#if they can’t understand then you failed somewhere down the line | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lestappenforever · 4 months

Note

I just saw a TikTok that said “imagine Charles playing basketball, points at you and says this is for you and completely misses 20 times in a row” and now I can’t stop imagining max awkwardly standing there while this happens.

I cackled at this mental image for fifteen minutes, so I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry, anon.

---

Max Verstappen understands that people are different. He also understands that people have different definitions of fun. And it just so happens that Max Verstappen's idea of fun on a Saturday afternoon is not to be in a clammy gym that kind of smells like years and years of old sweat, with the loud, insufferable sound of sneakers squeaking against hardwood floor every few seconds while a group of not-even-a-little talented men run around, trying to get a basketball through the hoops.

It is, however, Charles Leclerc's idea of fun, apparently. And Max has long since learned that dating Charles Leclerc means that he will be spending some of his off-season days doing things he wouldn't usually subject himself to.

Such as watching his idiot boyfriend and his entourage of idiot friends trying to play basketball. Emphasis on trying.

Andrea isn't half-bad, but not being half-bad isn't very helpful when the other seven people on the field are absolutely useless. Max has long since lost track of how many times Joris has failed at his attempt to receive a pass, and Riccardo has been spending more time on the floor of the gym than on his feet. But worst of them all, is Charles.

Beautiful, wonderful Charles, who can navigate an F1 car through the smallets of corners at incredibly high speeds without issue, but who can't seem to get a basketball through a hoop to save his fucking life.

He hasn't managed to score a single point, and they've been playing for close to forty-five minutes already. It's nearing to the point of being painful to keep watching, but Max can't seem to tear his eyes away. It's like watching a car crash, and Max is captivated.

Another ten minutes pass before Joris demands a break, claiming to be on the verge of death, and the group makes their way towards the stands. Andrea holds his fist out for Max to bump once he's within reach, and Max obliges.

"How do you put up with them?" Max asks, watching as Andrea chugs half a bottle of water in one go.

"I ask myself the same question almost daily," Andrea responds with a sigh, which earns him an offended huff from Joris. Andrea rolls his eyes and pointedly doesn't acknowledge it further.

Max huffs a laugh and gets to his feet, making his way down onto the court and turning right, walking in the direction of the bathrooms.

Upon finishing his business and returning to the court, Charles is the only person who has returned to the court, and he's standing at the freethrow line in front the hoop closest to the bathrooms.

"Hey, Max!" the Monégasque shouts as Max passes him, and when Max looks over at him, the other man is grinning widely at him.

"Yeah?" Max calls back.

"This is for you," Charles shouts, pointing at Max and giving him one of his signature attempts at a wink — his worst attempt yet, Max finds himself fondly thinking — before throwing the ball in the direction of the hoop.

It goes flying over the entire thing, and Charles scrambles to retrieve it once it returns to the floor.

"Kidding," Charles tries and fails to sound nonchalant as he returns to the freethrow line. "This is for you!"

This time, Charles throws the ball so hard it slams against the board behind the hoop and immediately returns to the Monégasque's hands.

Max stares, unimpressed. Somewhere behind him, Andrea stifles a laugh — Joris flat-out cackles. From where he's standing, Max can see Charles' cheeks pinking slightly, and as the Monégasque glances at him, Max recognizes that look in his eyes.

Determination. Not unlike the determination he has seen in Charles' eyes so many times before a race.

"Ah, fuck," the Dutchman groans, as Charles makes a third attempt to make the shot. He fails, yet again, and immediately runs to retrieve the ball.

And so it begins: Charles trying and failing to get the ball into the hoop, from several angles and distances, and Max awkwardly standing at the sidelines, watching him the entire time.

He misses a grand total of twenty times before Andrea loses his patience and intercepts the ball before Charles can retrieve it for a twenty-first attempt, and announces that the game will resume, putting Max out of his misery.

Charles argues with Andrea in Italian and Max leaves them to it, returning to his previous seat to keep watching what is arguably the least impressive game of basketball he has ever seen.

Another half hour passes before the group decides to call it a day, and start packing up their things to go home. Charles, however, remains on the court even as his friends start departing one by one, barely even acknowledging them with a dismissive wave of his hand as they bid him farewell. Shortly after, Max and Charles are alone in the gym.

With a sigh, Max gets to his feet and walks onto the court, where Charles has once again tried and failed to get the ball into the hoop from the freethrow line.

"Wanna go home?" Max asks him once he comes to a halt a couple of steps from the Monégasque.

"Nope," Charles answers immediately, without looking at Max. His laser focus is trained on the hoop as he shoots — and misses.

"Are we going to stay here until you make that shot?"

"Yep."

Max rubs a hand over his face. "Do I have a say in the matter?"

"Nope."

"Lovely," the Dutchman concedes, and walks back over to the stands to take a seat.

It takes Charles thirty-three new attempts to finally get the ball in the hoop, bringing his total attempts up to fifty-three. Max watches every single one.

But it's all worth it in the end when the ball finally goes in, and Charles erupts into a wild celebration — falling to his knees and pumping his fists in the air as if he has just won his first World Championship. And Max realizes he would gladly sit there until the morning if he had to when he sees the look of pure, unadulterated joy on the Monégasque's face as he beams at Max.

Not that he'd ever tell Charles that, though. Because the man is insane enough to actually make him do it, too, if he knew. So Max applauds Charles' achievement and returns the grin Charles sends him with a matching one of his own, before he gets to his feet.

"Well done, babe," the Dutchman says. "Now can we go home?"

And Charles leaps to his feet and bounds over to Max like an excited puppy, throwing himself into the other man's arms and wrapping his own around the back of Max's neck.

"Now we can go home," Charles confirms, pressing a firm kiss to Max's lips that the Dutchman can't help but smile into.

It's a smile that fades quickly, though, when Charles pulls back with wide, excited eyes.

"I'm just going to try to make a shot from the half court line first," the Monégasque says, as he turns to look for the ball.

Before he can start moving towards it, however, Max grabs the back of his shirt and pulls him back firmly. "Absolutely fucking not," he huffs, using his hold on Charles' shirt to turn the other man around and shove him towards his things.

"But —,"

"Home."

Charles pouts the whole way there. Max pretends not to notice, because now it's Charles' turn to take part in Max's idea of fun: which doesn't involve leaving the apartment. Or the bedroom.

Being in a relationship means making compromises, after all. And, well, Charles kind of likes compromises.

#Asks #Anon asks #Lestappen asks #Lestappen drabble #My writing #I'm not taking prompts btw #I just couldn't not write this #Lestappen

341 notes · View notes

vernons-girl · 2 months

Text

i will always be there | kwon soonyoung (hoshi)

implicit smut?, angst,wc:1.4k

Everything was now clear in your head.

You got up from the couch and headed to your bedroom where Soonyoung was working.

“Soonyoung ?” you called with a steady voice

“Yes baby ?” he turned around to face you with his signature smile, your heart slowly breaking knowing what was about to happen.

“Could you join me in the living room when you’ll be done? I have to talk to you.” you asked looking at his every features, memorizing every expression lines on his smiley face.

“Yeah sure, give me a sec!” he replied as you started walking back to the couch in your living room.

After 5 minutes he finally showed up and sat down next to you.

A long silence took place.

You were looking down at your feet when suddenly, he spoke :

“So, what do you wanted to talk about?” he attempted to ease the obvious tension that was surrounding the both of you. You remained silent.

“Baby, you can tell me everything, okay?” he said gently, looking for your eyes hidden by a few strands of hair.

“I… I think we should break up.” you finally spoke.

“That’s - Wait.. What?”, his voice started to shake, he was so taken aback by your statement, he thought everything was going well between you two, he thought you were happy with him, he was just so confused and he couldn’t help but let himself be overwhelmed by anxiety and worry.

“Why are you saying that baby?” he asked, hoping he didn’t understand well.

“Listen.. Soonyoung. When I met you.. I said I wasn’t doing relationship but you made me change my mind, you made me fell in love with you. You made me the happiest being on earth and I’m thankful for that but I need more than this.”

“I don’t get it. What are-” you cuted him off, tears starting to fill your eyes.

“Let me finish please.” he simply nodded silently. “The more the time was passing by, the more I knew I was going to need more. I used to be free as the wind, but now, now that I have you with me, I need some comfort. I need my little home. I need to be able to come back home from a tiring day to my wonderful boyfriend laying on the couch watching a crappy TV show wearing his warmest hoodie and sweats with the messiest hair possible” you stated letting out a small chuckle “but I don’t want to stay alone until my boyfriend decide to show up randomly at my door at 3 in the morning because he just left the studio.”

“I’m so sorry Y/N” was all Soonyoung managed to say.

“No no! Don’t apologize. Please Soonyoung. Don’t.” you pleaded the man that was sitting next to you, now looking down.

You got on your knees in front of him, taking his hands in yours, trying to find his eyes hidden behind the long hair on his forehead. You continued :

“It is not your fault Soonyoung. It will never be your fault. I am the one who is sorry… Please.. Look at me.” You begged when he finally look at you with a faded smile and watery eyes, in a blink, all your tears started to flow out.

“I - I love you Soonyoung. I love you so much I can’t believe how it is even possible. I am sorry things are ending like this but - I will wait for you. When you will have time, when you will be ready to settle down, we will have that little home okay? I will always be there, I promise.”

Without thinking, you moved your hands from his hands to his face and kissed him.

This kiss was passionate, desperate, burning but mostly sad, it left a bitter taste on your lips.

Just like the first kiss you shared with him.

And here you were, in bed with him caressing every inch of your body with his hands, breathing heavily against your neck as he tries to express how much he loves you.

Your body responded in the most beautiful way possible, your lips brushing against his own, a hand tangled in his hair, tugging at the roots every now and then, not failing to earn a grunt from the man above you, while the other one was resting somewhere along the expanse of his bare back, blindly tracing the lines of his tattoo that you loved to admire so much every night.

Light moans and sights were escaping each other’s lips in between desperate and passionate kisses, the spark you always felt within you never disappeared, the burning passion was heating your skin, the atmosphere of the room now heavier than ever.

He pulled away and trailed kisses up from your jaw to your neck and collarbones, creating love bites almost of a plum color on the bare skin to print the adoration and ever so deep love he has for you.

He went back to kiss you, his tongue skillfully slipping past your lips, slowing his movements, caressing your waist before letting one of his hand rest on your hips.

After a while, you found yourself laying your head on his bare chest, breathing heavily, growing tired from your passionate love session.

Memories were flowing through your mind as your started to feel your vision become blurry when suddenly, Soonyoung started to move, as if he wanted to get up, without even thinking, you stopped him :

“Please.. Don’t leave.. Stay.. Just a little more.. Please.” you begged, holding on your sobs.

And much to your surprise, he complied.

A few minutes passed by and you wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes, you could feel one of his hand patting your hair gently as his eyes were lingering on you but, when you started to raise your head, he pulled you back into his chest, pressing you tightly against him.

You wondered why he did that until you heard his breath becoming shaky. Then, you understood.

He was crying, he pulled you into his chest so you couldn’t see him cry, you had never heard him cry before and it made everything so much worse than it already was.

You knew it was hurting him as much as it was hurting you, so you didn’t do anything, you just let him hold you, wrapping in his arms, surrounding by the warmth of his body.

Slowly you drifted to sleep, hugging your - now - ex boyfriend tightly, tears filling your eyes.

You woke up a few hours later and something felt different.

And you knew it was it.

He left, he wasn’t here anymore.

You looked around and saw that he took all the stuffs he was usually letting in your bedroom for when he was sleeping over.

Even if you were the one who ended things, you couldn’t believe it was over.

You weakly got up, holding the covers over your body not wanting to bother finding clothes and walk until you reach the large window in your living room. It was your favorite place to watch the stars with him.

You sat on the floor, looking at the dark sky, there wasn’t any star tonight.

It was all dark, like your home, the only light was coming from down the street.

You took your phone that was on the coffee table near you and look at the time and saw it was 3 AM.

You looked at the door, knowing it was usually the time he was showing up at your place but, remembering all the events of this night, you covered your face with your hands and cried all the tears you had left.

You then took your phone, reach for his contact and simply wrote :

‘I will always be there, I promise.’

After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, you gave a last look at you screen only to realize he had seen your message but did not reply, so you reluctantly blocked his number before crawling onto your couch and closed your eyes, hoping to find sleep again and forget about everything that happened tonight.

While you were sleeping, you received a message from Soonyoung that could’ve changed it all but which you will never see.

‘I will always love you, I promise. ‘

#seventeen #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen reactions #seventeen x reader #hoshi #hoshi imagines #hoshi scenarios #hoshi x reader #seventeen smut #hoshi smut

167 notes · View notes

imamotherfuckingstar-lord · 7 months

Text

imagine waiting for bucky

angst/fluff

The sound of sirens echoed in your eyes and the phantom touch of his hand on yours burned your soul. It was dramatic, but that’s how you felt. Every time he looked in your direction, it hurt. How could this have happened? Months of bliss and bed sharing, his fingers on your skin – his mouth on your neck. The way his arm would sling around your shoulders, walking side by side until you got too silly and wouldn’t stop bumping into him. He’d call for a truce, pull you in for a kiss; every time, it never failed and now he’s standing in front of you after disappearing for months.

“How have you been?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke? I’m not in a funny kind of mood, I’m working.”

Bucky held his tongue because he had no right to object to the tone of your voice or the disdain in your eyes; although he hoped it was all feigned, for show. There were agents everywhere and you were certain you were needed somewhere, so you made it known and began to walk away but then he did the one thing that could stop your heart. He called out your name. Turning back to him, you gave an exhausted what and he walked to you. “Can we talk, please.”

“No.” You were blunt, and he flinched, but he wouldn’t budge. Shoulders collapsing from the tension, you sighed. “I can’t James…”

James.

Ouch.

“I owe you an explanation, let me explain.”

He owed you more than an explanation for his disappearance; if time was something that could be bargained or allotted, he’d owed you a bountiful amount. If love could be calculated and weighed, he’d owe a ton. If you weren’t such a foolish person, you would have never allowed him to approach you but here you were, a foolish fool.

“When I look at you, it hurts.” You confessed; eyes fixated on Bucky. “You’ve been gone for seven months without a goddamn word. Even Sam wouldn’t say where you were; how do you think that made me feel? You’re no coward, Bucky, if you didn’t love me…then you should have told me.”

The man’s demeanor shifted; his fist clinched and his eyes hardened. The change made you angry because what did he have to be angry about? He was the one that left you, he wasn’t the one that put their heart on the line just to be forgotten.

“I’ve always loved you. It’s always been you…but I -I was afraid.” What was there to be afraid of, you questioned, and his eyes softened. “After everything I’ve done, I don’t deserve to have you.”

“Grow up,” you snapped, stepping to him. His eyes matched yours and you reached up, giving him a hefty slap. Through your teeth, you told him to stop being a goddamn martyr. “That wasn’t you, you had no control but I’m not going to keep repeating myself. I can’t be responsible for making you feel worthy, you must forgive yourself - not that there is anything to forgive. The people who know you understand what really happened. You want to punish yourself; I can’t stop you but don’t drag me down with you. I can’t take it.”

The tension between your bodies simmered into a low whisper as Bucky closed his eyes; the sirens echoing in his ears and your phantom touch on his face. When he opened his eyes, you were walking away but you hesitated before turning to him. “Are you coming with me or not?”

No words could be used to describe the relief he felt down to his bones when your hand reached out to him – you were right, he needed to stop punishing himself because it was clear it was hurting those around him…especially you. And he had done enough of that. He had hurt you enough that he’d spend the rest of his lifetime making up for it even if it meant being happy. Being in love and living the life that was once stolen from him. A smile pulled from your lips when his palm touched yours, fingers gripped yours and you knew all you were was a big talker because even if it meant a life time, you’d always wait for him.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #marvel imagine #marvel

248 notes · View notes

wildemaven · 7 months

Text

bloom : two | joel miller

-> pairing: joel miller x florist f!reader

-> wc: 4024

-> content warning: lots if fluff and mutual pining, ellie being ellie (terrifying at times), talks of divorce and failed relationships, mention of food, reader is a single mom (adoption) and has zero physical descriptions

-> a/n: excited to share this! everyone is meeting and things are happening. big thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for being a gem and listening to me stress over this and reading through this and correcting all my mistakes— she’s truly the best!

one / series masterlist / playlist

Sarah keeps asking questions.

She always has, ever since the day she could form coherent sentences. Always wanting to know more, seeking out more information to feel informed and ready for her next move.

So it comes as no surprise that she’s asked him the same question about five different times in the span of 24 hours.

“So, where are we going again?” Sarah’s question floats through the cab in between munching on the tart green grapes she brought along to snack on.

“That flower shop. That one you always comment on when we drive by— Wilder Floral. I got your flowers from them.” Joel glances over to where Sarah is sitting in the passenger seat.

“Hmm. Oh yes, the place you haven’t been able to stop raving about for the last week. Remind me why we are getting flowers?” Popping another grape into her mouth.

“For Nana. Why you askin’ so many questions? I already told ya all of this.”

“Just tryin’ to get a better understanding as to why we’re goin’ to buy Nana flowers. Her birthday isn’t for another 6 months, and there’s no occasion that would require flowers that I know of.”

“Why you goin’ so hard in your ole man? Can’t I buy my mom flowers, just because.”

“Never said you couldn’t. Just askin’ that’s all.” Her exposed hands in front of her show no ill intent was intended.

“Alright, ‘nough interrogating me. We’re here— hey, let’s keep all this talk about me not shuttin’ up about this place here in the truck, ‘kay?” Joel says as he pulls his truck up alongside the curb in front of the floral shop.

“Sure, Dad.” She says before hopping out onto the sidewalk and closing the door behind her.

The bell rings as he pushes the door open, allowing Sarah to walk in, following right behind her. The shop hasn’t changed much in a week's time. There’s new arrangements in the case, some similar to ones he looked over last week, some different. There’s buckets of flowers of all shapes and shades lining the ground near the workbench— trimmings scattered across the top must mean they’re being prepped for use in new arrangements.

Joel continues to scan the space, in hopes to land on a familiar face who has overwhelmed his every thought for the better part of the last week.

“Look what the cat dragged back in.” A voice pulls his attention to the side of the entrance, a spot he hadn’t looked over yet.

“Ellie. It’s good to see you too.” Joel gruffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, wanting to feel less exposed to her cynicism.

“Couldn’t stay away long, could ya?” Ellie snarks, leaning into the broom handle she has in her grip.

“Um, guess not. This is Sarah, my daughter I was tellin’ ya bout last week.” Joel gestures to where Sarah is standing next to him.

“Hey, aren’t you the girl that plays guitar at school?” Sarah asks, thinking she knew she had recognized Ellie from somewhere, then placed her as the girl who sits on the brick wall at lunch with her acoustic guitar, singing an array of classic ballads.

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t think anyone ever really paid attention though.” Ellie seems to have shrunk down a little, a twinge of self consciousness washing over her.

“I thought you looked familiar! Dad, this is the girl I was telling you about the other week, the girl who was singing The Sun Always Shines on T.V.” Sarah reminds Joel. “My dad has been singing that song to me since I was a baby.”

“No shit?” Ellie looks at Joel briefly, studying him, as if trying to imagine how he’d look and sound.

“Yeah, you’re really good. I always stop and listen when you play.”

Joel watches how Ellie absorbs the information, the slight grin that she tries to hide as she looks at the pile of dust and flower clippings she had been sweeping before they had walked in.

“Thanks.” Ellie huffs out, the compliment unexpected since no one at school ever seems to notice her playing, she doesn’t mind, but she’s grateful there’s at least one person enjoying when she does.

“Small world. Anyway, we were in the neighborhood and wanted to get some flowers and thought we’d stop in to get some for her Nana.” Joel breaks the silence, pulling Sarah in front of him, his hands on her shoulders to keep a barrier between him and Ellie’s sharp words. Sarah gives her a meek smile and wave.

“Makes sense, seeing as how we’re a flower shop.” A burst of air snaps from the gum Ellie is gnawing at, her sarcasm fully intact and back in action, her brows shooting up at the obvious reasoning for Joel and Sarah’s visit for flowers.

“Is your mom around by chance?” He asks, peeking in the direction of the doorway that leads to the back room.

His hold on Sarah’s shoulders tightens slightly when she tries to wiggle herself away from his grip, hoping she could free herself from the awkwardness that’s started to simmer.

“Well, seeing as how she owns the place, what do you think old man?” And she’s back, Ellie’s brutal response has Joel speechless. Sarah ducks her head to hide her snickering at her dad being called an ‘old man.’

“Ellie!” Your voice booms through the shop, catching the tailend of what Ellie had said to Joel.

Joel turns to see you frozen in place. You look mortified by Ellie’s bluntness, your grip tight around the buckle of florals you have in your arms.

“What?” Ellie rolls her eyes as she looks over to you.

“Knock it off! Don’t be rude— especially to the customers.” You say as you make your way to your workbench, your calculated steps indicating the contents of the bucket are heavier than they look.

“But it’s not just any customer, it’s Mister I’m sliding into third base Joel.” Ellie snarks, looking at Joel with the biggest shit-eating grin he’s ever seen. “Besides, I’m just kidding! Geez— no need to get your undies twisted.”

Sarah pretends to take in the store, avoiding the back and forth taking place around her, biting back the laughter that’s been building in her chest.

Joel takes this as his cue to leave Sarah with Ellie, deciding she’s far less likely to be hit with a barrage of sarcastic remarks based on how well Ellie took her compliment about her singing and guitar playing.

“Here let me help you with that.” Joel says as he jogs over towards you, his arms reaching out for the bucket ready to take on the load himself.

“Oh! You don’t have to do that—“ You start to tell him, but he’s already grabbing the bucket from you, placing it alongside the other ones you already carried out prior to their arrival. “Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it.” The way you’re looking at him has his heart rate ticking up a few beats, feeling fidgety as he tightens his hands into a fist then releases, trying to release the nervous energy that is flowing through him. “How’s the finger doin’? No other injuries I hope.”

“No other injuries and the finger healed up nicely. Thanks to a wonderful stranger coming to my rescue.” You hold up the finger in question. No bandage. No sign of where the rose thorn had embedded itself into your skin. “It was probably the kiss— you know, that made it better and all.”

Joel reaches out, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist, needing to inspect the injury site for himself. He places your hand in his, his thumb tracking up your exposed palm and the length of your finger, smoothing over the area he had the privilege to be up close and personal with a week ago. He likes the way your skin feels under his touch, silk like and warm, even with how much you work with them. He has to rein in his fiery thoughts, wanting to know how every inch of you would feel.

“Always does the trick.” His voice teeters on a nice balance of gentle and rough.

Joel looks up from where he’s still holding you. Your eyes already fixed on him, beaming and bright, giving your smile a run for its money. He’s not quite sure what convinces him to do it for a second time, but finds he doesn’t really care either when he places a kiss on the pulse point of your wrist. He lets his lips linger for a moment, catching the brief gasp you let out and the way he can feel your pulse quicken as the milliseconds tick on.

“I-I didn’t think I’d see you so soon. A very welcomed surprise to my busy week.” Your voice soothes something within him, seeping into his heart and filling the cracks he struggled to keep from breaking entirely.

“Sarah and I were in the area and thought we’d stop in again— as promised. Need to get some flowers for Nana— my mom, her grandma.”

“Well, I appreciate you stopping in. What’s the occasion?” You ask as Joel gently releases your hand, you pull your clippers from your well worn canvas apron, placing them next to your other tools.

“Uhh, no real reason. Just ‘cause.” But what he really wants to say is ‘Just ‘cause I needed to see you again, and this seemed like the best way to do it.’

He’s not sure what it is, but he felt it the last time he was here too. This blooming effervescent attraction to you. Infatuated by your mere presence in such a short time. He usually runs in the opposite direction when feelings and commitment start to unveil themselves, but something about you has him running straight for the things that scare him the most— wanting to know if you feel it too.

When Joel thinks back on his dating history, post divorce, he can’t remember a time where he actively went out of his way to see someone. It could have been because there hasn’t really been anyone serious since he and Sarah’s mom divorced. There've been a lot of blind dates set up by friends and his brother Tommy, none of them making it to a second date or really establishing themselves as relationships. He’s met a few women that he thought had potential for a future with, one he had even considered proposing to after a year of dating, but it ended when she decided marriage and a kid wasn’t something she saw in her life at that moment. Joel put dating on the back burner, focused on getting his construction company off the ground and Sarah being his main priority as far as he was concerned.

Then Joel walked into your shop last week, and everything he thought he would never have or deserve was gone. And now he finds himself searching for any reason to walk through that front door of your little flower shop, just so he can see the way your face lights up.

“That’s so sweet of you! I’m sure she’ll love Just Cause flowers— everyone always does. I have these new arrangements I just put together if you want to give her one of these??” Pointing to the several arrangements in glass vases that you had been working on all morning. “These protea are my favorite to work with. Their petals are kind of velvety and they’re perfect long after the rest of the arrangement has expired, she can dry them and have them forever. They are kind of cool flowers too, they’re adapted to survive wildfires because their stem contains buds that will produce new growth after fires. And they’re one of the oldest living flowers on the planet, so that makes them double cool.”

Joel studies you as you continue to share random floral facts with him, adjusting and readjusting the arrangement in front of you. Each flower placed with intention, pausing from time to time to take a slight step back, your head tilting to the side as you look over everything as a whole, then back to arranging and rearranging.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to ramble like that.” You say as you look to where Joel is leaning one hip into your workbench, as he hangs on every word you're saying.

“No, don't be sorry. I like it.”

There’s an ease that flows nicely between you. Joel wants to pick your brain, find out what makes you happy, the things that make you sad— all the things in between. He wants to talk to you for hours on end, or not talk at all and just listen— to anything and everything you have to say.

“Like what?”

“Listenin’ to you talk. I like it— a lot actually. And the little facts too. Shows how much you love what you do to learn special details like that. You could be tellin’ me about how mushrooms could start a zombie apocalypse, and I’d find it interesting— terrifying, but interesting.” Joel hopes you can hear that he genuinely means it.

“Well, I won’t tell you how that possibility is more likely to happen than you think based on the research that’s been done over the years.” You both laugh at how ridiculous sounding a mushroom zombie apocalypse would be.

“They seem to be getting along nicely.” Your chin pointing over to where Ellie and Sarah are giggling to themselves at the front part of the shop.

“Sarah’s a pretty easy goin’ kid. Gets along with pretty much everyone she meets, even Ellie it seems.” Joel looks over his shoulder at the girls.

You both share bits about each of them. Their differences, similarities and all the fun little quirks they’ve both had since they were babies.

Joel asks about Ellie’s singing, and you tell him how she taught herself by checking out books at the library to help her master the chords and beginner songs. Joel tells you how he used to play growing up and that he doesn’t play as much as he would like to now, but sometimes Sarah can twist his arm enough to dust off his guitar and strum out a few songs at the end of barbecues or random summer evenings.

He tells you about Sarah’s latest soccer game, how she’s an all-star player and usually helps carry the team to victory throughout the season. You tell him how Ellie had been on the track team briefly, she was a sprinter, but was kicked off the team for punching a runner from another school because she had elbowed Ellie during the 400m race, causing her to trip and lose.

An hour passed before you both don’t realize you’ve been caught up talking about your kids.

“She’s like head over heels in love with your dad. She literally jumps when the front door dings, hoping it’s him again. It’s gross.” Ellie tells Sarah, looking over to where you and Joel are, completely wrapped up in a moment together.

“Hmm. We stopped in to get my Nana flowers.“ Sarah repeats what Joel had told Ellie earlier.

“Your dad mentioned that when you came in.”

“Yeah, well she’s been on vacation for a month and won’t be back for another month. So I don’t think we are here just getting my Nana flowers.” Sarah takes a glance over now to see you and Joel laughing. “I think it’s safe to say my dad is just as head over heels for your mom, too.”

“Well, we’ll get outta your hair. Promised Sarah we’d stop on our way home at The Picnic, get some lunch and ice cream.” Hating that he can’t stay, knowing that he can’t hog all your time— but maybe one day.

“Oh I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve heard so many great things about all their food trucks. Ellie and I will have to check it out sometime. She’s on a Chef Boyardee kick right now, as one would be when they’re a preteen. Would be nice to mix it up for her though.”

If it wasn’t too forward with it only being his second time meeting you, Joel would ask if you and Ellie wanted to join them. He would even chance the gutsiness and ask you out, spend the evening getting to know you better until both your stomachs and hearts were full. Ellie’s words hit him, “she needs to be wined and dined before you even think about kissing her.”

“Nothin’ wrong with some canned ravioli— lived on that shit in college. But yeah, you both would enjoy it. Definitely take her.” He decides gutsiness isn’t winning today, or it’s his fear of being on the receiving end of Ellie’s wrath that has him wanting to do it the right way, just not today.

“I hope Nana loves these. And feels special getting just ‘cause flowers.” You hand Joel the ceramic container filled with different shades of pinks and greens in varying heights, shapes and textures.

“I’m sure she’ll love ‘em no doubt. How much do I owe you?” He gives the flowers a look over, not in an analyzing manner, but admiring the way you manage to take these flowers and effortlessly pair them all together and create something special.

“You’re in luck! I’m running a special today!.”

“A special?” Joel is frozen in confusion.

“Yes! Free to customers that go by the name of Joel.” You say sweetly, he catches the way you bite at your bottom lip after you say his name.

“‘N what are you gonna do when another Joel walks in wantin’ some of your pretty flowers?”

“Well, there’s limits of course. And it’s only valid for one Joel.” You wink at him, prompting his stomach to flip and knot up. He needs to ask you out!

“No, I can’t let you do that again. Let me pay this time, please.” He insists, setting the arrangement down on the counter he pulls his wallet from his back pocket, flipping through the large bills stashed inside. “How much?”

“Joel— my shop, my rules. There’s no arguing— just take the flowers.”

“Hi! I’m Sarah. Thank you so much for the flowers, my dad and I haven’t been able to stop talking about them. I have been bugging my dad to bring me here, it’s so pretty.” Sarah tells you as she stands next to Joel, arms crossed over the counter.

“You are so welcome. So glad you’re enjoying them.” Even with this brief interaction, you decided Sarah is one of the sweetest teenagers you’ve ever met— Ellie wouldn’t even take offense if you told her such, she would most likely shrug and agree.

“Hey, Dad. Are you almost ready to go? I’m starting to get hungry.” Sarah asks, turning to look up at him.

“Right— sorry, babygirl. We got caught up talkin’ and now I’m tryin’ to convince her to let me pay, but she’s insistin’ we just take the flowers.”

“Sounds like you shouldn’t argue with her. Just say thank you and take the flowers.” Sarah grabs the arrangement and snags Joel’s keys that are dangling from the front pocket of his jeans then starts to head for the door. “I’ll meet you in the truck dad. It was nice meeting you!”

You wave goodbye to her and watch as she stops on her way out to tell Ellie bye, telling her she’ll see her around at school, the bell dings and the door slowly closes as she walks out. She settles herself into Joel’s truck, its engine roaring to life soon after, signaling Joel to say his farewells and head finally head out.

“I guess I’ll see you around then.” Joel slowly walks backwards, prolonging his departure from you.

“I’ll see you around Joel. Hopefully sooner than later.” You wave to him then you’re straight back into work mode, moving buckets of flowers to be cleaned and prepped for your next round of arrangements.

Joel’s hand settles on the door, but releases it and turns back to where Ellie is finishing up her sweeping through the shop, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before he interrupts her.

“If you take a picture it’ll last longer. Although, might be a little weird with you bein’ an old man and all.” Ellie is quick on her feet. Joel hopes that’s the last of her intimidation tactics.

“Hey, umm— don’t say anything to your mom ‘bout this, but sometime this week why don’t you take her out to eat somewhere. Give her a break from cookin’ and what not.” He holds a double folded $100 bill between his middle and pointer finger, encouraging Ellie to take it from him.

“This feels like some sort of thing my mom should've warned me about. We’re not a charity case, we don’t need your money.” She continues sweeping, grabbing leaves and a few days worth of dust bunnies that have collected under display tables.

“It’s not— I don’t think you’re a charity case. I just— I wanted to— umm.” Joel releases a deep sigh. He’s flustered, stumbling over his words trying to figure out what he is wanting to say.

“You wanted to ask my mom out, but you’re too much of a chickenshit. So you’re conning me into taking her out instead. Thinking that maybe I’ll soften up to you a bit.”

“Yeah, pretty much all of that.” Joel huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at how easily she was able to read him.

“I’ll tell ya what— I’ll take her somewhere, but I keep half.” Ellie bargains with him, making sure she still has the upper hand.

“Half?”

“Kids gotta make a livin’ somehow.”

Joel thinks it over, actually contemplates the pros and cons of being worked over by Ellie. Each positive gained him an in with Ellie, not really a guarantee, but he’s hopeful that maybe she would consider downgrading her verbal assaults a notch or two. The only negative Joel can come up with is… Ellie keeps the money and he has to come at this from a different angle, one he’s not really sure about yet.

“Okay, okay. You keep half, but take her somewhere nice-nice.” He holds the bill again out to her, she snatches it quickly and shoves it in her back pocket.

“Yeah, yeah old man. Under one condition. Next time you come in here acting like you’re buying flowers just so you can see her— you ask her out yourself. None of this middle man BS.”

“You gotta deal, kid.” He holds his hand out to her, and they shake on it. A truce cementing the fact that he agrees to not being a chickenshit— something he’s not sure he’s ever been called before. “Maybe go easy on the old man part a bit.”

“See ya around ol— Joel.”

“See ya later, Ellie.”

The driver door slams shut as Joel settles into the seat. The cold air already flowing through the cab, Sarah singing along to The Clash with the flowers secure in her lap. Joel fastens his seatbelt and shifts the truck into drive, his thumb drumming along to the beat as he drives away.

“So, you got a crush on the cute flower lady?” Sarah asks, her infectious smile extending from ear to ear.

“What? I— what makes you think that?” He looks over to her, his brows slightly raised at her suggesting he likes you— he does, he just didn’t realize it would be two teenagers picking up on it. .

“For starters, Nana’s been on vacation for a month, and she won’t be back for a while. But also the way you look at her, it’s so obvious.” She plays with the petals of the flowers, waiting for Joel’s response.

“Anyone ever told ya you’re a smart kid?” He shakes his head and laughs.

“Yeah, you do all the time Dad. So, are you gonna ask her out?”

“I’m afraid if I don’t, Ellie’s gonna have a hit-man out for me.” He’s joking, but also not. “Yeah, I’m gonna ask her out.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #no outbreak!joel miller #TLOU au #bloom series #pedro pascal #wildemaven writes #tlou #pedrostories

265 notes · View notes

sissylittlefeather · 3 days

Note

Hi Sissy! If it’s not too late, could you do a Fic of Elvis based on the song “Help Me Make It Through the Night?” Like Elvis and you know you’re not good for each other, but you can’t stay away. Can develop into smut but if you’d prefer not, that’s okay too! If it’s too late, I completely understand! Thank you! 😊

@peaceloveelvis Hi! Definitely not too late! First of all, this is one of my most favorite songs. I actually have a series planned to go with this song later, so stay tuned. But also, I haven't written anything without smut in a LONG TIME. This one came out this way and I might revisit it to expand on the smut later if there's interest, but I kind of like it without it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this ficlet!

Help Me Make It Through the Night

Warnings: none really, cussing, mentions of sex

------------------------------------------------------

Elvis has been a part of your life since you met him during his Timex special with Frank Sinatra. The only thing you did more than make love relentlessly was fight endlessly. The nights were hot, but the mornings never failed to conclude with both of you yelling and at least one of you crying. There was no end to the way you loved each other or the way you managed to drive each other insane. There was always something to fight about and you left each other every time swearing you'd never be together again. But somehow, you'd end up in the same place and before you knew it you were naked in an elevator or in his backseat or in a bathroom or a hotel bed in some sketchy by-the-hour kind of place. Even after he got married, you didn't stop. Your pattern of fucking and fighting stayed the same.

In 1969, though, you had a particularly spirited tryst that ended with both of you saying things you regretted almost instantly. But you were both too stubborn to admit it, so instead you threw a shoe at him and screamed at him to get out and he called you a name and swore he'd never end up in your bed again. This time, the pain you caused cut so deep that you both insisted you'd never give in again. It was over, for real this time. The hurt was too much to make the good times worth it.

So, you did what any self-respecting woman would do. You married someone else.

When he heard about it, he broke an end table and all the things sitting on it in a fit of rage and jealousy and something else he was afraid to admit.

On your wedding night, you cried yourself to sleep with your new husband snoring quietly next to you in the bed.

Then, in 1971, you find yourself walking down the street and come upon a loud and frantic crowd. Your curiosity gets the better of you and you look to see what all the commotion is about. The crowd parts like ill-meaning clouds and he looks up at just the wrong moment.

His blue eyes pierce you straight through to your soul, even from across the street. Something inside you jumps and your hand goes to your throat. Memories of every time you've ever been together slam into you like a freight train and you're somewhere between ecstasy and wanting to die. By the look on his face, you can tell he's experiencing something similar. Everything inside you is screaming at you to go to him, but you feel the cold little ring on your finger and know that you can't. You turn and walk away as quickly as you can. He fights to get away from the crowd around him, but by the time he does, you're gone.

******

You're pacing the floor of your living room when the phone rings. Even several hours later, you haven't recovered from your encounter. You pick the phone up aggressively, annoyed to be distracted by the call.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Presley would like you to meet him tonight at the Presidential Motel at 11pm." Your blood runs cold.

"Why?" The line clicks with no answer. He's left the ball in your court and you hate it. You won't meet him. You just won't. He's impossible.

But at 10:45pm you're in your car. You've spent the last several hours trying to remind yourself of all the reasons you hate him. You finally decide you're going to see him just to tell him that you don't care what he says; you were serious last time. This is not a thing anymore and it never will be again.

At 11:06pm, you sit in the parking lot of the motel, a battle raging inside you.

"This is stupid." You mutter, finally getting out of the car. At the desk, you ask which room Mr. John Burrows is staying in. The clerk tells you and you stomp towards his room getting more and more angry as you walk. The nerve of him to think he can just summon you like this.

You pound on the door with every ounce of rage your body can contain flowing through you. The door opens slowly and your heart skips. Why does he have to look so good?

"You came."

"What the fuck could you possibly want to say to me?! The last time you saw me you called me a whore and said you'd rather swallow a knife than see me again. So, whatever you have to-"

"I miss you."

"You... what?" He speaks again slowly and deliberately.

"I miss you." It feels like your stomach has fallen to your kneecaps. "I'm lonely, honey."

"Call your wife."

"Will ya just... no. I want you."

"Have you forgotten-"

"No, I haven't. And I'm sorry." He's never apologized to you before. You stand in stunned silence just outside the door.

"You're-"

"Sorry. Yes. Now, will you come in please?" You stand there completely lost. Finally, he grabs your arm and drags you into the room, shutting the door behind you.

"What the hell, Elvis?!" He pulls you close to him and presses his lips to yours. For a second, you melt into him. Then, you remember why you were mad and pull away angrily.

"No, I'm not-" He pulls you in again, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you more deeply this time. You fight to get away, but he holds you tightly. Eventually you're able to escape his grasp and you push him backwards. He goes to grab you again and you slap him across the face. Your hands go to your mouth in shock and he looks at you stunned.

"Oh god, I'm-"

"I guess I deserved that." He walks to the bed and sits down. "You actually hate me, don't you?"

You stand there for a few seconds before sitting down beside him on the bed.

"No. I don't. But we said this was done."

"I know. I'm just... I'm alone, honey. And I miss you so much it hurts worse than being with you." You look at him, but he won't meet your eyes. It comes to you that he must be pretty desperate to put himself in this position.

"You're alone?"

"You know how it gets for me. There's people everywhere, but I just... I miss you."

"Why me?" He rolls his eyes and looks at you finally.

"You gonna make me say it?"

"Yes. If you want me to stay here, then-"

"I love you. I've been in love with you since I met you. You're the only one I want when I feel like this and it's been so long-" You reach out and put your hand on his knee and he looks down at it, setting his on top of yours, gently wrapping his fingers around yours.

You're used to these vulnerable moments from him. They're what has brought you together over and over throughout the years. So when he breaks down and sobs, you pull him into your arms and hold him without thinking. Somehow you end up lying in the bed with him cuddled tightly against you, head on your chest. You stroke his hair and hum quietly. This is a familiar position for the two of you and you've missed it more than you care to admit.

Eventually, his breathing evens out and you realize he's fallen asleep. You kick your shoes off and snuggle in to spend the night. As angry as you were, you can't deny him what he needs because the truth is you love him too and you always have. You kiss his forehead and hold him tightly. You've missed this too.

******

In the morning, you make love and it's sweet and sensual and exactly what you've both been needing. And this time you don't fight. Somewhere in the year you were apart, you grew. The love that you have is more important than anything that might separate you.

And as you lay naked together, the world opens up for you. He talks about leaving his wife and you decide your husband will be better off without you.

Will it happen? Will you finally find a way to be together in a way that works for you both? You don't know.

But you made it through this night together. Something tells you that you can make it through anything now.

******

The end?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

#elvis presley #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis #elvis presley fic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley x y/n #elvis fluff #elvis fic #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fluff #elvis presley x you

64 notes · View notes

cheesecakethots · 7 months

Note

I saw you wanted more chrollo thots and I’m hyper fixated on him rn so I’ll give you a few and if you wanted to write one or a few I’d rly appreciate it bc your writing is AMAZING

Chrollo with a darling who:

-loves romantic books/films

-loves to bake

- tried and fails to give him the silent treatment bc he bugs them so much

- is really sarcastic

Chrollo situations:

-buys them lots of clothes and makes them model them

-makes them a ‘classic candlelit dinner’

-Tried to replicate the men in the romance films darling watches

-They play 21 questions

Sorry if this was a lot but I rly love your writing and even if you don’t do any of these just know that I love your blog ♥️

RGHDUDHDH THANK YOUUU!!! <3 <3 <3

with a darling who bakes i have this idea of like. you hate him because he’s so PERFECT at everything. it’s fucking infuriating. oh yeah and he kidnapped you. that sucks too.

but you swear every time you sit down and do something, whether it be a puzzle or even just understanding the ending of a book he’s brought you, he’ll be right there just to go “well, you see…”

he’s a mansplainer lets be real.

but ask him to get you some ingredients so you can bake, and suddenly when you start on it he’s following you around like a lost puppy. he finds enjoyment in asking a million and one questions on every little thing you do, so it takes away from your own enjoyment at the fact that you know how to do something that he doesn’t.

also he most definitely tries to replicate the men in romance films you watch. might even get a little jealous of them at times. you had to refrain from bursting out laughing or cringing when he tried copying some lines from howl in howl’s moving castle, after you’d watched it together.

but ok. it’s cringe. but. i can imagine him saying stuff like that to irk you, or just to be a bit of a little shit.

you’d managed to escape the hotel you were both currently staying at. he’d left you alone for a couple hours, probably off to kill someone or steal something, most likely both. you’d found yourself smashing off the door handle with a chair leg, and before you knew it you were running down the hallways and out of the main lobby, to the dismay of the workers.

you didn’t really have a plan, god you didn’t know where to go or who to call, but you figured that your friends, family and the nearest police station would be the first places he would check.

you now find yourself in a little alley, back against the wall and mind racing. you got out, but now what? is there truly anywhere where he won’t find you? your panic quickly settles. you’ll find somewhere. you’ll never stop until you do.

after calming yourself down enough, you straighten up, turning towards the end of the alley and back into the street.

“that was fast.”

you freeze. footsteps from behind you draw near until he’s right next to you.

“you didn’t get very far, though. i can’t help but say i’m a little disappointed, [name].”

“go away,” you mutter, your knees shaking.

you hear an amused huff to the side of you. a hand reaches out, grabbing onto your chin and turning your face in his direction. you squeeze your eyes shut. you can feel his minty breath against your face.

“look at me.”

you really don’t want to, but the danger creeping into his tone has your eyelids slowly opening.

he smiles at you, and it causes nausea to form in your stomach.

“that’s my girl.”

from the twinkle in his otherwise dead grey eyes, you know that you’re in for a very long night.

#very nice thots thank you!!#tw yandere #tw.yandere #yandere #yanderecore #yandere chrollo #yandere hxh #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere hxh x reader #yandere chrollo lucilfer x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #tw kidnap mention #tw kidnapping

150 notes · View notes

straykids-97 · 1 year

Text

Chokehold

Synopsis: Chan can’t sleep, so he wakes you up...

Warnings: soft!dom Chan, slight choking, dirty talking, pet names, “babygirl, sweetness, etc), sensory play, (chan blindfolds reader)

‘Oh, and though we act out our holy duty to be constantly awake.’

Word Count: 1.06k

Chan usually got home late, these days, he got home later than you could stay awake. Sometimes you tried to stay awake, but most of the time you failed. Much like tonight. You fall asleep watching a tv program in the living room of your apartment. The sound of the show alerted Chan that you were not in your bedroom.

He quietly kicks his shoes off and goes to your sleeping form. A soft smile graces his features as he sees you curled into a wad on your side, curled around one of the throw pillows on your couch. He notices that you fell asleep in his shirt, and a pair of panties. He poked your buttcheek and shook his head, a grin plastering his face.

Chan shuffles down the hallway to place his bag inside your room and grab a blanket to put over you. He makes it back and drapes the cover over your body and settles beside you, not tired enough to go to sleep yet. Chan lifts your head and places it in his lap, idling running his fingers through your hair for a while as his eyes focused on the screen.

He doesn’t realize that he accidentally wakes you up by pulling the small knots out of your hair. You mumble something sleepily, causing him to look down at you suddenly, “Awh, did I wake you?” you sit up, blinking up at him. “When did you get in?” You ask, causing him to sheepishly smile. “A little while ago. Ran behind at the studio.” He admits. You grumble something along the lines of, “Working too hard.” and cuddle into his side, huffing slightly. Chan chuckles and wraps his arm around you, “Stop being so cranky.” he plants a kiss on your temple, making you grumble again. “I mean it.” He warns, “I’ll have to fix that attitude.” You give him a sideways look, “I just woke up.”

“In a mood,” he narrows his eyes at you. You meet his gaze, in your sleepy state, you didn’t see the lust that stirred behind them. So you didn’t realize the amount of trouble you were about to cause as you rolled your eyes. You shift to look at the tv but were surprised enough to gasp when he grabbed your chin, pulling you to look back at him. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” You blink at him, waking up more because he looked serious. “Wha-” you tried to protest but somewhere between you opening your mouth and before you finished your sentence, you wound up on your back, gasping for air; shocked. Chan pressed his thigh against your core, making you shudder.

“I’ve had enough of those kids today,” his voice was dangerous; low, taunting, warning you to push him further. He secretly loved when you danced around his buttons. “I don’t need you going off and doing the same.” It took you a minute to realize what you had done, and you immediately began to apologize, “I’m sorry,” You murmur, but it was too late. Heat was flooding your veins and it was like Chan could feel your body heating up. He tsked at you, running a hand through your hair before gripping a wad of it at the base of your neck, yanking your head backward. “Sorry isn’t going to cut it, unfortunately, sweetness.” he purred. Chan pressed his lips to your jaw, making you shudder at the contact. “But,” He pulled away long enough to pull his cutoff shirt over his head and toss it to the side, “you’re going to feel sorry.”

He pulled your panties off that you had fallen asleep in, tossing them somewhere in the vicinity where his shirt landed. You whimper as he runs his hand under your shirt, groping you as he pulls the fabric over your eyes. He leans into your face, giving you kisses, trailing to your ear where he whispered, “If you move your hands, you’re in trouble. Understand?”

“Yes.” you gasp as he pulled away. You felt his hands all over your body, making you squirm, “Stop moving, Y/n.” He growled, pinning your hips to the couch beneath you. “Chan,” You plead, but he ignores you. You feel his fingers run up your folds, causing your back to arch, “Yes, baby girl?” He continues to tease you, covering his fingers with your slick. You mewl as he presses his digits into your flesh, feeling his lips suck on your thigh as he dug his fingers up; finding your g-spot. You gasp, bucking your hips toward his hand. “Fuck! Chan!” You cry out, making fists above your head. He hummed with approval, biting your skin for a while until suddenly, he left you high and dry. “No, no, no.” You begin to plead but stopped when he held your hip in place. You heard him chuckle to himself, rubbing his weeping head against your entrance. He was just as needy as you were. Most nights chan would go on and on with foreplay until you came, but tonight, he just didn’t have the patience.

He thrust his hips against yours, causing a sweet-sounding slap! to echo in the air of your quiet apartment. Your mouth hangs open as he thrusts wildly inside of you, your air escaping your lungs with each movement of his hips. “Oh god,” he groans, pausing for a moment. You hear him take a deep breath before going faster.

You feel the shirt pull over your eyes and you're faced with Chan, who latched his lips to yours. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing slightly as his hips rolled into yours. “Come.” He demanded, causing you to shatter at his words. It didn’t take much when it came to Chan; he knew your body inside and out. If he wanted to, he could make you cum by just using his words. He groans as he feels you tighten around him; his hips stuttered and he stopped. “Christ-!” He groans, holding your hips so hard that you knew bruises were going to be there tomorrow.

He takes a deep breath and pulls out of you, slumping between you and the couch. “What was that for?” You ask after a moment. He grins, pulling you into his side before nipping at your ear. “Cuz I wouldn’t have been able to sleep otherwise.”

©️straykids-97

#bang chan hard thoughts #bang chan smut #bang chan hard hours #bang christopher chan #skz drabbles #skz smut #stray kids hard thoughts #stray kids smut

267 notes · View notes

atinylittlepain · 4 months

Text

Part Two | The Father

gator tillman x f!oc

series masterlist | series playlist

I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth. - Anne Carson, An Oresteia

wordcount | 5.4K

content warnings | 18+ this is a work of fiction exploring dark themes related to domestic abuse, corrupt government, physical/religious/psychological trauma, murder, canon-typical violence | dark smut, violent smut, verbal degradation, brief mention of sex work, depictions of dissociation-like behavior | gator is gross and toxic and what goes on in this fic is a depiction of a toxic, unhealthy dynamic | THESE ARE BAD PEOPLE DOING WRETCHED THINGS

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

Her family never went to church. Her mother has pictures somewhere of a requisite baptism, but nothing more. And she can’t imagine receiving a particularly warm welcome anyways, not with Roy Tillman’s flock. Since she’s been staying in this town, Sundays are normally the only day of the week she can move around with little resistance, everyone else at church, or after church doing the brunch and the small talk and the eyes starting to melt the longer the day drags on and the wives and husbands and children, faces drooping, waiting to bend and break once they get home.

But there’s a different kind of worship occurring this afternoon. And while she’d like to continue her silent sulk, her surrender to failing, staying holed up in that condo until her boss pulls the plug on her, that snarl inside of her isn’t ready to give up. This Sunday, she’s joining the congregants to watch Roy Tillman preach.

It isn’t much of a debate when there’s only one man on stage, but she seems to be the only person minding that. Something close to hysteria, he certainly knows how to work a crowd. To get men up on their feet, nodding and grunting, burst capillaries in their jowls shaking with their devotion, and the women clutching their children close and nodding their own quiet assent, not that theirs matters, not that theirs counts. But still, but still. When he says stand, they stand, and when he says kneel, they get down and tilt up their chins to look at their deliverance, in blue jeans and a pressed flannel shirt no less.

It’s all the things that men like Roy Tillman tend to say. Something about the constitution, and a country under attack. Something about guns that isn’t about guns, but really, it is. Something about freedom that sounds more like oppression. And really, she’s not sure why he’s putting on such a show. It’s not like there’s any competition. But looking around to the other faces shivering in the stands of the highschool football field, she can understand why he might enjoy seeing their implicit prostration for himself, a little kick in his boots, little puff, pride, in his chest.

And his family, of course, front row, all in a perfect line, new wife and two daughters and she can almost see the pinch of fear in the wife’s face that it’s two daughters sitting next to her. Gator on the end of the row, there and not there at the same time, she thinks. She hasn’t seen him since that night. Some part of her, young part, small part, thinks he looks a little worn thin around the edges, a little darker, more drawn in. But she waves that off as her own projection, blinking focus away from the happy family and back onto the stage where their beloved patriarch is wrapping up.

She knows that the real reason she came to see this was more gross curiosity than anything else, though she’ll continue to pretend to be taking note of those closest to Roy, not that it’s anyone or anything new, nothing she didn’t already know.

Soon, she thinks, watching the crowd move and disperse around her, she will leave this place exactly as she found it. These people will continue to be the way they are. And the king will continue to rule. And she will go back to DC and forget all about the thin thread of hate and vitriol that strings this town together, held in the precarious hands of a righteous man. Less agent and more anthropologist at this point, she watches the families buzzing and swarming with a vacant interest, small hands being led around by larger hands. And someone, in turn, is watching her.

She feels her face pinch and pull when she catches his eyes, now standing with his father in a posture that can only be called a smalling, shoulders curled, his eyes darting and daring up to hers from their deference to the ground. She’d expect nothing less, watching the prince at the feet of the king. For her part, she doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away, a tired resignation to see what might happen, to dig her thumb into a festering wound, though Roy doesn’t abide by his son’s divided attention for long.

It’s quick, casual violence in the arc of a backhand. It hardly even makes him flinch, just turns his face to the side for a beat, a breath, and then he’s no longer looking at her, only looking at his father and she thinks she can see what words he’s offering to his son. What’re you looking at? Huh? What’s so interesting? And then the king’s eyes settle on her, still sitting in the bleachers, and he curls his lips in a grin, tip of his hat, grin, before turning his attention back to Gator. You don’t look at her, look at me, look at me when I’m speaking to you. You don’t look at her. Do you understand? She continues to stare though, and now it’s Roy who’s sliding quick glances her way, something indiscernible in the pull of his brows as he continues to speak to his son.

Maybe a week ago she would’ve pulled her gaze away, gotten up and left so as to not draw any more attention to herself. But something has calcified inside her and broken into pieces. Something failing, something losing, something tired. She doesn’t care any more about the attention, the promise of getting out of here in a few short weeks dropping a filmy haze over everything. There, but not really there, she watches as Roy dismisses his son and starts walking her way. A few of the stragglers greet him when he steps up onto the bleachers, and he’s all smiles, all straight, white teeth and pleasantries, waiting to drop his lips in a curl once the good folks, nice folks leave. Just him and her on the bleachers now, and she’s starting to shiver in her coat, chin tilted up in an indifferent acknowledgement of the looming man.

“Agent Harris.”

“Roy.”

“Are we on a first name basis now? I didn’t know.”

“It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?” Her voice doesn’t sound like her own. It hasn’t, not for a few days now. A little dull, a little drone. She speaks, and she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. Just sound, just murmur.

“How’d you like the show?” He does that man thing, hooks his thumbs into his belt and heaves his mass forward with his question. She fights a roll of her eyes, settling for a placid smile that aches in her jaw instead. His grin falters.

“All those people certainly seemed to enjoy it.”

“Well now, that’s not what I asked you, is it? I asked if you enjoyed it.”

“I’d say I got what I came for.”

“I’m glad you did.” His mouth barely moves around the words, set in a thin line. And she makes a mistake. Even in her thick haze, she knows it’s wrong, the quick glance of her eyes over Roy’s shoulder to catch his son’s stare, made small with the distance, his jaw working around itself as he watches their conversation.

Of course, Roy notices it, turn of his head over his shoulder, and Gator looks away a breath too slowly. Like a game, whose eyes on whom, and who gets caught. And they both do, she thinks, with the slow, steeled set of Roy’s shoulders when he turns back around to look at her, sliding his thumbs back and forth, back and forth along the edge of his belt, trying to square up a new truth. They’re both caught. She wonders if he can see it on her, sense it, a thin film of grit, grime slipping and sliming up her skin. She wonders if filth recognizes filth.

“Heard you’ll be leaving town soon.” It takes a breath to remember he’s speaking to her, snapped back into the reality of Roy Tillman lording over her, a dare of some sort in his statement, jump of his eyebrows that makes her grimace.

“I suppose I am.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you aren’t.”

“No, I’m not. You have a nice day now.” Tip of his hat and the whites of his teeth and he’s gone, and when he moves out of the way she sees that Gator is gone too. Probably, definitely for the better.

There’s a voicemail from her boss on her phone that she listens to as she trudges through the gravel lot to her car. He’s been calling a lot more lately, a few last hail Marys to see if she’s managed to dig up anything worth sniffing at before he’s making an entirely different call in two weeks. No, nothing, she’ll call him back tomorrow morning when the haze isn’t so thick.

Swift sickening, he’s waiting at her car, and it’s too familiar, and there’s too much hope in his eyes, rounded and real, and she wonders briefly if screaming would get him to scurry off. No, not here, not with families still getting into their cars around them. She approaches him with a numb resignation.

“Mel.”

“You don’t call me that.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” Fierce and sharp and don’t, her words snap with don’t. A little too loud, a few husbands and wives and children turning their heads at the sound of don’t. He huffs, palm to the back of his neck, that smalling, that downing thing. And that dull curiosity kicks up inside of her, just to see what might come next. She waits, silent, her hand on the handle of her car door.

“Can we go somewhere else?”

“What? You can’t talk to me right here?” That snap is settling back in, a fine flicker of frustration that he’s needling like he is. It feels better, at least, than the haze. A little pulse, a little flame of anger.

“Please?”

“I don’t think Roy would appreciate the sight of you talking to me.”

“This ain’t about him.” Nervous, she realizes, his one hand shaking at his side while he takes a quick pull off his vape, still not quite looking her in the eye. And she could leave right now. Could stay holed up in that bleak condo for another two weeks and never see Gator Tillman and his broken face again. But there’s that aching wound and she wants it to ache a little more.

“Fine, get in the car.”

One thing she has come to like about North Dakota are the vast stretches of highways between towns. In between places, places where no one is paying too much attention to anything other than getting through it. They drive for twenty minutes in pure silence, save for the jilting tap of his fingers on his knee, minded enough to not smoke in her car. And when it seems like enough distance has been put between them and anything or anyone else, she pulls over onto the shoulder of the highway, faced with the withering remains of crops, dying out and crumbling into death in the oncoming cold.

“Well?” She lobs the word at him, more cough than question with the way her throat is starting to close and constrict. And she shouldn’t be surprised, but still, but still. A broken yelp skittering up her throat when he lurches toward her. No, she shouldn’t be surprised that this is all he can think to do, a desperate dare to close the space and try to press his lips to hers. But that makes it sound so nice, doesn’t it? And this, this isn’t nice. This is something bordering on violence, his hand curling so hard around her arm that it makes her gasp with the sting of it. And he tries for her mouth but she dips and jerks away so suddenly that the back of her skull rings and thrums against the window, a hot, wet smear against her chin all that he succeeds in. No, not surprising that he thought that would work, a child’s logic to the whole thing, just like his father taught him. But he is forgetting her own fang.

Snap, snarl, she lashes out in a quick heat of motion, satisfaction when the sharp of her nails make contact with his cheek, enough of a recoil that she can strike again, heel of her hand to the hilt of his throat, shoving him back with a choke. And it all melts down from there, both of them grabbing at clothes, at skin, teeth bared, white flash and breathing curses at the other. It feels like something, and that’s better than the alternative, better than failing, than losing, so she bears down harder and lets the heat rise.

When she kisses him, she bites down hard enough that a cry threatens up his throat, metallic bleed in her mouth that she chases after. And he’s jerking away while also pulling her toward him until the console is digging into the soft of her hip, slumped toward him, open mouths, open breaths, open violence. Her stomach churns, toxic taste in her mouth, tinged and tainted with him and him and him. Him and his wretched hands in her hair and under her jacket and coaxing and coaxing. Him and the shattered sounds he’s gasping out everytime she pulls away to find some other swath of skin to lay her teeth into, something desperate and caught in his chest. And if she thinks too hard about the fact of him she’ll crumble. Easier to proceed, to dig down deeper into the wound.

“Is this what you wanted?” And this voice is hers, no matter how much she wishes it wasn’t, coming from somewhere deep and darkening inside her. She holds him by the hair at the nape of his neck, tilts his face back so she can look him in the eye, his mouth slack and panting, dark want in his eyes. Yes, he says, and the word breaks in his mouth, a shattered, small confession of want. This is what he wanted, a little more pain, the pinch of pleasure. She drags her hand down to his pants and he’s hard and he’s making more of those broken sounds as she digs the heel of her palm in, livewire spine shooting straight up with a jolt and Jesus Christ, short and shouted and amen.

None of it makes sense. Somewhere in the fray and fizzle he’s managed to dig his hand down into the neck of her shirt and under her bra, grasping hard at the swell of her breast while she fumbles through his zipper, a little frantic, the both of them trying to make this real. Real enough when she wraps her fingers around him, a little damp because it’s that much of an ache, a want for him, his head tipping back with a sigh when she squeezes, soft and warm and he’s pretty like this. A slow realization that slips in around the edges of her foggy mind, watching the crumple of pleasure in his face as her wrist starts to flicker, his cheeks starting to mottle pink and red and she lays her open mouth over that heat, that pulse under his skin.

“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” His head jerks in a nod, eyes scrunched shut as an uh-huh mm-hmm rattles up from his throat. And that thing that she likes, that buoys and blooms behind her ribs into something rotten, rotting, fizzing and snapping, a small please that he repeats twice, please, please. He spills over her hand with a punched-out groan, and for a moment, the haze lifts. She blinks hard in the gray wash of sun spilling in through the car windows and a shiver settles in. Something is splintering, the choice to stop now, or to let this rot a little more.

Filth begets filth, she’s back in the snap and snarl of it just as quickly, some kind of deciding that yes, she is doing this, digging into this. Her hand is smeared sticky, starting to cool, and she watches from somewhere over her shoulder, a blank and morbid what if of a wondering as she swipes two of her fingers through the thickening drip of him and holds it up to his mouth. There’s a resistance that fades in his eyes when she runs the pads of her fingers over his bottom lip, opening up, letting her in until she’s hooking her fingers behind his teeth and giving an experimental tug to his jaw. He breathes hard through his nose, lips closing and tongue curling around her fingers. He likes it, and her stomach churns with the hum he mouths around her knuckles.

Unblinking, his eyes are swallowing darkness, steady and settled on her. And she is looking at him. She is looking at him.

…

She takes him back to the condo, out of place in the clean, cold, white. Leads him into the bathroom and tells him to take a shower before stepping back into the bedroom and shutting the door behind her, slumping when she hears the sound of water running. He does as he’s told. And a headache is starting to press throbbing fingers into her skull, fraying logic, reason, turning it into misshapen meaninglessness. She takes off her shoes and she can’t feel her feet. She unbuttons her blouse and she can’t feel her hands, can’t feel the curl of her own spine as she unclasps her bra either. Can’t feel anything, how nice. How nice, this numbness, it almost feels like floating when she lays back on the bed that is but isn’t hers, bare and eyes tilted up and back to look at the place where the wall meets the ceiling.

What is this? This is nothing. How nice, that this can be nothing. A meaningless experiment, what if, and then gone, and then gone, and never again. But for now, she will rot with him, with the failing prince, failing just like her. She has decided on this.

Some of his cum has dried over her knuckles, peeling off in flakes that she studies, making a fist and then unmaking a fist, tilting it this way and that in the dim light of the bedroom.

“Oh wow.” The water has shut off, and the door has opened. And it’s such a strange thing to say at the sight of a naked woman. Young thing, absent-minded thing, starving eyes and the flex of his knuckles where his hand is holding a towel around his waist. She sits up on her elbows, wills tissue and ligament into a posture of want, knees bent and falling open and arch in her back and this body isn’t hers, but he’s looking at it, so it will have to do.

He looks different. Hair out of the usual slicked and shelled back, but dark and skewed around his face, longer than she would’ve thought. And there’s a tattoo on the swell of muscle over his left shoulder that she is choosing not to notice, ridiculous, though it looks more scar than ink, raised skin that she can see even from here. There’s a softness to him that surprises her, a fullness, a pinkness, heat blooming red up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Come here.” And he does, lets the towel drop and dark thatch of curls creeping up his pelvis and her hand rests there when he kneels between her legs, petting at the coarseness and the softness of his skin. He’s uncertain, that usual feather and flair of confidence dissolved. He’s a boy, biting his lip and unsure where to put his hands as his eyes drag over the body that is but isn’t hers.

“Come here.” Again, and again, he does, sinks his hands down into the mattress and curls over her and that hovering heat and weight is something of reassurance, something to hold onto. But she stiffens and stills when she runs her hand around his side and up his spine because not like the rest of him, not soft but strange, snarled and puckered and she thinks she knows what it is, what it might look like, but before she can think much further on it his hand is around her throat and he’s angry, fierce, fearsome. Her hand falls away from his back and his fingers curl into a closer crush and she gasps. He tries to look frightening but mostly he looks frightened, something nervous flashing behind his eyes when he tells her to never do that again. Don’t, do not. Sipping air, she brings both her hands to close around his neck, her thumbs digging up into the soft space beneath his jaw. He whimpers, wheezes a little, the blunt sharp of his fingernails digging into her throat. And they hold, they hold, both of them losing until they relent, release and pant. Hands slacken and ribs expand and her head spins, pushing him off and back and down and settling over him, making herself into a trembling god in the drape of her thighs and the fold of her hips.

His hands wander, and they could be anyone’s hands when she closes her eyes. A stranger, an animal, a suit back in DC who won’t look her in the eye but will squeeze right past you, sweetheart whenever he pleases and squeezes, and hands, and hands, and different, and different, because no one looks her in the eye the way that he is now. A little unnerving, a little too real so she closes her eyes instead and takes him inside her, a bruise inside her, an ache, their hips fitting together with a whine of pain.

She moves and he curses, damp hair bleeding against the sheets when he presses his skull back, a dark confession in the slack of his jaw. And she makes it hurt, digs her nails down into his chest and makes herself hiccup with the gritted pass of her hips against his.

He asks for her eyes, for her to look, look, look and when she refuses, his thumb and forefinger pinch at her jaw, hard, little shake of her skull, of her bones in his hands and she stills with him so deep it’s like a disease. Snit, swipe and spat and spit, her nails scratch at his face with the pass of her palm, hard smack don’t, do not, and he looks at her like this is something holy. And she sneers, curls her spine like a cage over him and you want me to look? You want my eyes? Now you have them. Unblinking and sweat and the stick of skin and his fingers are going to leave pain where he’s gripping at her flesh and she wants it, she wants it. Two bodies moving like one wretched beast, wretched sound of want resounding in the swim of it, and when she comes it’s a sharp knife in her stomach, quick cry, and he isn’t far behind, open mouth against open mouth.

And everything starts to melt in the after. Slump, sag, sigh, she feels used up when she slides off of him, feeling the tack and salt dripping between her legs. Awful, he’s smiling, little laugh of wonder and running his hands back through his hair because that was good for him, good, good, so good for him, half moon of his smile lit up white in her periphery, the line of his nose and he’s looking up at the ceiling, little puffs of breath in his chest. Awful, it was good for her too, good settling and sickening in the hollow drip of her gut. Awful, she will do that again.

She tells him to go home and he says no, simple as that, and she doesn’t ask again. She is very tired, after all, and he is very warm, very solid, very real. There’s a brief tensing, steeling and shivering up still when he tries to tug her into his chest. She kicks at his shins and he grumbles, but he keeps tugging, hands on whatever skin he can grasp. A wax doll starting to melt, the throb of his heart between her shoulder blades is enough to make her settle.

It’s only the afternoon at the latest, but they call it night, curtains drawn and lights turned off and sleep comes on like death, dreamless and sudden. She hasn’t been sleeping, so when she wakes up a few hours later with his arm still draped over her, palm splayed on her sternum and his fingers threatening nothing against the stitching of her throat, it feels like mercy. He doesn’t wake, doesn’t even stir when she peels herself out from under him. His face is crumpled to the side, on his stomach with his cheek turned toward her on a pillow, peaceful and young and unmoving.

“I’d like to kill your father.” Whispered, more breath than anything else, though she leans in close when she says it so her nose nearly brushes his. He doesn’t flinch, nothing.

Night has seeped in amidst the bleed of hours. She walks into the kitchen, still bare, still smeared, dips her head into the sink and drinks a few gulps of water from the tap, back of hand to mouth to catch what drips. And because she’ll be leaving soon, there isn’t much in the fridge, but her stomach aches, so she makes do with what there is. A couple of olives, a handful of shredded cheese, acrid salt in the back of her throat and threatening to gurgle back up. She swallows, stares blankly out on the half-finished development eating up the land, house bones and tarps wavering in the night. Her reflection stares back in the window and it is and it isn’t her.

When she does return to bed, stomach swollen and sweating with salt and sour, he only stirs enough to pull her back into him, skin squirming against skin and she lets him. The mutt prince has found something he likes, and he is going to hold onto it, breathing his damp heat all over it. She thinks idly to herself somewhere between sleep and not that she will break each of his fingers if she has to. Vacant violence that floats away with another wave of sleep.

…

It isn’t night but it isn’t morning yet either, thin fingers of pale blue light threatening through the curtains. She’s woken up by something hot and wet running up the side of her hip and it’s him, hard and rutting his want all over her skin. He isn’t even awake, whimpering and grasping at her so tightly that she feels deflated, feels like she can’t breathe because she doesn’t even need to, her ribs crumpling and collapsing in under the overwhelm of him, sugar paper body and he’s breaking it with his wretched hands.

As easy as a few machinations of their bodies, inside of her again, throbbing pulse of him again. He’s awake now, whispering her name, her full name, every time his hips hike up against her ass, pointless prayer that sounds stupid coming from his mouth. He makes her come with the frantic need of a boy, everywhere hands and hot breath and he won’t stop saying her name so she arches and contorts her spine in such a way that she can reach behind her and hold her palm over his mouth, fingers hooking around the round of his cheek, everything clammy and too close. He laughs, murmurs something wet against the lines of her hand that sounds a little like you sure are flexible and even then, even then, she lets him continue to fuck her.

She shouldn’t. Not once, let alone twice. But he comes inside of her again and it feels like nothing, a little warmth, a little spread, a little raw meat starting to gristle and glisten as his arms finally slacken and she rolls over onto her back. Heartbeat in her hips and the handprints he left all over her, she watches light start to spread over the ceiling and wonders if today will be the day her boss calls her and stops asking for evidence and starts talking about plane tickets.

He whistles, low sound, short sound, dog sound, and her eyes roll over and onto him where he’s laying beside her on his back. Hair soft and in his eyes and he’s smiling at her because to him, this is nothing but good. Heat rises in the front of her skull, up around her eyes, sharp inhale to stop the sudden flood.

“Is Gator really your name?”

“It’s what everyone calls me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Isaac.”

“That’s your real name?”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“Who named you Isaac?”

“Nobody.” And she knows nobody means mom, means mom that got out, that isn’t even a memory for him. She knows who his mother is, but judging by the blank way he answers her question, she doesn’t think he knows. It’s her job to know. To have threads of files of all the lives that have ever intersected with Roy Tillman’s. She knows Gator’s, or Isaac’s, mother’s name, knows she was never married to Roy. She never could track down a birth certificate for a Gator Tillman, the son that Roy was not supposed to have, and the true comedy that he’s the only son Roy does have. All she could find, a police report from a woman who had to leave her son behind with one Roy Tillman. The bastard, the mutt, the illegitimate prince.

“Who started calling you Gator?”

“My dad.”

“Do you like your dad?”

“I love him.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He doesn’t like that, scoffs, shake of his head, curling his body to sit up and she sees his back. His back in the pale light, a mural of gnarled scar tissue, pink and puckered cross-hatching. She isn’t surprised, but she still takes in a sharp breath at the sight and she’s sorry for it, reminding him of the fact of his body that he had forgotten for even a moment. Caught, he glances at her over his shoulder and he sighs because there’s nothing to be said. Moves with a caution she hasn’t seen from him before, slow and small in getting up from the bed, puts on his undershirt and briefs from the day before.

Sudden and surprising, she finds herself gripped by a cold terror, her heart ramming up against her ribs, spine slicked with ice. She can’t move, watching him kneel on the bed and make a cage around her with his arms, leaning close so she can smell his sleep-soured breath.

“He ain’t an easy man to like.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Do you like me?” His eyebrows pinch with hope, and she could nearly laugh because she’s certain he could kill her now, if he wanted to. He came close to it a few times last night. But he’s a boy, a hopeless boy waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know what I think of you.”

“I like you.” She wonders if he can hear the thrumming fear in her pulse, if he notices the way her eyes shift to the top drawer of her dresser where a second gun sits humming and waiting. If he does, he shows no sign of it. He’s looking at her, and only her.

“That’s good.” It must be nice how simple this all is to him. He hums a single note and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, cold air stirring when he gets back off the bed to continue getting dressed. Slowly, the fear thaws out of her, leaving something else behind.

A little blink of hope. Her boss calls them cracks. Little weakness, little slippage, places where the lines between two people slacken and fray. She thinks that she’s found somewhere to dig her fingers in and pull and push. Father and son, and the fine fissures that pain creates. A new wound for her to mouth at. She thinks that the next time her boss calls, she might just have something to offer up to him. A boy, a body, a traitor.

#gator tillman #gator tillman smut #gator tillman angst #gator tillman fanfiction #gator tillman fic #gator tillman fargo #filth

31 notes · View notes

yuesya · 2 months

Note

I'm eager to hear your complaints about Fontaine's last story segment.

Haha Fontaine complaints! (Cracks knuckles)

Also: Spoilers ahoy! If you’re someone who plays Genshin Impact and has not finished the Fontaine archon quests, then I do not recommend reading any of this.

I’d also like to add: Fontaine’s main story definitely had some bright spots for me, and there were various scenes and tidbits that I enjoyed. That said, I also had several complaints by the end of it all. This entire thing also... got pretty lengthy, whoops.

… Anways! Without further ado:

1) Furina’s Trial

Personally, I am not a fan of the way that Furina’s trial was handled.

Firstly, the setup involved in luring Furina into their initial trap: The boat/house that was transported to the opera house courtroom. This was accomplished through psychological torment and manipulation, in which people were purposefully incited into targeting her.

When the walls eventually fall down around Furina and reveal her standing inside the stage of the courtroom, the Traveler has a line somewhere around there when she tells Furina that she had her last chance to come clean with her secrets to them, right before these walls came down. Here, I just wanted to ask –clearly there was already a full house in the audience seating, and they literally brought Furina onstage. Even if Furina did decide to come clean in those last few moments, what were they expecting to do? “… Hey everyone, sorry there’s no trial happening after all! You can all go home now, the show’s over!”

Moreover, the trial itself. Furina was driven into a corner and put on the spot, and she was publicly grilled and humiliated in front of an audience. The Primordial Seawater test was also… just, why would you do that? Bringing in a harmful substance and forcing someone to test it on themselves in front of an audience? Sure, it might’ve been diluted to a ‘safe’ level. But instead of just saying that and informing Furina that a Fontaine person would show corresponding symptoms anyways, Traveler & Navia chose to present it to Furina as a lethal substance. Aside from causing mental anguish, I fail to see the point of it.

“But this trial is necessary! Furina won’t tell us what’s going on otherwise.”

Alright, then let’s just commit to that. It’s necessary for everyone to take on an antagonistic role in order to drag Furina to court and make the truth come to light.

But can’t we still… address things, in the aftermath? You can argue that Traveler & co. were trying to act for the ‘greater good.’ The fate of Fontaine was at stake. Still, even if the tactics used in bringing Furina to court and trialing her were necessary, lying and manipulating and gaslighting someone is not the right thing to do.

Except does anyone properly acknowledge that in the aftermath? Is there anyone who admits that this is a terrible thing they’ve done, and makes that clear? Did anyone apologize to Furina for forcing her through such a traumatizing experience? (Side-eyes Paimon in Furina’s character quest.)

Nah, instead we just save a country and give ourselves a pat on the back for doing a great job.

Happy Ending!

2) Focalors’ Death

I want to preface this by saying that I understand Focalors is the Hydro Archon, so in order to get rid of the Hydro Throne her death was probably inevitable, from a godly perspective.

From a human perspective, however, Focalors is innocent. She was not the one who committed the original ‘sin’ of using the power of the Primordial Sea to turn Oceanids into pseudo-humans. And yet she is the one who must pay for it. The only resolution we have to this is that Furina now gets to live her life freely as a human. Now, it might just be me, but for all that Furina was split off and created from Focalors’ humanity, the two of them are essentially seem to be two separate, different beings.

3) Humans vs. Gods

Thematically, Fontaine’s story seems a little mismatched when compared with the other regions.

In Mondstadt, its people play an active role, as seen in how the Knights of Favonius (and Diluc) join Venti in helping Dvalin and restoring peace.

In Liyue, we see the people stepping out from the gods’ purview. With the ‘death’ of Rex Lapis, the Qixing declare that the age of humanity has come, and it’s the people of Liyue working together towards a new future.

Inazuma has people literally fighting a war and rebelling against their archon; in the end, Raiden hears the cries of her people and she is the one who changes, in response to her people’s hopes.

In Sumeru, Nahida is locked up by her people (the Sages) but also saved by her people (Alhaitham, Cyno, Nilou, etc.) And in the fight against false god!Scaramouche, Nahida connects the Traveler to her Akasha terminal (?) and literally uses the collective wisdom of all of Sumeru’s people to assist in the fight.

For all four of these regions, it’s the people who step up and play important roles in resolving their respective nations’ crises.

In Fontaine, we do see its people also tackling various problems –Navia with her Spina di Rosula, Wriothesley and his flying ship– but in regards to the most important issue that’s the ominous prophecy hanging over their heads?

Neuvillette, a Dragon Sovereign, is the one who saves Fontaine’s people from Primordial Seawater by turning them fully into regular humans. Focalors, the Hydro Archon, executes herself in order to give Neuvillette the power to do so –and that’s not even mentioning her meticulous plan to fool Celestia, and the 500 years of silent suffering that Furina endured.

Focalors’ sacrifice is essentially what saves Fontaine, in the end. Divine intervention.

4) Meropide Detective Arc

This is a lot more minor, but it feels like we spend a lot of time running in Meropide looking for clues and learning about useless things that didn’t play any significant role towards the main plot of the archon quest.

You spend days and days running around the prison, and in the end you find out it’s only important because Wriothesley wants to test your observational skills. My dude, that is really not the most important thing here!

Personally, I think Sigewinne’s thing with cooking suspicious-looking food would’ve made a better character quest than a side tangent in the main story. I don’t even remember what the betting ring was about anymore.

I think I would’ve liked a stronger focus on what we originally came there to look for –investigating Childe’s disappearance– which might’ve wrapped up the jail arc a lot quicker, true. But maybe we could’ve gone back and spent more time with Furina instead? Maybe discover for ourselves that Furina is hiding things, and talk to her more, get to know her better? … It would provide more context and an extra ‘oomph’ for the upcoming Furina Trial, at the very least.

5) Powerscaling?

Okay this is definitely a LOT more minor, but. Powerscaling. It feels like things just escalated very, very quickly in Fontaine.

Childe. We know he’s strong, we fought him back in Liyue. Except Neuvillette crushes him in his Abyss form in, what. Less than a second?

Eventually, we encounter Skirk at the end. We find out that the space whale responsibly for nearly destroying Fontaine is just her master’s “pet,” which implies a whole other level of terrifying power that exists out there, along with whatever faction Skirk happens to be a part of.

It would be cool if we get to learn about Skirk more in the future, but overall there seems to be a lot of higher power appearing after higher power in Fontaine. Maybe that's just me, though.

#QA #genshin impact #anyways #sorry for rambling hahaha #i had several gripes with fontaine's archon quest #that being said there were things that i liked #the case with girls disappearing and subsequently leading to the discovery of people dissolving into water?#definitely hit me when i saw it #navia's character was also well-written #except when she brought primordial seawater to furina's trial anyways #melus and silver protecting her even as oceanids was nicely done too #there were also cool cutscenes!#several cool cutscenes throughout fontaine storyline

34 notes · View notes

ekingston · 2 months

Note

I was gonna be cheeky and ask for 10 and 19 again BUT I shall resist that urge… for now.

I will be sneaky (critical failure) and ask for three (I lied) 28. 30. And 37.

And what the hell, everyone should be proud of their work/s so a 33. (Feel free to pick a couple if this is just asking for a lot - I feel like it is 😅)

I feel like I’m order takeout or reading lotto number here

haha thank you! and the bonus number is…

Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing?

today i’m reminding myself to practice mindfulness! and not in the sense of breathing exercises or lengthy meditation sessions (although I’m sure those have their benefits too) but by making myself be in the present, paying attention to all of my senses, and remembering that my characters would do the same. you’ll need that material to fill in the little details that draw the reader into your work, that tricky thing that makes them feel like they can’t just see it, but like they’re actually there. life is a sensual experience, and i think our stories should reflect that!

Describe a fic that almost happened, but then didn’t.

this got long, so…

i once scribbled down a dream i had that was a sort of trippy time travel/repeating day type of thing, where Lena was part of a small crew of criminals that used Lena’s tech to travel back in time to aid them with their heists. they would simply rewind time over and over, taking note of the details, learning every possible outcome, eliminating obstacles along the way, practicing the motions often enough to nail the final, perfect execution.

the first scene was a very bloody one, and i came in right in the middle of it, not understanding how Lena and her people could be so callous about the people laying bleeding and dying at their feet, especially because Kara was one of them. Lena’s crew just kept saying they’d ‘fix that next time’, like some sort of cryptic mantra.

in the dream Lena ended up looking for Kara in every run through, charming her in a thousand different ways, always the same, Kara falling for her every time. there were a few rewinds that took her back so far that Kara was still a child, immediately smitten but completely lost on earth, abandoned and alone, and Lena lobbied hard to make sure her crew fixed that, too, even when it meant Lena would never meet her again.

i saw Lena’s crew running down a dark alley over and over again, at least one of their crew dead or dying, at least one other gravely hurt. Kara turned out to be the reason their plan failed every single time. Lena ended up having to turn against her team to save her before they could eliminate her from their timeline completely.

in the end Lena lay dying in child-Kara’s arms, telling her ‘we’ll fix it next time.’ this was when she’d finally discovered Kara wasn’t human. the line i woke up with was Lena telling Kara to promise her, ‘if you figure it out someday—fly up’. the theory being, i think, that if Kara somehow were to fly high enough, fast enough, she’d achieve the same effect Lena did with her tech, and Kara could go back to save Lena instead.

my dreams get pretty elaborate, but they rarely come with as tidy of a plot as this one did, so i bet it already exists somewhere.

Do you research before writing or while you write? Is it fun or boring for you?

i don’t feel i write the kind of stuff that requires a lot of research and that’s probably a good thing! because i will go down absolutely every rabbit hole the internet has to offer when i do and zero writing will get done. my longform WIP TFOT has been brewing since—let me check—December 11, 2022 (thanks @mooosicaldreamz) and i’ve written less than 20k words, including my outline. instead i have spent my time working on it ‘studying’ veterinary medicine, learning about sustainable agriculture, planning trips to Wyoming and wondering alongside Paula Cole where all the cowboys have gone.

Give your writing a compliment.

i can’t tell you how happy it makes me when people tell me i managed to write something that made them laugh out loud. several times even! sometimes waking up their loved ones or startling strangers! i love that so much.

#these were excellent questions!#this got a little longer than i intended #(but what else is new)#more writing asks #ask me things!#kitch3nw3nch

19 notes · View notes

baconmoop · 3 months

Text

My argument as to why the mysterious letter is definitely Gaster.

Okay, now I’ve had time to drink it all in/actually do things for valentines day, I’m ready to make my argument as to why the mysterious letter is definitely our boy Gaster. I’ve been of the mindset that he’s a goofy old man for a long time, and I’ve always wanted to make a video essay to explain my point of view but I've never had the time. This newsletter gave me the push to write this ‘quick’ summary though. Feel free to fight with me in the notes.

First of all, I am aware that the Japanese version uses Hiragana instead of his normal Katakana. I barely understand English, so I can’t even begin to understand the importance of it. It is my biggest foil, but I don’t think it affects things too much.

My first, easiest bit of evidence, is the fact that Toby has already removed the letter, leaving only this.

He does this constantly with Gaster stuff. He did it with the tarot cards, he did it with abc123a.ogg. The moment someone posts something online, he removes evidence of its existence. Suspicious, is it not?

Okay, let’s break the letter down shall we?

This is in line with a lot of things we already know about WDG. Most likely in Wingdings, we have hints in Sans’ lab and the true lab that his handwriting is impossible to read. We don’t know any of these are 100% him, but it makes sense that it would be difficult to read unless you were determined enough to do so (I assume that is what ‘squint your heart refers to?).

There are multiple people who know what the ‘delta rune is’, but here to me he is clearly discussing the game, not the prophecy. The only person to ever have interest in our opinions of the experience is the ‘other him’, when he introduced us to the survey program. He also talks in short sentences, Like he does in the initial goner sequence, and pretty much everything else.

Okay, so this is something that has plagued my mind for a while, but this has brought it to the forefront. I assume here that he’s referring to Dess being stuck in the code, or whoever it is (See here https://forum.melonland.net/index.php?topic=68.0). I’ve always been of the mind that Gaster genuinely wants to help, partially because of the eggs and partially because he seems to want you to win. He wants you to stop the roaring. I have a bunch of theories about this that probably deserve their own video, but here’s a quick summary:

If you name yourself Suzie in the goner maker scene, he says:

As far as I know, he doesn’t say this for anyone else, including ralsei, so he clearly has some kind of positive opinion of Suzie. Why would he say this if he was an antagonist to the fun gang?

When you die in the game and press no on the continue screen, the song ‘darkness falls’ plays (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSn4p1Xx7NU&ab_channel=Palpe). While definitely having Gaster’s leitmotif for starters, Just listen to how melancholy it sounds. It gives me the same bittersweet vibes that it’s raining somewhere else gives me. If this is a reflection of how Gaster feels when you give up, then he’s definitely a bit bummed that you failed.

Someone is clearly helping the secret bosses. While most people assume that he is doing it for some kind of nefarious purposes, I think he was genuinely trying to help, and it backfired.

Anyway, back to the letter.

There’s a lot of connections between forgetting and Gaster. Fanon dictates that he’s been completely erased from everyone’s memories, but I don’t want to rely on fanon here. The first thing that comes to mind is obviously ‘Don’t forget’ plastered all over deltarune, which is what I assume he means when he calls it ironic, but that isn’t specifically tied to him. What I do think of however, is goner kid. I’ve already put enough images in this bad boy, but he says "Have you ever thought about a world where everything is exactly the same...Except you don't exist? Everything functions perfectly without you...Ha ha... The thought terrifies me." We know so much about how the goners are connected to him, I’m not gonna re-go over it here. Someone also mentioned the Spamton sweepstakes “AREN'T YOU FORGETTING SOMETHING?” on the ice page, which could also be relevant here. Is there any other character linked to forgetting as much as he is?

Okay, now for my most dubious point (sue me I’m not an actual theorist). But… Doesn’t this give you old man papyrus vibes? It’s goofy, It’s in all caps, it puts a smile on my face. To quote my friend outside the fandom, “It’s giving old man texting his grandchildren for the first time”. I know this is one of the biggest contradictions for people, claiming that it’s out of character for gaster to speak like this, but I give exhibit A, from the legends of localisation book:

(Ripped directly from https://www.tumblr.com/gasterofficial/715722490333298688?source=share)

I’ve always loved this. It’s probably not canon, but it’s goofy as hell. It was one of the first things that made me want to do a video on my “gaster is a good dude” ideas. It’s the exact same vibes as the letter.

So what do you think? I could definitely go into more detail about all of this, if people are interested. I just saw something that helped fuel my theories and had to put my opinions out there. Please don’t murder me in the notes for going against the antagonist gaster grain I am very sensitive okay good by!

#undertale #deltarune #utdr newsletter #utdr theory #wd gaster #I hope this makes sense #I was very excited to get this newsletter #happy valentines day btw!!

20 notes · View notes

seodami · 1 year

Text

Attention | CSN

Genre: fluff, a bit suggestive

Warning: Sans crazy duality

Pairing: idol!Choi San x flustered reader (gn)

Note: Choi San has literally put me in a spell and I don’t know how- I saw his cyberpunk stage and the video below and I just hdhdudbdldidjk … yes. This is we’re this story was born so enjoy and a good recommendation would be to listen to Collide by Justine Skye and Tyga!

„Y/nnn…“ San almost whined out your name, his body loosely sprawled over you, head in your lap, as you were sitting in his bed while reading an important book for your exam next week. You thought coming over to Sans would help you to finally get yourself together and read this book, you had pushed to the back of your mind for the whole last month. However, you didn’t calculate your boyfriends neediness and requirement of 100% of your attention.

„Play with me? Or just talk? We could also order something and watch a movie, I-„ your eyes momentarily left your page with a sigh, meeting his big shiny ones. God, it was hard staying focused when he looked at you like that - like you were his whole universe. Your hand found Sans soft cheek, patting it with care. You sent him an apologetic look. „Baby, you know I can’t do that right know, no matter how much I want to. It’s only half the book left and then we can do something.“ you tried to argue, eyes staying a little longer than they should, tracing his godshapen face. The pout on his lips really pulling on your fragile heart strings.

„Don’t give me that look, San.“ you sighed once again, finally tearing your eyes away to continue reading. „Is the book that much more interesting than me?“ he murmured, head moving more upward in your lap in order to get into your field of view. You demonstrantly put your book over Sans beautiful face, even though it is the hardest thing ever.

When you feel his fingers trailing it’s way under your shirt on your back, you tried to ignore it. Yet, you had to reread the same line for almost the 10th time to understand it. God, he always did that to get your attention, why did you think in the first place that you could read around this devilish boy?

However, when he started placing small kisses on your belly, you strongly shut the book with a loud noice, giving San a warning look. The boy flinched slightly at the sound, looking up with innocent eyes. Even though guilt bubbled up inside you, you couldn’t dodge your morals and ideals. „San…“ you whispered sternly now, making him pull away with a disappointed sigh. He didn’t look at you, when he got up from the bed muttering a quite ‚I’ll see what’s in the fridge‘.

You stared at the shut door for a few more seconds, almost regretting being so harsh on him. You knew all he wanted was to be together in your shared time, using your shared scarce time to its fullest. But this was important to you. You couldn’t fail this exam, you just couldn’t. So with heavy heart, you continued reading, still not quite 100% with your mind on the matter.

You didn’t know how long you were reading alone in Sans dimmed bedroom or how many times you switched positions to get more comfortable. But when you heard Wooyoungs hysteric highpitched laugh from somewhere in the flat, you got reminded of where exactly you were again. You already missed having your boyfriends presence around you, having his face nuzzled on your tummy, smelling his freshly shampooed hair.

A while later, you heard the quiet squeaking of the door, light peaking in from the hallway. You were too lazy to move as you just had a few more chapters to read, being sprawled on your tummy flat across the sheets. „Sanie…“ you mumbled exhausted, discarding the book opened on the nightstand. You heard his soft voice hum in response, closing your eyes momentarily for a rest. „Can you give me a massage? I’m dying!“ you whined overdramatically, waiting for his touch.

He hummed again, coming over to you, bed dipping down besides you. When he started massaging your back, you sighed in relief, totally relaxing in his touch. However, when he started massaging your shoulders, you were confused by the sensation. It felt as if he was hearing gloves. „Are you wearing gloves?“ you rotated your head slightly to get a better look at the boy above you.

And what you saw let your breath hitch, feeling your heart suddenly palpitate in a rapid manner. God he looked sexy. „W-what are you wearing?!“ your eyes roamed his bare arms over to his black cropped sleeveless top together with a leather harness. You immediately recognised the outfit to be his infamous stage outfit of cyberpunk. And you couldn’t deny the uncountable numbers of fancam you watched of his stage. This man made you literally forget how to speak.

The apparent smirk on his face told you he was enjoying this situation way too much. You flipped over, sitting slightly up to get a better look at your godlike boyfriend. Your mouth opened again, not quite trusting the random chain of words coming out of it. However he send you a dangerous look, putting his index finger teasingly to his lips, signifying for you to be quiet, immediately shutting you up. A pleased smile adorned his lips, making him look a thousand times more sexy.

You knew about his duality all too well by know. His cute adorable self most of the time being exchanged with this breathtaking version of him while performing had always been astonishing to you. But seeing him like this in private and this close up, in these clothes…your heart has proven not to be immune to his charms.

„Well look who’s quiet now…“ he teased you, standing up from his position, stretching his arms over his body. You were sweating way too hard, shamelessly staring even though you knew exactly he was reading you. When his dark eyes met yours, you pretended to look in any other direction, blushing hard. You could feel your cheeks burn when you fumbled with the book besides you, holding it in front of you to hide your embarrassingly red face.

You heard him chuckle deeply, throwing his head back in the process, hand reaching for the book to put it aside once again. You just let him do as he did. „Is my baby blushing?“ he cooed, finger underneath your chin, making eye contact with you.

„You’re so cute.“ he pressed a feathery lingering kiss on your temple. When your hands reached forward to pull him in closer, just wanting to hold him, kiss him, he dodged your grasp, smiling in the process as he tutted disapprovingly with his finger. „No y/n you need to stay focused and keep reading.“ he almost giggled, you could see it. Now it was your turn to pout. „But Sanie-“ you started but quickly got silenced by his intense stare, eyebrow quirking up.

God he was a little devil, he really was, but he was also the most gorgeous man alive. „So now I got your attention, mh?“ he tried to hide his grin. Your pout grew bigger, big sad eyes looking up at him, hands reaching out towards him. „Please?“ you whispered, desperate to have him in your arms. His facade began to crumble the moment your eyes began to glisten. Oh, he was so wrapped around your finger in the end.

With a few steps he closed the distance and let you pull him into a tight embrace, arms clasped around his chest. „You will be the literal death of me y/n.“ he mused, discarding his glove to stroke through your hair and over your cheeks, pressing a row of small kisses onto them. You slowly tried to steady your frantic heartbeat, hands grasping his bare upper arm, drawing small mindless shapes along.

„I’m sorry for earlier. I know I was too snappy.“ you mumbled into his neck, goosebumps running over Sans back when you pressed a small kiss on the spot. „It’s okay. I got my revenge now.“ he giggled, looking at your face for a moment with a content expression. Your eyes fell on his lips, letting him immediately know your next step. Still having fun teasing you, he quickly pulled away as your lips came closer to his. The confused look in your eyes made him giggle once again, mumbling a ‚just kidding‘, before pressing his plump lips onto yours.

„You know, you should wear that more often…“ you muttered absent minded while you snuggled closer into his chest, cuddling under the blanket later that evening. „Makes you look very sexy…“ you admitted way too fast. He chuckled at your comment, kissing your head, arms tightly around your frame. „Noted.“

231 notes · View notes

fruitcoops · 2 years

Note

Hi Eve! Can I request a fic where Remus is hurt on the ice and in a lot of pain, and really depends on Sirius comforting him. Maybe he goes to the Hospital and is really frightened by it. Basically something where Remus is extremely hurt (physically and emotionally) and Sirius comforts him a lot. If you feel like it! I know you're writing a lot of H/C and Angst rn. I love your writing!

Oh we're doing CHONKY angst tonight, my friends. Also, I'm super close to my fic goal, so requests will be opening back up again soon! I won't give a specific date because I don't want to give anyone false hope, so thank you all for being patient. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove <3

**TW for injury (dislocation), mentioned past injury/ trauma, implied PTSD, panic/ dissociation response, hospitals

Time stood still. It was a cheesy, cliché thought—Sirius knew that much. But time stood still, and lots of people were moving erratically, and he had the sudden realization he couldn’t feel his toes in his skates anymore. He knew he should move. He knew he needed to move. He knew he could feel every vein and artery in his body seizing, every muscle fossilizing.

“—fucking Christ—”

“I’m gonna—”

“—god, look—”

“—happening? What’s happ—”

“Stay there!” Sirius flinched at the sharp order from James’ mouth, somewhere on the other side of the bench. Medics were gathering like clotted blood on a wound; he could only see black skates, the red accents stark against the ice while their owner thrashed once, twice, and went still again.

His tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. He managed one step. James’ hand settled on his chest, but he pushed right past it without breaking stride. The crowd was deafening in its silence. He could see Remus’ legs now, one bent and tipping to the side. The medics shuttered his body and face from view, but Sirius was six-foot-six in his skates. That wouldn’t be a problem.

“—touch me!” The sudden burst of noise amongst a sea of muttering voices made him blink in surprise. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!”

Remus wasn’t supposed to sound like that. He wasn’t supposed to look like that when Sirius came closer, tense and laid out and failing every time his muscles tried to contort in agony, ghost-white save for the blotchy red on his cheeks. His right hand gripped the wrist of a medic so tight it trembled. “Mr. Lupin,” Emmeline cut in. “Remus, let go.”

“Keep your hands off,” he said through clenched teeth.

Sirius took a knee, shouldering between two of the medics despite their protests. Even a meter away, he could see how far Remus’ pupils had dilated. “Loops,” he began. The few people that tried to pull him away would have had better luck moving a boulder barehanded. Sirius found Remus’ terrified eyes against the too-bright glare of the rink and his throat tightened, suffocating any words.

The unadulterated panic faded somewhat—Remus’ lower lip trembled, a single tear rolling down the slope of his nose as he held Sirius’ gaze. “Sirius.” He sucked in a half-breath and hitched with the strain. “Sirius, don’t fucking touch me.”

“I won’t.”

Remus visibly relaxed when he held both hands up, only for his entire face to screw up in pain at the movement. A groan siphoned through his ticking jaw, strangled and barely contained.

“Mr. Lupin, you need to let us get you on a stretcher,” Emmeline said firmly, as if they had had this conversation before. “We have to get you off the ice.”

“Can’t move.”

“We’ll help—”

“Gonna tear it apart.” Remus’ eyes unfocused, and Sirius quite literally watched the blood drain from his face as his hand slipped off the other medic’s wrist and hit the ice with a dull sound. His mouth refused to offer the comfort rattling through his mind. “Don’t understand, I have pins there, gonna tear the muscle.”

Emmeline’s lips pressed into a thin, pale line. “Fuck,” she muttered, tucking Remus’ forearms against his chest; this time, he didn’t so much as twitch. She grabbed the walkie-talkie off her belt, moving to a crouch. “Get him on the stretcher. Hi, this is Emmeline Vance, I have a player with a partially dislocated shoulder who is going into psychological shock. We’re 60 seconds from the ambulance.”

By the time Sirius was able to force some air into his lungs, everyone else was already in motion, and he was being pushed aside. “I can’t do it.” Remus’ voice was too strained, too high. His gaze darted randomly from Sirius to the rink and back again. “Can’t do it again, I can’t do this.”

“Just keep breathing, Remus,” Emmeline said. “That’s all I need from you.”

“I can…” Sirius faltered as they shuffled Remus onto the stretcher. He had gone from white to gray in a matter of moments. His left arm looked wrong where it laid limp against him. “I can help?”

“Go back to the bench, captain,” an unfamiliar medic said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Your coach will pass along the hospital address.”

Sirius shook his head. It was too hard to swallow. “No.”

“Sir—”

“He’s my husband.”

“I understand, but the ambulance is already—”

“That’s my husband.” Control. Calm. Steady. Remus’ voice never shook when he asked for things, never raised by a single decibel. Sirius took a breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. “My husband is on that stretcher. I need to be with him right now.”

“That’s not a matter to discuss with me.” The medic stood and helped him to his feet with a kind smile. “Talk to your coach. We’ll take good care of Mr. Lupin.”

No, you won’t. He knew he should trust them—it was their job. It was what Remus had done for years, and Remus had never failed them. But Sirius couldn’t help the knee-jerk protest that tried to claw its way out into the cold air where the voices of the crowd were starting to rise. It was Remus’ job to heal. It was his job to play. These people…he didn’t know these people. More importantly, they didn’t know Remus. They didn’t know that he couldn’t be touched after a nightmare and they didn’t know how good he was at hiding pain in smiles and they didn’t know he could only be lulled back into rest with a kiss, a snuggle, some tea.

But Remus was already gone, and Sirius belonged on the bench.

“I’m here for Remus Lupin.”

“Relation?”

“Husband. How is he?”

“Asleep, as of…five minutes ago.”

“And his shoulder?”

“I’m afraid I can’t share personal medical information, sir.”

Sirius hoped the nurse couldn’t hear his pulse hammering across the desk. “Alright. Where’s his room?”

“He’s in 430. The elevator is on your left.”

“Merci beaucoup.” God bless Celeste for teaching him proper manners, because an ‘afterthought’ wasn’t even the right word for how little he cared about thanking people at the moment. Remus liked to tease him for his ‘lack of tact’, whatever that was supposed to mean. Bluntness had always worked fine in the past, even if it meant people liked his husband more than him. It wasn’t Sirius’ fault he had grown used to using his captain voice in daily life.

The elevator lurched to life after a few impatient clicks of the button; it stopped once, on the second floor, and Sirius tried not to scowl too hard at the perfectly nice couple that decided to wait for the next one. His legs stopped working when the elevator doors opened.

A cheerful golden ‘4’ shone on the opposite wall—he forced himself forward, only to stop again as the doors closed behind him. The floor was as busy as any hospital he had visited, full of families and bustling staff in equal shares. The nearest door read ‘403’.

Sirius started walking.

The linoleum squeaked under his sneakers with each measured step, background music for his racing thoughts. Would Remus still be asleep? Was his injury worse than they thought? Sirius hadn’t been able to leave early—hadn’t wanted to, not when they couldn’t promise he would be able to see Remus right away—and he didn’t have the first clue what made psychological shock different than regular shock. He had seen enough shitty medical dramas on Saturday nights to know people died from it. Suddenly, Remus’ penchant for pointing out their inaccuracies like it was a game show wasn’t so funny.

430.

He peeked through the little window with one hand on the doorknob and felt his heart stutter, a breath rushing free. Remus was still asleep, just as the nurse had promised. The bed was propped up; his left arm rested in a sling. Someone had tucked the crisp white blankets around his waist. Sirius opened the door and crept in, closing it quietly behind him before he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

Remus’ breaths came in the same slow, even pattern he knew like his own pulse, so vastly different than the shallow things that had wracked him four hours prior. He looked better than Sirius had left him: there was healthy color in his cheeks and no tension sending agony though his body. He traced the places pain used to pinch with a gentle hand.

Beneath his touch, Remus stirred. He blinked a few times, bleary and befuddled, before his expression relaxed into a small smile and his cheek pressed into Sirius’ palm. “How long’ve you been there?”

“About five minutes,” Sirius murmured. They had the room to themselves, but it didn’t feel right to speak louder. He scratched along the shorter hair over Remus’ ear and felt him hum. “Feeling better?”

Remus nodded, keeping his eyes closed. “Got the good stuff.”

“Sleepy?”

“Mhmm. Love how you talk.”

“Me?” he laughed.

“It’s always you.”

Sirius stroked beneath Remus’ eye with the pad of his thumb. His skin was impossibly soft and delicate for someone so unbreakable. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here before.”

“Didn’t miss anything big.”

“Still.” He swallowed as the lump from earlier tried to surge back to life in his throat. “Still, I want to be here for you. It’s my job to take care of you, now.”

“How the turntables,” Remus muttered, drawing a laugh from both of them.

With a long exhale, he let his head rest back against the crinkly pillow, and Sirius went willingly when Remus opened an arm for him to cuddle under. The hospital gown was rough when he smoothed a hand over Remus’ chest, tracing the bandages beneath. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Sirius asked, giving the lowest ridge a small tug.

Remus cracked an eye open and followed his movement. “Oh, it’s just some extra support. Goes up an’ around.”

“No broken ribs?”

“I can’t be stealing your brand that quick.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Sirius protested despite Remus’ quiet snickering. “It’s not funny, Re.”

“ ‘m sorry.” He took a couple deep breaths, then turned to Sirius with a bitten-back smile. “It’s a little funny.”

“No.”

His face softened, and with a little bit of wiggling he pulled his arm free from under Sirius’ body and placed his fingertips over his cheekbone like a pianist preparing to play. A delicate touch as always; sometimes, Sirius wondered whether Remus thought he was made of glass. Nobody had treated him that carefully before. It wasn’t a bad thought at all. Remus kept them there for a long moment, watching with half-lidded eyes. His whole body radiated exhaustion. “Today was a bad day,” he finally said. The corner of his mouth tilted up softly. “You’re so handsome.”

“Are you feeling better?”

This time, Remus paused before answering. He paused, and he sighed, and he curled into Sirius’ chest until Sirius draped an arm over his stomach and laced their fingers together. “I dunno,” he whispered. “It was—bad. They put me under to relocate it, ‘cause I couldn’t calm down. They told me I went into shock, but I don’t remember that part. I still feel like shit.”

“I would be worried if you didn’t.” But I hate that you do. Sirius closed the inch between them and kissed Remus’ cheek, letting his lips linger on salty skin. Remus had been crying a little when they took him away. He didn’t want to know if it kept happening while he was sitting on a stainless steel bench outlining plays for other people to run.

“It was only a partial dislocation,” Remus noted after a few moments of quiet. Something in his gaze was still a little vacant. “So, y’know. There’s that. The pins work after all.”

Sirius gathered him closer, slipping one arm under Remus’ upper back so he could rest his head on Sirius’ chest. Their ankles tangled under the papery sheets, legs in a cat’s cradle. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he said into mussed curls. A tremor went through Remus, and he heard him sniffle.

“Fuck, sorry,” Remus choked out, going to pinch the bridge of his nose only to muffle a groan when the sling refused to let his arm move that far. Sirius guided his hand back down and wiped the few stray tears away with his thumb—his other hand splayed over Remus’ lower back, just holding. He could be an anchor right now.

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmured.

“I really couldn’t do it again, Sirius.” His voice was thick. Haunted. “I couldn’t. It almost killed me before, I swear to god.”

The air punched from Sirius’ lungs. He knew, he did, they had both struggled, but—“Don’t, loup. Don’t put yourself in that place right now.”

“I felt it give,” he said brokenly. “After everything I did, it just went and people were all over me.”

There was nothing good enough to say. Sirius didn’t truly understand, he never could. He had accepted that a long time ago in the same way Remus had to accept that he would never understand why Sirius was equally happy and grieving every time they spent time with the Lupins. And while he knew how to bring Remus down from the paralyzing fear that came with whatever trauma Fenrir Greyback had wrought, the rest of the world was still in the dark. There was no possible way to lead emergency medics through it without exposing everything.

So he let his fingers curl around the bandages stabilizing Remus’ shoulder and kept him close, pressing his forehead to a warm temple and holding his hand while Remus’ teeth chattered with the force of whatever needed to be let out. “Mon amour,” he said, lips brushing the peak of Remus’ cheekbone. “Mon coeur, mon loup, mon chou.”

“It was like I wasn’t even there anymore.”

“Je sais.” That much, Sirius could understand.

“My body was there but the rest of me…and it was taken.”

“It was.”

“The pins—it would have gone all the way without them.”

“And it will be better now.”

Remus sniffed, his face pressed so tight to Sirius’ chest that he could feel the damp spot forming on his shirt. “Do you promise?” he asked at last.

It was a ridiculous thing to promise a professional hockey player who regularly got body-slammed and entirely out of Sirius’ control. “Yes.”

Remus shivered, pulling his legs up tighter to Sirius’ thighs. “For real?”

There were tears in his voice again, but Sirius would rather they stain his shirt than the fabric of a stretcher or some plain hospital pillow. He would sign the discharge paperwork when Remus was good and ready to move, and not a second before. “I promise,” he repeated.

“Okay.” A shaky breath was cold on his torso. “Okay. Christ, I’m so fuckin’ tired.”

Sirius rubbed his back for another minute, pressing the occasional kiss to his hair or the side of his face. He managed a glance at his watch for the first time since arriving and was a little surprised to see the late hour blinking back at him. “Do you want to nap here, or should we go home?” he asked quietly.

But Remus was already asleep, clutching him just as close as waking hours.

#sirius black #remus lupin #coops #james potter #emmeline #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #hurt/ comfort #angst #hospitals #injury #emotional whump #cuddling

275 notes · View notes