signaling someone is coming. Once again, at the count of three, you and Dave open your arms, screeching at a young girl below you. However, you miscalculated the distance between you and Dave, so when he spread his arms, he hit you right in the chest. The force of his fist caused you to lose balance and fall right off the lamppost. Luckily, your face protected the rest of your body from injuries.

“Sorry,” You weakly shout at the woman trying to escape the chaos, but Dimitry follows her, trying to get her to sign the release form.

Upon impact, Kosick shoves the camera in your face as everyone asks if you're alright. Ignoring their invasive questions, you simply hum the intro of Corona.

“I think they hit their head too hard,” Kosick says, stifling his laughter as your humming grows louder. Johnny is the first to understand why you’re humming.

“It’s the outro to the show,” He says, smiling at your odd way of communicating since you had no desire to speak after that brutal slam. “Am I right?” You stop humming, giving him and the camera a weak thumbs up.

You playfully shove the camera from your face as Johnny helps you up. “Are we good? Because I’m ready to leave,” Subtle laughter erupts as you stumble on the skates, forgetting you had them in the first place.

—

It was Halloween night, and by sheer dumb luck, your unrestrained group got invited to one of the most prestigious Halloween parties of the year. Twenty minutes into the pretentious party, Steveo decided to stir up the reserved environment. Jumping on a rather expensive table, hearing the cheering and validation from his friends, he threw himself into a wall forming a dent. Seeing security coming your way, you all decide to perform for the cameras. Spike and Tremaine knew you would be kicked out and prepared with Kosick and his camera. As the security grabbed two of you at a time, you kicked and flapped your body in hopes of being released. Oh, what a sight it was. Two grown adults in bunny suits (You and Pontius), attempting to climb much taller security. A fairy and skeleton (Dave and Ehren) trying to avoid physical altercations. Two Oompa-Loompas (Preston and Wee-Man) laughed hysterically, taunting the guests. A Bear and an Emo boy (Ryan and Bam) make their bodies limp, attempting to weigh the security down. Lastly, a wild boy and a sailor gloated at the attention they received.

“Yeah. Dude!” was the last thing the party heard before the security threw you out on the street. Kosick pans the camera towards you and Chris. Tremaine asks, “How are we feeling, bunnies?”

“Awesome!” Chris replies, showing his signature laugh. You ignore his question, scanning your now black-stained white bunny costume.

“Son of a bitch! Could he not have tossed me softer?!”

Based on the smile on all your faces, Tremaine proposes an idea.

“How about we have a little competition?” You all chime in, curious but intrigued.

“What kind of competition?”

“If it involves drinking…I’m winning.”

“No! I’m winning!”

Jeff claps his hands, gaining your attention like toddlers. “Whoever gets kicked out of the most parties by the end of the night gets to pick out Danger’s next stunt.”

“Oh, come on. Why is it always me?!’

Making your way up a street somewhere in Hollywood Hills, you all spot a particularly crowded mansion.

“Ready, boys?” You ask, not waiting for a response as you sprint into the house. You’re in and out in a matter of seconds. When you ran inside, you bumped into the security guarding the entrance, disturbing his otherwise “peaceful” night. Grabbing you by the bunny ears, he tosses you into a nearby bush, ignoring your protests about keeping your suit clean.

“Asshole! I was planning on getting my deposit back.” Standing up and picking leaves off your suit, you walk toward the group standing in the mansion driveway. Johnny is clutching Jeff’s shoulder, out of breath from laughing. “Y/N, what happened?! You were in there for 3 seconds.”

“Doesn't matter.” Looking into the camera, you say, “I’m in the lead, and I have a great stunt for Danger Ehren.”

The next party is by far the most entertaining. This time, the entire group managed to enter the home. Chris began to do his signature party boy dance to random guests and security while you and Steveo body slammed onto tables, taking an obscene amount of alcohol with you. Ryan and Bam pestered security. They asked the most random questions and even started fighting in front of them.

“So…” Ryan begins. “What did you have for lunch?” The security guard doesn't even acknowledge the dirty blonde.

“Hey, Ry! Eat this!” Bam side jumps, attempting to kick Ryan in the face, causing both of them to fall. A circle formed around them, and they up their performance for the cameras and guests. Tremaine quickly directs Kosick to record the Westchester boys. Spike pans his camera to the group, asking them about the current events.

“Well…” Johnny begins, “Dunn is finally kicking Bam’s ass, and—” He’s interrupted by Preston's heavy Missouri accent.

“Get him, Bam! Son’s of bitches, they got Y/N.” Laughing at the camera, he points at you, a heavy grin on your face. Two security come for Bam and Ryan, one already pushing Pontius out the door. Spike was already outside with Wee-Man, Dave, and Ehren, recording and providing commentary on your less-than-graceful exits.

Dave provides very National Geographic-Esque comments, “Well, as you can see, a wild bunny—not the lifeguard, is fighting for its life. Struggling to be released from the grasp of a much larger predator.” Wee-Man joins Dave, “Oh! It seems the bunny is growing tired. Ehren, will the prey survive?”

“No.” He says, giggling as you're thrown on the ground, another black skid mark adorning your white suit. Pontius is next, landing on top of you. You both groan in pain, cursing the security.

Wee-Man and Dave announce that you two have gained a point, making you in the lead. Unfortunately, that did not last for long. Steveo was on the ground by your feet, shouting, “I’m going back in!” He charges back into the home. Gasps and shouts follow as he emerges into the house. The camera nearly misses as he’s quickly thrown out again, with Bam and Ryan following shortly after.

“Yeah, dude! That’s two points in one go.” High-fiving an entertained Knoxville, he goes to Kosick and Pontius, pretending to interview him like a sports star.

You interrupt the “interview,” “Wait! That doesn't count.” Ehren backs you up, not wanting Steveo to pick a stunt for him. “Yeah! Y/N is still in the lead.” The three of you begin bickering, going into technicalities about the silly game Jeff created.

Johnny grabs your shoulders, slightly running his hands over them, trying to calm you down. The alcohol and adrenaline in your system made you way more competitive. “Alright, let's have a vote.” Johnny was a victim of your competitiveness, so a vote was the only thing he knew would keep you from launching at Steveo. Jeff asks, “Should Steveo get the extra point for being kicked out twice?” Kosick then goes around recording everyone's responses. You and Ehren were the only ones that voted no, even Spike, Jeff, and Kosick voted yes.

“Remember, I have the keys to all of your offices,” Pushing the group out of your way, you walk to the next house.

It was nearing 3:00 AM, You and Steveo tied with 8 points, Chris 7, Bam and Ryan 4, and the rest had between 1 and 3, promptly giving up after you and Steveo surpassed 4 points.

“One more house!” Chris chanted, gesturing for the group to join him. Softly chanting, the slams you had endured throughout the night finally settled in your body, a wave of pain hitting you as you hiked up the small hill. Luckily, you were behind the group, and no one noticed your slight change in demeanor. Well, except for Knoxville.

“Everything alright?” He asks softly so the rest of the group wouldn't be inclined to comment. Slurring m’ fine in response, speeding up, you attempt to catch up to Steveo, but the pain, mixed with the alcohol, clouds your cerebrum, causing you to trip over your feet. Knox quickly grabs ahold of you, preventing you from a brutal face slam.

“Alright, Y/N, I think it’s time for us to go home,”

“No!” You protest, mumbling about a stunt called The Human Bullseye. Your outburst causes the rest of the group to turn, focusing on the duo behind them. Puzzled looks adorned their faces as they took in Johnny trying to hold you back. By some ungodly given strength, you wiggled your way out of his arms and sprinted towards the house. Halting at the front gate, you shouted at an out-of-breath Steveo, loud enough for the cameras and mics to pick up, “All or nothing?!” He sticks out his hand, a signal of agreement, “All or nothing.”

Pontius is now the one to take on the animal documentary persona as you and Steveo disappear into the house, followed by Kosick, Tremaine, and Knoxville. “As we’ve just seen, the wild bunny presented the wild brown bear with a proposition,” Giggling, he breaks character for a moment. “Whoever gets kicked out first is deemed the winner of tonight's treacherous battle.”

Inside, Johnny followed you as you searched for an opportunity to cause chaos near security, not wanting to cause yourself pain for too long. The crowded room and the heat radiating from your fur suit blurred your vision. If it weren't for the stunt you had planned for Danger, you would have given up long ago. Steveo fell into the same routine of falling on tables and throwing himself into walls. Luckily, you drew the camera's attention as you stumbled over your feet and fell head-first into a group of people, knocking their drinks out of their hands. You even managed to bring several of them down with you. Muffled chuckles fill the otherwise silent room after your less-than-graceful tumble. Johnny steps over several figures to help you. However, security beats him to it, picking you up by the underarms like a toddler. Not having sufficient energy to protest, you allow him to scold you as he carries you out of the home, “Alright, kid, go home. The neighborhood is tired of you ruining their parties.”

Outside, Spike was prepared with the camera, waiting to capture the winner. The sound of Steveo cackling causes him to whip the camera from Dave and Ehren’s playful fist-fight to the front door. To everyone's surprise, Steveo was far behind you as security carefully threw you out. Ehren is the first to speak, letting out a cheer as he runs towards you, “Yeah, Y/N wins!” The other boys join Ryan and Bam lifts you, unbeknownst to your pain, accidentally dropping you on the solid cement. Muttering apologies as Johnny picks you up to go home.

“Ehren, just put the suit on!” It was Monday now, and Danger Ehren was reluctant to perform the stunt you had come up with, despite winning last weekend's Halloween challenge.

“No! This suit isn't going to protect me,” He shakes the flimsy nylon in your face, emphasizing his point. Dave is the only other member present and helps you convince Ehren to go through the stunt. It was more of him hitting Ehren until he agreed, but whatever works.

“I’m Ehren. This is the Human Bullseye.” Throwing a football to his chest, you thank him.

“Finally! Now let me throw these pomegranates at you.”

—

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