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netherfeildren · 1 year

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Kiss, Kiss, Kill, Kill!

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel is a long haul truck driver. One day he finds a pretty girl in a diner and decides he’d like to keep her.

Murder and sex ensue!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak; Graphic depictions of violence; Murder; Blood; Gore; Threat of SA; Impotence; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Loss of virginity; Virginity kink; Breeding kink; Spit kink; Rough sex; Pussy slapping; Dark!Joel; Mean!Joel (also kinda crazy and pathetic); Obsessive behavior; Possessive behavior; Discussions of suicidal ideations; Unreliable narrators; Alcoholism; Consensual non consent kind of (But not previously discussed - they're both into it tho); Use of misogynistic language; Grief

A/N: Hi :) Another one just bc I have no self control.

Parts of the narrative read a little disjointed and/or confusing. This is intentional. I was kind of trying something weird out here, I guess.

Word Count: 9.7K

Read on AO3

The first time Joel sees you, it’s a Thursday. His least hated day of the week, but not his favorite, for he doesn’t really have any favorite things anymore. Your eyes’d stunned him at that first look. They sparkled as if dusted with frost – speared him with an intensity that burned.

But no… that was a lie, and Joel is trying not to be such a liar anymore. He does have one favorite thing now. This middle-of-nowhere diner, this place where’d he’d found you.

The first time he’d actually talked to you, you’d interrupted his own stubborn, sour silence with a silence of your own. Different, agonizing, compared to your usual persistent fishing for his attention.

“What’re you doin’ out here in this wasteland, sweetheart?” Because you look sweet as that cherry pie you’re always trying to push on him.

“Been here my whole life.” It’s verging on evening, the sky gone to melancholy, and there’s a young girl with dark hair weeping on the shoulder of an older woman in the booth over. He wants to snap at her, demand to know what the fuck she could possibly have to cry over? He’s sure she mustn’t have a dead daughter like him, and so there really seems to be no reason for tears.

“No plans to leave?”

You shake your head, hum a little, set the coffee pot down on the edge of the table to pop a hip out and think on your answer. “Guess you could say I’m a little bit weak or scared, don’t know.”

“Doubt that,” a surprised laugh forced out of him. Entirely improbable, he knows this just by looking at you. “You’ve got eyes that seem as if they’ve never held fear within them in your entire life.” And he makes you laugh at that, head thrown back, throat rippling. The sound like the tolling of the bell indicating the start of the rest of his life.

When you’re done gifting him your laughter, you ask, “What about you? Why are you here?”

“My daughter died.” Plain.

Your eyes seem to shutter or flicker, something like a chimera about them, “When?”

“Two years ago.” He watches the crying girl and the old woman get up to go. And then the two of you are alone. You move to sit in the booth across from him. He’d been coming in here to see you for more than half that time since, and now, the first time the two of you are having an actual conversation, and this is what he’s decided to open with. But really, it’s the only story he has to tell anymore. He watches you watch him for a long moment, as though you’re searching for something within him, or mulling over what it is you want to say to him, the shift of your jaw from side to side as you chew on your words. He feels easily frightened now – fragile – and yet vibrantly malignant, at the same time. A juxtaposition on two opposite ends of the spectrum of good and not so good, or perhaps, verging on very, terribly bad, in the grocery store line of human morality. Two Joel’s at the start and end of the queue who could not seem to come to terms with one another. Enemies – they were enemies of each other. A Joel who’d once had a daughter, and a Joel who now did not. A Joel who’d pulled a trigger at his own temple, and one who’d never even considered such a thing. He draws his finger along the line of scar tissue at his temple.

For a long time he’d wanted to tear a hole in his world and escape, but he was no master of inventiveness. On the contrary, he found his attempt rather miserly – had short changed himself at the last moment and flinched. But perhaps, it had been for this reason – for you, to find you. He wishes he could peer inside your mind, crack open your skull and read everything you’re hiding away from him inside there. A violent thought, but you make him feel slightly violent, or – no, that’s not it – for Joel is already a violent man. It’s more that you pull a specific hue of violence out of him, incite it, like he needs to move, to howl, to claw at something, at you, scream and scream and scream to keep your undivided attention on him forever.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say finally, voice quiet. “How old was she?”

His loss. That was a funny way of putting it. It had never felt like a loss. The word was too small. Four letters was not enough to describe what it really was. There was no word for what it felt like. An emaciation of his very self until he simply ceased to exist. Something that had sucked his soul, his heart, his brain out of his body, but they didnt feel lost. They felt destroyed, decimated, or like they had never existed. Sometimes the feeling left him confused, disoriented – this strange purgatory he’d been relegated to, it was like it had never happened in his mind sometimes, or like it had happened to a different man. Like that life with that beautiful little girl with the green eyes who’d had a father who loved her, who’d then died, had happened to someone else. Someone who wasn’t Joel. Like a war that had raged and raged for centuries, and now nothing was left in its wake. Only that terribly fraught reminder of a violence too grotesque for a human mind to conceive.

How could he miss something, wish for something so, so, so fucking desperately he’d peel his very skin from his body himself to get it back, but also feel like it didn’t belong to him anymore? Like it had never happened to him, like he remembered it out of his own body? A dream that belonged to someone else, and Joel’d only been told of it second hand. His mind was fractured now, he knew this. He wasn't right – broken or glued together the wrong way. His bones didn’t fit in his joints the way they were supposed to anymore. He was all wrong and ugly and fucked.

“She was twelve.”

“My whole family’s dead,” you say it almost casually, with a half shrug of your shoulders. “Is that why you started driving? To get away?”

He’s been a long haul truck driver for going on two years now. Started just after Sarah – needed to get away, to get lost. He didn’t enjoy it – he does not enjoy it. Not because the work is bad or boring or what have you, but because he doesn’t enjoy anything anymore. But it’s productive and pays well and… well, he does appreciate the solitude. There is that, at least. He’d been on the route from New Mexico to Washington for several months now, and it was fine. Occasionally, he’d head up to the Dakotas – not so fine, longer, harder trek, but he managed it. He preferred this one, preferred the darkness of the north west corner of the country. He never went further south than New Mexico, though. Absolutely never into Texas. He’d never go back there again.

“Sure… to get away.” He couldn’t be there anymore afterwards, had nothing left. “My neighbor, Anna, she’s got a teenager, Ellie. Sweet kid. Weird kid,” he laughs fondly, remembering the two of them. “The kid was friends with my daughter, Sarah. And after everything– well, after everything, Anna made sure they both stuck around. Didn’t let me shut myself away the way I wanted to,” ill-shaven recluse, confused, fractured, “They’re good people. You’d like them, I think. They’re… they’re my friends.” They were another reason he kept doing the driving, he liked to send money back to Anna and Ellie. He knew they didn’t need it, didn’t want it, but he had to. He needed to feel like he was still taking care of someone, contributing to someone’s well being. It was just part of who he was.

“I’m sure I would.”

He watches your silent enrapture as you listen to him tell you of his pseudo life. After a while he’d realized that was all he’d started doing, making his way back to you, to this diner where you work. A sad place for ugly men to stop in on a pause from their interminable journeys and lay eyes on an angel. He hadn’t even really realized that’s what he was purposely doing or that it’d become a pattern. He just needed something to see at the end of the tunnel, a light to look towards when he was lost in the darkness. That’s what you are, a single flickering light in the abyss of darkness he exists in now.

You’re small – tiny compared to Joel’s own hulking size. He thinks he could break you, easily, if he isn’t careful, if he so felt like it. And you were – you are so fucking pretty. He thinks of you so often. Almost as often as he thinks of his dead daughter which might seem wrong or strange, but it’s really nothing more than the two opposite ends of a spectrum of perfect beauty that he’s known within his lifetime that now he cannot reach either end of. Sarah – dead, forever out of reach. And you. Too perfect for consideration, too beautiful and good for these monstrous hands of his. The thing he’s become in his grief is not worthy of a gorgeous creature like you. His existence post Sarah’s death had become some sort of apocalyptic dysphoria where the only monster here was Joel. But he does like to watch, and he does like to think of you. To come to your diner and sit and watch you serve coffee to your customers – the scum that muddles through here isn’t worthy of laying eyes on you – men like him. Sometimes, when he sits here silently, pretending to ignore you and not be entirely beguiled by you, he feels as if he has a purpose again, like the money for Anna and Ellie, getting to inconspicuously watch over you, make sure no one gives you a hard time gives him purpose. And when he goes, even though he never really wants to, he takes you with him in his mind through the long stretches of his hauls. When there are nothing but ghosts to keep him company. When thoughts of Sarah and that dead life become too overwhelming, he calls you to mind, plans his routes to make his way back to you.

You’re also fucking persistent – not giving him the chance to wallow away in his silence and brooding. He was rude at first, gruff and unresponsive and wouldn’t ever acknowledge your queries of, How’s it going today, and, Oh, back again I see. Sometimes he wanted to snap and just spit the truth at you, ‘course, I’m fuckin’ back, I’m here to see you, I’m obsessed with you. And rounds and rounds of, Can I get you another cup of coffee? The same as usual? You’d memorized his order. Pestered and pestered and pestered for his name until he’d finally ceded it to you, and, How ‘bout some cherry pie this time? After a while you’d gotten sick of his recalcitrant bullshit and just dropped off the piece of pie, slipping it onto the edge of the table and sliding away without a word or a half look back at him. He’d eaten the whole damn thing, savored it, and caught your sassy, little smirk after he’d finished. He’d wanted to bend you over the counter and spank your ass until you cried after that. He bets you’d taste as sweet as that pie, that if he slapped your cunt enough times he could get it red as a cherry. He bets you’d like that – that you’d like it a little rough, a little dirty, a little mean. You might look like an angel, but Joel’s seen the way you look at him, the way you follow him with your eyes, leaning against the counter, chin cupped in your small palm watching him eat his eggs and drink his coffee.

You want him.

But Joel is frightened – frightened and cowardly and not right, and as much as you look like an angel, he also worries you might have the ability to entice him into very, very bad things – to provoke him into depravity, even. There is a part of him, large or small given the day and the mood and the weather that he walks in here on, that has the rotten half of his mind whispering at the not-so-rotten half that he wants to defile and debase you, and that he’s pretty sure you’d like it if he did. He wants to fuck you full of his come and then watch it leak out of your used, gaping hole. Then he wants to lick you clean, kiss it all better so that he can do it all over again.

The first few times he’d stopped at your diner, he’d pretended he hadn’t even noticed you, would lie to himself in his mind and tell himself that he had no interest in a little thing like you. He had no interest in women, in making connections, in having conversations. Occasionally… well– no, not occasionally. Twice, it had happened twice now, when the urge had struck, the itch had become too persistent, and his hand not enough, he’d gotten a hooker. The first time he’d shut down completely, lost his hard on and not been able to finish. The second time… he’d finished. He might’ve even made the woman come, he hadn’t bothered to ask, but he thought he might have. Then he’d gone back to his truck and cried great heaving sobs. Like he’d said… not right, he wasn’t right anymore. Couldn’t even fuck a whore without blubbering like a baby. He’d wondered if perhaps his grief had made him impotent. That’d be funny. That type of funny thing that is also a humiliation… you know the sort?

But after a while, the lie had become too much of a farce, even for his own mind. He knew, from that first moment he’d walked in, and you’d spun around, a bright smile and chirpy, little voice telling him to sit anywhere you’d like, be right with you, mister, that he’d taken notice. More than notice. He’d put you in his pocket that day and had carried you with him in some way since. Like a stone chosen off the beach, washed up by the tide and deposited in the sand just for him to come across, or maybe like a fucking infection, like the plague, for he did not want this. He did not want to think of you. He did not want to think of anyone or anything. He wanted to be alone and without anything or anyone for the rest of his life. If he did not have anyone, if he remained alone, then he could never again experience that loss which was not truly a loss, but something much worse and devastating, and even, perhaps, a little hilarious, in that way that a hilarious thing can also sometimes be humiliating and shameful… there it is. A loss that is not a loss for it is a thing so devastating it becomes something else entirely. A humiliation to one’s very existence, a decimation, emaciation, all the things, all the things, and nothing at the same time.

His mind was wont to ramblings, on occasion now. Perhaps, incoherence, was the better word. Anxiety, as well, panic, tears. Couldn’t even fuck a hooker without weeping, howling, a few sobs.

He had wandered so far, and sometimes he thought, I want to go home, but of course, that home no longer existed. It had been put in the ground two years ago and lost forever. The dissatisfaction of constant ennui. He could, perhaps, return to the geographical place, but nothing familiar would remain. He couldn’t live with the memory, he couldn’t live away from it. It was like it had simply ceased to exist that day that she’d died, and every moment since that moment was just a series of moments filled with a yearning for some place that no longer existed. He didn’t think he’d ever again feel at home anywhere.

And yet…

He turns back to look at you.

“How did they die? Your family.”

“Home invasion – murdered. He never found me, hid in the boiler closet.”

“Little rabbit.”

“Hmm,” a huff of a laugh, “Maybe. Someone once said I was lucky. Pretty fucked up, no?”

“Do you feel lucky?”

“Never. Angry – that I’d been left behind.”

“Yeah…”

“Alone.”

“Are you alone?”

You turn back to him. Inspect him. He watches the slant of your eyes take in his hair, his face, wrinkled, haggard, his chest, his arms – he feels a flush flare beneath his ribs, then back up to his eyes. He wonders if you’ve ever been fucked before. You’re young – but he can’t imagine how you wouldn’t have been. He thinks he’d do anything in this moment to get between your thighs, but also, he hopes you haven’t, hopes you could be all his, only his, his his. Mine.

He hopes he won’t cry if he gets the chance.

“Entirely,” you say finally.

“I had– have– ” shakes his head, “I have, I guess, a brother. Tommy. But the last time I saw him… I was horrible.” They seldom saw each other now – lie – they never saw each other now. Truth, Joel. We’re telling the truth now.

You laugh lightly, shrug, “Happens.”

“Sure…”

“What’d you do to him?”

“Ah, just couldn’t get a handle on myself after everything. Things got bad enough eventually, and we fought… a lot. Violently. I was violent. One morning I got out of hand, terrible – one of my biggest regrets. We hurt each other with our words and our fists, and in that way only two people who know each other too well can. He cracked my ribs, gave me half his orange in the evening, afterwards – said our apologies. He was gone the next day. Haven’t heard from him since. I just got to be too much for him,” he says again, needs to reiterate it, make sure you understand that he is too much and too dark, too unmanageable – ugly. That you should not be sat here with him. That he has a violence within him, and that you should probably run as fast and as far as you can, but that he cannot promise he will not follow. “I had…” he is ashamed of this part, surprising for he sometimes wonders if he still possesses the heart to feel shame, “I had a problem with drink for a while – not anymore, though,” he says quickly. “I promise, not anymore.” He should not be promising you anything. “I got control of it – knew it was making it all worse rather than better. Felt like I was trapped underwater with my damn ghosts – that … What's that thing called when – when sick people get like – like trapped inside themselves or somethin’? You ever heard’a that?”

“Locked-in syndrome.”

“Yeah– yeah. I read about that once or heard it somewhere – that’s what it felt like when I was drinkin’ – fuckin’ terrible. Let it go after a while… but by that time… Tommy was gone, done with me. I was – dunno… like some sort of demon or somethin’ – somethin’ bad.” He huffs a small, derisive laugh, looks at you with that ridiculously charming, crooked half smile.

That laugh sparks a kindling of anger inside of you for him. This is a broken, angry, creature of a man, you think. Something fractured – not whole, and he must be handled with care and gentleness. “How could he just leave you?

“Didn't give him a choice. Sometimes people deserve to be left.”

“I wouldn’t have.” That sobers him, wipes the smile right off his handsome face. You think of the invisible giants hurting this man in some unimaginable fashion; of the endless tenderness coiled up inside of him and how the crushing of that tenderness – the death of it – has given way to what may be considered madness. Because after all these months of watching him, of him watching you, you can see it, recognize that tenderness for what it is, but also the madness, for it is impossible to ignore if you’re really looking. Soft marrow at the center of a hard man.

“I did other things… worse things.”

“Try me.”

“I tried to kill myself.”

You whistle, long and low. You actually had not been expecting that one, at least, not the admittance of it, “You’re just full of truths,” for looking at him – the sort of man he’s built as, the thought that he could be felled by anything, even his own hand, is a little hard to believe.

“Feels like a sort of confessional in this–”

“Shithole–”

“Diner–”

Your voices overlap. You both laugh. You think you quite like the sound of your voices intermingling one on top of the other.

“What happened?”

“Flinched–”

“I flinch all the time.”

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

You hum, tilt your head side to side on your neck as if you’re letting the thought slide from ear to ear within your skull. “Perhaps only the peripheral idea of it, but never with much imagination or dedication. I don’t think I have that much to kill myself over, you know?”

“Your family?”

“Not really – it’s sort of become just this… this thing that happened once. I don’t feel much ownership over it anymore. Don’t know why, exactly.”

“Sure, that’s how I feel about it sometimes too. That belongs to a different man now – like– like some actor or a facsimile, and I just look in on it as if from a distance. Enjoy the sight of someone else's suffering…” He shakes his head, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, no, I understand. Something to do in the way that a tragedy can be compelling to watch. You can let go, let go of your awareness of yourself and experience it in a way you’d never do so in the present moment.”

“A dissociation.”

“Yes. Why would you want to go and relive the basest parts of yourself all alone, over and over again? Not likely.”

“But it was me.”

“A dissociation,” you repeat, smile.

“Yeah,” he pauses, turns the coffee cup round and round with the slow spin of his wrist as if to dissolve the remains of the grounds you know the shitty machine has left deposited at the bottom. There is a small dusting of golden brown hair covering his wrist and disappearing up his forearm beneath his flannel. You want to taste it, follow the trail to places unknown. “Not so well adjusted, us two,” And he laughs then. A real laugh. He lets you have a real laugh of his, and it is powerful – special.

“Well… no.” Of course not. “I don’t think either of us could ever claim that.”

“Bet you’ve never been bad a single day in your life, have you?”

You cock your head, let your eyes slide from him to peer out the dark window. His lonely semi is parked under the single flare of light out there. The evening has sunk into a deep blue, the hue of mourning, of melancholy, and the pavement is wet with evening rainfall.

You'd heard that some trucks had spaces behind the seats where truckers could put a bed, have a place to rest. You wonder if he’ll take you back there and fuck you in his little bunk. And honesty is a fickle thing when discussing a topic like this, isn't it? There’s a depravity about him, and you can’t tell if the truth or the lie would placate him – incite him – more. To be similar in such a way as that which he’s imagining. A little bit of both, then. After all, intent holds weight – imagination, desire, it has a mass to it that can, if enough pressure is exerted upon it, be transformed into something else.

“Not yet,” you tell him, sliding your gaze back to meet his, “Haven’t had a chance – but there’s still time.”

“What would you like to do?” He wants to take a bite out of that soft flesh you’re encased in, draw blood.

“Something depraved?” You’re taunting him – trying to provoke. It makes him slightly angry, but also hard. You should know what it is you’re toying with here.

He frowns at you, at the lilting song of your words trying to beguile him into doing whatever it is you think you want him to do to you. “What is it that you think you want here? You don’t know what I was, how I lived. Shouldn’t be sat here with me, little girl,” he scoffs. “I was– was not– I don’t fucking know, not a man. I’m not, I’m not. Not a person anymore, just this thing that continues to exist. I should not have been expected to survive. This should mean something to you too. You also have no one. You’re alone too. You’re alone in the world. You know what it feels like to only live in the winter.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, and then you say: “I think I’ve come to quite like the winter.” And at that he knows he’s taking you for himself, whether you agree in the end or not. You’re going to be his.

But he knows he must also let this roiling anger, this depraved hunger settle before he lays hands on you. Like this, in this state, he’d be too rough, break you, nothing compunctious about him or his jaggedness. He excuses himself for a smoke, your only response simply more of that inciting silence – more thoughts of cracked skulls and a cherry red cunt and tears after failed trysts with someone who doesn’t even know his name. He’s fucking embarrassing. What would Tommy say if he knew Joel couldn’t even get it up for a paid fuck anymore? He’d laugh in his face, never let him live it down. He misses his brother very much. He misses lots of things.

He’s sucking on his Red under the awning of the diner’s entrance, imagining what it’ll be like to suck on your little clit, when he hears them.

“She’s usually out about midnight. We’ll snag her then.” Grating, guttural voice.

“But I get to fuck ‘er first. This was my idea so I go first.”

“Yeah, whatever. S’only happenin’ ‘cause of me. Too fuckin’ stupid to see the plan through after all these months of watchin’ ‘er.”

“Fuck off.” Silence, and then almost with giddy elation: “We gonna kill her too?” Something cold and terrifying settles within Joel.

A beat, “Should we?”

“Dunno, man. Might be fun, huh? Never done it before.”

“She’s fuckin’ pretty,” the voice draws the vowel out in a high pitched, sacharine whine. “Got the face of an angel.” Joel’s angel, his, his, only his.

He’s got his Bowie in a sheath on the back of his belt. Perhaps, this would be a useful exercise in release. After he’s dispelled his excess energy he can come back and touch you, take you.

“Can’t wait to taste that cunt.” His cunt.

“Seen her tits, man? Fucking round and bouncy. Wanna make ‘em bleed.” And there’s only one avenue of consequence after that. After all, this is not the first time Joel’s done this.

His most well kept secret.

Sometimes, when the itch cannot be eased, abated, by his hand or a fuck or a drink or any of the other readily available vices, he turns to this. Only when the straits were dire. Only when he saw no other recourse. Only after his daughter was dead and in the ground and his brother gone away from him

But sometimes… sometimes it’s just fun. Sometimes it’s useful for a man to do that thing that he really feels he wants to do, if only to enjoy himself, if only to let go of some of that suffocating tension. If only to keep vermin like this away from an angel like you.

“We’ll chill in the woods for a while, wait the little thing out, yeah?” Joel edges his way towards the edge of the building closer to them, peeks a lone eye around the corner. Two men, middle aged. Not a problem. Not for a man like him.

He waits for them to make their way to the edge of the tree-line, watches them disappear into the gloom. He looks back into the diner through the murky windows. The warm glow of the overhead lamps washing you in a hue of golden light that brings out all the warm goodness in you he’ll take for himself once he’s snuffed out this issue.

No one’s going to touch you but him. No one’s going to hurt you but him.

As he rounds the corner of the diner there’s a piece of metal pipe propped up against the building by the dumpsters. Very nice.

He goes after them.

At the edge of the tree-line, under a swaying, low hanging branch, there is a tiny unfledged bird, helplessly twitching its way towards death in a puddle. He pauses to watch its struggle, gathers his skin about him, tightens his seams – prepares to gorge. He watches the inch by inch pilgrimage towards its last breath, then stillness. He feels so much older than his years, like he’s lived a thousand terrible years, watched a thousand terrible deaths. But there is a buoyancy about him, as well. Filled with a saccharine sweet fizz of sticky anticipation. He’s going to taste your cunt after this is done.

He moves into the gloom. He’s going to kill them for you, and his cock is hard at the thought.

Stepping beneath the canopy of the trees, into that cold, damp darkness, he sees the absolute truth of the world. On the heels of two men who’d do you harm, he knows that he’d failed to save someone he cared about once, he’d not be bested by failure a second time. Darkness implacable, the crushing black vacuum of their overheard words buzzing in his head like flies, of the harm they’d do you. Two hunted animals moving away from a creature much darker than they could even imagine, scurrying on borrowed time. What most moves him is that the things they’d do to you are not so dissimilar to the things he plans to do to you, as well. The only difference being that after he’s done defiling you, he’ll keep you for himself, with all the care and gentleness a little thing like you so deserves.

You press your ear to the cracked open door leading to the back of the building. It’s not the first time those two’ve talked their filth regarding you. The murdering is new, though. You’d not thought they were smart or inventive enough to come up with an actual kill plot. Rape enough of a hardball for minds as shallow and small as those two’ve got.

You’d never really considered them much of a threat. Or maybe you’d just never really cared enough to pay them much attention. But as you watch the broad, rippling expanse of Joel’s muscled back stalk after them, his pause at the tree-line to look down at something on the ground, you think he must be more in the vein of taking a stupid man’s shit talk to heart than you’ve ever been.

He has a thick, forearms-length of steel pipe gripped in his huge fist, and there’s a wicked looking knife strapped to his belt on the back of his hip.

Interesting.

You look back at the empty diner, the lonely parking lot beyond the glass of the windows, only Joel’s semi still taking up residence on the wet pavement. You turn back to follow after the three men.

One you want, two you’re interested to see what fate awaits them.

For some reason, when you step outside, you’re expecting there to be snow on the ground, but there is none.

You move across the pavement towards the forest-line, and the pilgrimage towards the verdant darkness feels very much like your one-way ticket out of this forlornness you’ve been trapped in your whole life. You’ve been stuck in this small town for so long, for too long. One man had already tried to forcibly evict you, had taken your entire family with him, maybe this one, maybe Joel, would do so in a way you’d more likely enjoy.

There’s been a steady, faint drizzle all day long, and the puddles of rain look like holes in the dark pavement, apertures into some other realm that glide past underground. You wonder if you stepped through if you’d disappear below into some other place. You wonder if he’d be able to find you even in that unknown other.

You cross the line into darkness.

The familiar terror of silence – you don’t seem to find it here. There is only the sound of your rushing blood, the cadence of his voice rumbling through your psyche, firing your neurons up into a frenzy. There is a twisting heat low in your pelvis, dampness between your thighs. What’s he going to do? Why’s he going to do it?Is it for me? Is it for me? It’s for you.

You let out a low whistle between your teeth and move beyond the trees. There is a giddiness about the darkness of the wood – the motley of shadows, the aroma of mushroom rot.

The familiar terror of silence. Perhaps, that is what they are experiencing now. The great horror of being set upon by a beast more terrifying than anything they could have ever conjured up on their own.

That infinite tenderness from before, that acute madness – it coalesces in the gap in the trees as you come upon the three men.

Joel has already started on the first. He murders almost tenderly. With great care, but infused with an aroma of agitated frenzy that seems flavored in the same notes of erotic buzzing that hums beneath your own skin. There is blood and viscera splattered on his face and clothes, in his hair. That great hunting knife embedded in the throat of the first man. The body lays facing you now, eyes open, shocked at his own death. Funny. Perhaps, that’s how they would have liked you to have ended up once they were through with you.

Oh, how the tune changes when the monster is on your side.

What are you? Be a creature. Be a creature. Be a creature!

You take Joel in. Thick, massive frame. You love his hair, it was one of the first things you’d noticed, thick dark curls streaked with the silver veins of his age and experience. Something that promised of care and knowledge and patience. His patchy beard with the heart shaped gap in it, you’re going to write your name into that space. His powerful arms, muscles coiled tight, his shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he brings the steel pipe up above his head, pauses to look down at his next victim.

“We won’t bother her anymore, never again – p– please, please, I swear,” the man on the ground begs and cries. There are tears and snot bubbling down his ruddy, pocketed face.

Joel is silent and terrifying and glorious above him, and then a small nod: “That’s alright… I believe you.” The metal comes down in a whistling arc, makes contact.

Flesh and blood splatter, the sound of it is pulpy and wet and vindicating. He starts with the man’s knees, then his head, caved in like the shell of an egg, the yolk spilling out like vermilion drool.

He heaves silently above the man that would have done you harm. Makes the threat go away.

You step forward, cunt pulsing and wet and eager for him. When he’s gotten his fill of bludgeoning he turns slowly back towards you, as if he’d known the entire time that you’d been stood there watching.

And the look on his face, it makes something electrifying and sticky buzz up your spine and ooze down your veins. You shift back on your heels

He shakes his head, his eyes are huge, pupils blown wide. “Don’t run,” he says slowly. If you hadn’t just watched him murder two men in cold blood – no, in your defense, he saved you, he protected you, fizzy heart full of satisfaction – you’d say he almost looks a little doe eyed.

A hollow pounding begins in his heart, as if it had remained silent for the past two years and was only now taking notice of its own silence. His cock, hard enough to burst, angry and throbbing beneath the confines of his blood soaked jeans. Fuck this scum laying on the ground beside him, look at what he has infront of him. Nothing else matters but you. A goddamned angel. Damned for he’s found you now and nothing good can come of this. He takes a step towards you, and you match him with one backwards, away from him, his blood starts to howl in his veins. Different to the humming frenzy that had filled him as he did his murdering. This is hot and viscous and ravenous, and he knows he’ll get to keep his catch once he’s gorged himself on it. He knows he’ll get to keep you once he’s caught you.

You take two more nervous little, quick steps away from him. Your eyes are slightly manic, face flushed, frame jittery, excited. A rabbit that knows it’s about to be caught. He watches the pause of your limbs as they fill with coiled energy, getting ready to make the bound and leap towards escape. He lunges, goes in for the kill, teeth bared, talons brandished.

Faster than you can even comprehend, he lunges, takes you to the ground with one massive, powerful shoulder to the vulnerable, soft of your belly, one huge paw cradled at the back of your skull to protect you from the hard ground. Your spine hits the cold, wet earth, the breath knocked out of you. You think you let out an animal noise, high pitched and supplicant. A thing that knows it’s been caught and is soon to be devoured. Your limbs scramble against the dirt, heels digging into the ground for purchase, you feel the loss of one of your shoes, as you try to get away or to crawl closer, who can be sure. A spider caught in the web or a larger, hungrier arachnid. He sets the huge heaviness of his muscular weight over your much smaller frame, one strong hand caged around the column of your throat, the other pushing your chest into the earth as he shoves his hips into the cradle of your own, forcing your thighs apart and your skirt to pool at your waist. You feel the stretch of the center plaque of your tights as his wide breadth settles between your legs, making room to take you for himself. You bring your own hands up to the wrist holding your throat and dig your nails into the skin there. You can feel the light smattering of hair covering his forearm beneath your soft palms, the cold, wet dirt beneath you, the searing stretch of the inner muscles of your thighs spread wide for him, the damp of the air surrounding the two of you. He leans forwards, pressing you down into the ground, and you have the fleeting thought that you want to transfuse yourself into the earth, into him.

He pauses then to look down at you, appreciating the gloriousness of his catch. “Caught ya.” And he’s filled with an exuberance, a sort of victory. Look at what he’s snared – all for himself.

You try and struggle again, if only to see the flare of annoyance in his eyes. It makes your cunt tight and achy. Even more than it already is. There’s a part of you that thinks you want him slightly angry – rough or mean. That you might like it even more if it hurts. Be kind enough to be cruel about it, you want to beg him. He leans forward to press his nose to your cheek, drags the cold vermillioned flush of it along your jaw, down the line of your throat, bites harsh and painful at your collarbone then over the peak of your breast.

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. It sounds very much like a threat.

“Yes.”

“Saved this cunt all for me.” And it is not a question. Yes, you moan anyways. Let him know. Let him know that this defiling is a gift you’re granting him. He sits up on his haunches between your thighs, his hands sliding down to press on your lower belly and digs his fingers into the center of your tights and pulls, ripping a hold in them for his pillaging. You try and press your knees shut at the feel of the frigid air on your sensitive inner thighs, dig your nails into the ground above your head to try and drag yourself away from him.

He digs his own fingers harshly into your flesh, his nails biting painfully into the soft skin of your thighs and ass and brings you back towards him. There’ll be streaks of pain left in his wake after this. Bad little rabbit. He smacks the inside of your thigh, watches the smooth flesh ripple for him. You let out a warbled, angry screech, little nails still trying to claw yourself away from him. He laughs then, a little mean, condescending. “Fight harder, little baby. This is pretty pathetic.” He rips your thighs apart, keep your fuckin’ legs open for me, his hands slick with the blood of his victims slide up the back of your thighs, anchoring his palms beneath the damp creases of your knees to press you open and wide for him, slaps your cunt, hard, over the soaking gusset of your panties.

“Who the fuck’re you wearin’ this tiny little thong for?” he growls. It’s white lace, with a sweet, little pink bow adorning the front. “Me? Wrapped yourself up all nice and pretty for me?” Your little foot sneaks up under his armpit and tries to push with, what he’s sure is all your valiant might, at his chest, trying to unseat him from his conquering position above you, but he takes your ankle in a vice like grip, bites harshly into the meat of your calf so that an animal squeal of pain is clawed out of your throat at the same time that he slots his fingers under the damp center of your panties. “Sing as loud as you want, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hear you out here.” He can feel the soaking wet seam of your cunt against the backs of his knuckles, and he rips them clean off you. The sound of the last remaining barrier of protection of your cunt against his ravaging being decimated has you going shock still – prey that knows it’s caught and has decided to give up. Good, this is how he wants you. Your big, wet eyes look up at him as he flings the lace towards the still steaming dead bodies. That’s all they’ll get of you. The rest is only his. Mine, mine, fucking mine.

You let your arms go limp above your head, soft and pliant and ready for ravaging, melting into the earth.

He presses your knees back and up, letting the red blossom of your wet cunt bloom for him. It’s slick and swollen, and he knows when he shoves his cock inside it’ll be burning hot. “Look at this gorgeous virgin pussy, baby. All for me. Only for me…” he murmurs, hypnotized, mesmerized. He drags the back of his knuckles over your slit, uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart, admires the swollen nub of your clit. You’re just as hungry for him as he is for you. Messy, eager little whore. He moves to undo his belt and free his aching length. Huge and brutish, thick veins pulsing just beneath the thin skin. He’s going to split you in half, break you, mold you in his image.

He spits right onto your soaked folds, watches the thick glob of saliva slide down to mingle with your own leaking slick. He’s not even going to make you come first. Little virgin cunt and he’s not going to even bother getting you ready – just gonna shove the whole, unforgiving length of himself inside of you. Force you to take it. He fists his thick fist around himself, jacks his cock once, twice, squeezing at the bulbous head so that a trickle of precum seeps out of the slit. He presses his head to your clit, slides down to give you a small threat of pressure at your opening. When he looks back up at your face your eyes flutter shut, a look of pure contented submission washing over the gorgeous planes of you.

“Not gonna be gentle, baby. Don’t got it in me.” He notches the fat head at the slick mouth of your entrance and crams his cock inside of you in one go, meets that thin barrier that says you still belong to yourself and rips through it. Mine now. No reprieve, no respite. And God, the feel of it, cleaved in half, scorching hot, filled to the brim and never deep enough. He is a rabid, snarling beast of a man as he hits the very end of you, grinds his cockhead at the mouth of your womb. You let out a warbled, pained moan, little fingers coming up to claw at his throat and chest with kitten-strength, down to dig into his thick thighs as he pins you down, and you tilt your hips to let him in deeper or escape him, he doesn't know. He doesn't care. He pulls his hips back and forces himself back in, too thick cock wedged into the too tight space. “Christ, goddamn tight fuckin’ pussy – made for me,” he grits through bared teeth.

He fucks you raw and cruel, and he needs you to just lay limp and still and take it.

And you do. And he does not cry this time.

He sets a brutal pace, throbs deep in your belly at every pause as he grinds at your cervix. It must be painful for you, perhaps, but the flush in your cheeks, the fever in your eyes, the ripple of your cunt around his driving length tells him you also like it. “What a good girl, taking my big cock,” he coos. You preen, tilt your hips this time in supplication he’s sure, hitch your feet higher along his sides. There are tears running back down your temples and into your hairline. His cock makes you cry. If he could, he’d split your throat and drink, he would. But he cannot, so he’ll split your cunt instead. He thrusts into the hilt, complete negligence for care, for gentleness lost in the dark wood, for the desperate necessity of feeling your virgins blood coating his cock. Your protestations lost to the louder song for more, for harder, for deeper

Joel, Joel, Joel.

He’s going to listen to you sing his name for the rest of his life.

He feels unhinged, a thread picked at too many times, spun loose, unraveled and frayed. That edge that separates good and evil – his bloody fingers clamp down hard on the edge of your jaw, forces you to open for him, and he spits into your mouth – direct, dirty … warm. “Lemme see…” he rumbles, and you stick your tongue out for his inspection. Once he nods, pleased and smug and conquering, you close and rub the slick of his saliva onto the roof of your mouth with your tongue, savor the taste of him. This was the taste that you’d longed for… that which teaches you what that professed edge really is. Is he good, is he evil – he’d just killed two men, you’d watched him, cunt wet at the sight of it. Albeit to protect you… sure – but does it even matter? You swallow his spit down. Probably not.

He is huge and life altering inside of you. Your virginity scoured away on his invading length.

He leans forward, hand clamped around your jaw to pierce you with his manic gaze, like his cock pierces your cunt. He smells like the forest and sweat and power. “Little fuckin’ tease,” he grits, “Bringing me cherry pie like that all the time – fuckin’ provoking me. You just wanted me to pop your cherry for you. Didn’t you, little girl?” All you can do is nod dumbly and take what he gives you. He hooks one of your knees over his elbow, the other propped over his shoulder, foot bobbing limply at each slam of his hips. He has you bent entirely in half, cunt splayed wide open for him to fuck down into the deep, devastating end of you. Your vision goes blurry, black stars streaking across the back of your eyelids. All you see is him. Perhaps he’s all that exists now. Maybe you’re just as dead as the two bodies laying beside the two of you. You wonder peripherally what the sight of the four of you must look like. Joel’s hulking form fucking you like an animal into the dirt. You open your eyes to look up at him, there’s blood splatter across his face, in his hair. His skin is burning hot against yours. You think that perhaps you’ll have scorch marks in the shape of his fingers in your skin after he’s done with you. Two dead, brutalized bodies cooling beside the place where the two of you are fucking.

“Can feel ya tightening up, baby. Gonna come all over my cock.”

He does something to change the angle, and it fucking hurts. “Too much,” you beg, try to push him back weakly, but your cunt pulls sharp and tight, and then your muscles are rippling around him, womb contracting painfully as your orgasms blinds you with its sudden intensity.

“Don’t care,” he growls back. “Do not fucking push me away.” No, he must not care. Prey doesn’t decide how it’s felled, after all.

He pulls out and back then, suddenly, slaps your cunt harshly, once, twice. You mewl, high and shocked, writhing around in the dirt. He grabs you by the hips and flips you so fast you’re left disoriented, pulling your ass up, up, up.

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he croons, bends to bite down on the meat of your asscheek, and then notches back at your gaping, fluttering hole, orgasm still running through you, and pushes back in. You’re soaking wet, slick and fucked open by him and the taking is much easier this time. You feel his thumb press down on your asshole, “Gonna take this too. Gonna have every part of you, every piece. Gonna swallow you whole.” All you do is arch your back further, cheek smushed into the dirt, fingers digging into the cool earth for purchase, for salvation.

The sight of you stretched around his thick base, so slick he feels you dripping down his balls and further below, into the bloody earth. There’s a red tinge of your own blood coating his skin, and he’s going to come. He’s going to fill you up with his spend and fuck it deep into you until it takes. Until no matter how far you want to run, he’ll be with you, always. He lets his head fall back on his neck and stares up at the dark canopy of the trees, groans low and deep.“You’re gonna be my little hole now,” he promises, presses one large palm into the small of your back to deepen the angle and fuck down into you. “Gonna take you with me and fill you up whenever I feel like it. My gorgeous little cumslut.” The ramming of his hips starts to grow sloppy and stuttered, close to the edge now. Victory is so, so near.

You start to claw at the dirt and wiggle again. Little knees chafed raw and scrambling against the hard ground trying to get away. He slaps your ass hard, hopes there’ll be the print of his hand to appreciate later.

“Not inside, not inside – not – no birth control,” you stutter, beg.

“I’m not fuckin’ pulling out.” He twists a cruel and unyielding hand into the back of your hair and presses your face harshly into the ground. Your eyes pinch and tears seep and mingle into the blood and dirt beneath you. “Gonna pump you raw and full. You don’t gotta worry about anythin’ anymore, baby. Gonna take care of you,” he grits and you press yourself harder back into him. There is an existential seesaw inside of you – a volleying of your wants – you want him to hurt you, to force you, to take care of you and keep you, all at the same time.

“Promise – promise me you won’t leave me,” you cry and beg because really, that’s all you want. All you’ve ever wanted. For someone to stay, for someone to never leave, no matter what.

“I promise – fuckin’ swear.” And you go loose and passive again at that – his to do with as he will. Nothing else really matters after all that.

He senses the change. The loosening of your muscles into capitulation. He stops his thrusting and grinds, strums at your clit. “Oh fuck, you want me to fill you up? And what happens if I do? What happens if it takes? Want me to get you fuckin’ pregnant?” Starts to fuck into you again, “I think you do.”

Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

“You’re mine. Fucking mine.” He says it again and again and again, yes, yes, yes, lets himself fall forward, anchored above you with one strong arm as he presses as deep as he can physically go and starts to fill your pulsing cunt with his come, the heat of his spend inciting you to roll into one more throbbing orgasm. He brings his face down close to yours, open your eyes, little thing, lemme see you. The fluttering of your lashes, sweaty, dirt-streaked face, and you are seraphic, the wet crimson heat of your blood pounding beneath the delicate membrane of your skin. Gorgeous, perfect, conquered and his.

“Fucked full’a me now,” he whispers, presses a soft kiss to the tender skin of your eyelid. You nuzzle into him, and then look up at him with the warmest, most vibrant gaze he’s ever seen. Fucking pleased and sated.

“They wanted me, but only you get to have me now,” you whisper. “How does that make you feel?” Provoking, provoking again.

“Like I fucking own you.” He grinds his still spitting cock further, feels the pull of your muscles milk him deeper.

He lets his weight fall partially over you, too heavy for the full mass of himself. You are, after all, a delicate thing, and he must remember to handle you with care, occasionally. He feels the pulsing and quivering of your cunt around his softening cock, and the two of you settle to lay there in the dirt, bodies still dead, virginity scoured and stolen, and stare at each other.

“Have you ever been in love?” you whisper, dragging the tip of one little finger, whisper soft, over the arch of his brow, the slope of his nose.

“I feel a little in love with ya right now,” he confesses, and you press that finger against the seam of his mouth, begging for entrance, and then inside, against the flat of his tongue to inspect the wet gleam of it. It’ll be inside of you soon enough, you should take a look at that which you’ll be writhing against in due time.

“Good. That was my plan all along.” Smug, conniving little creature.

Once it’s full dark, he packs you into his truck, buckles your seatbelt for you, tucks a blanket around your dirty knees and drives off as if he hadn’t just murdered two men and taken your virginity with their blood still hot on his skin. He goes for miles and miles, eventually finds a dark, secluded spot to park the truck for the night. He takes you into the back bunk and fucks you like you’d wanted him to, on your side, one leg slung over his shoulder, hand gripping the lush of your ass to pull you onto his impaling cock, watches your ass bounce against his thrusts. A demanded play with it, lemme see ya push it back in, as he watches himself drip out of your messy hole. Eats your cunt until you cry. Afterwards, the two of you lay, naked and damp, facing each other, tracing the lines of one another in the quiet dark.

Sometimes he’s worried he’s blood hungry – or pain hungry. Starving for something he doesn’t have a name for. But he thinks that, perhaps, he can use your name to fill in the blank space now. He’d always felt as if his devotion was a punishment to the receiver. After all, everyone Joel has ever loved has left him. But as he looks at you, there’s something in your eyes that tells him that perhaps, you’ll remain. Perhaps, he can compel you to, force you to. Perhaps, he can anchor you to himself, and in turn, give you everything.

“Are you a ghost?” he asks.

“No. Are you?”

“Sometimes I think I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re like a fuckin’ angel or somethin’. What were you doin’ out here in this wasteland?” He asks you again.

“Maybe I was waiting for you.” This answer he likes.

He’s quiet for a long time after that – taking you in, cataloging you, memorizing you. His fingers ghosting over your face, your hair, strumming the fan of your lashes. Later he asks: How do you remember the memory of someone else? How do you keep them when they’ve gone somewhere entirely unreachable?

“Because you love them,” you tell him.

“That’s enough?”

“Of course. Will you ever forget that you loved her?”

“Never.”

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#my writing #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine

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buckyysdoll · 11 months

Text

— “𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥” —

જ⁀➴ — 18+ MDNI — summary: literally just sex; a/n: i edited this drunk at 3.30am in a hotel room, so i can only apologise; cw: sort of dark! bucky (eg brief choking), p in v, use of pet names “sweetheart, doll”; pairing: bucky x f!reader

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The pounding of his cock was relentless, driving deep until he bottomed out in full. He retreated some inches — yielding little, giving less — and over again was the strong, hard length of him inside you. The only sounds in the room were lewd as he took his sweet time taking you, twin breaths coming heavy as you both tried and failed to regain a composure that just wouldn’t come.

You’d been at it for hours by now, and yet release could not be chased despite how hard you tried.

He’d groaned at the first slide of his cock into your warmth, and the narrative had been coming ever since — an endless stream. Who knew Bucky Barnes — the damn Winter Soldier — was so vocal in bed? Though if there was one person who wouldn’t complain it was you; you could barely form words as it was.

“Fuck” was the first word he'd said, though, and now was a mantra he could only repeat. It had been drawn out and lost in his throat but was now more assertive — he had taken control.

As if you’d ever not been at the mercy of his words and heated touch; as if anything else could ever rule you the same way that he could:

So damn absolutely.

For in an instant of him being within you, you had pulled him in so tight that you felt his cock strain, muscles tensing. You’d clawed at his back and Bucky had tried damn fucking hard not to come there and then; it was an effort to allow you to adjust to his length without letting his release spill inside.

The truth? You really just felt that fucking good. It seemed as though you had been made just for him.

It was because of this, all for this then, that you were now still lying spread on your back, wet thighs hot with your thorough arousal and the multiple times tonight you’d already come. You were so sore, so thoroughly ruined, that even a slight shiver of touch made you ache, but he’d have you in any way that he could until he thoroughly owned you.

He had told you as much.

But it was praise that now fell from those beautiful lips that were parted in the absence of breath; as he pushed further and deeper inside you, a litany of curses blessed the words that he spoke.

Bucky’s mouth was hot and wet in the curve between your shoulder and neck, stirring your nerves with each depraved word that he spoke into your skin like a prayer.

Like you were all he could see.

"Fuck yes, that's a good girl. Taking me so well, I’d think you're made for this cock." There it was again — that soft, soft praise. So warming that it heated both your heart and your core, too.

Indeed, the words were further pronounced with a harder, deeper thrust of his hips, and a spasm of pleasure flushed into your stomach at the truer, slanted angle of him in you.

When you started to clench on him, around him, the change was apparent and well known to Bucky; you were so close to finally coming again that as it neared you could barely even breathe through it.

For hours, you’d been edged and barely coherent with the need he'd openly refused, not deigning to satiate the ache between your legs and only wanting to build it.

You were fucking desperate.

It didn’t matter that your pussy had clenched on his tongue as he fucked you with his mouth just before, holding your hips down despite your protests that the feeling was too much, that you just couldn’t bear it.

Neither did your body care that so too had it been him that had urged you to take his fingers, and you'd already come on his cock enough times that you craved to only feel that full again.

You needed more.

And so it was that since then he’d been edging you into a mess. Only good girls got to come so many times in just one night.

And good girls begged.

Bucky had taunted that even now, after coming so much, it wouldn’t ever be enough — you were so cockdrunk that he thought, why even let you have more? Your pleasure was something only he could give so freely.

And you hadn’t yet earned it again.

The quiet mocking in his voice was almost enough, and you were so so close that it hurt. But —

If you could just “hold it" like he'd ordered, he said, then would come your last reward. And as it happened you had, and this now was it:

His cock again, again, and again.

The splinters of memory from your drawn-out night were now interrupted by Bucky's voice again at your ear, his vibranium hand so cool in its kiss as it held to your throat, giving just enough pressure.

You were compliant in his arms and he knew it, adored it, soaked up every single second of submission.

"How can such a good girl also be such a whore for me, hm? You're letting me use you like this, doll, just letting me take you however I want.”

You couldn't say a thing, could only whimper. Thoughts surfaced and broke. The sure, steady feeling of Bucky inside you getting rougher by the minute had you so sensitive that the threat of release coiled up through your stomach before you could stop it.

It was a good job then that he noticed the look in your eyes, in your tear-stained cheeks. That your fractured, desperate whimper of "Please" as you clutched to his back was at last granted some mercy.

But first —

"Tell me who you belong to." His tone was commanding, pure masculine authority. Now though, so lost to heat, you could barely make his words out through too much stimulation. Your entire world had narrowed to the thick, hard length inside you as he pushed in to your warmth, pulled out. Again and again and again.

And oh, fuck. Oh God, you were close. So close to coming that you wanted to weep.

You might've even actually done it but no shock of tears fell from your heavy-lidded eyes, and then a sharp little pull at your skin was revealed as Bucky’s teeth at your shoulder, impatient.

It was just as much warning as you'd get this time, but then your mouth regained its power to talk. All at once you came to realise that you hadn’t yet replied; Bucky’s order — the command in his voice — had so far been ignored.

And he didn’t like that.

"You Bucky, just you. Just you. " God, you were so close again but he just didn't even care. Every time your sex clenched and Bucky’s cock twitched in response, he only pulled out every time.

Or almost every. Not anymore.

Bucky now needed that wetness to coat him, needed to feel you tight and warm around his cock as you came. Needed to let himself go to release in the one place on earth he ever wanted to, now.

And so your admission broke the bonds of his subtle control, and he just ground out “Say it again." You did, and repeated it over and again with each thrust of his hips, with each groan.

You meant it and felt it with each piece of your heart as you mounted that swift sure precipice, building up higher even still as the tightly wound coil of arousal in you threatened to spill.

And so, with breath hitched and hips rolling up to match his own, your body frantic with the need to come again even after so much you'd been granted, you clenched around his cock at last as your vision was drowned in white, all and only for him.

Dark spots pricked at your coherence until every part of you was fused with Bucky, your nails at his back a last reminder that he anchored you to earth as a shattering orgasm swept you up in its tide.

And didn’t let go.

It was only a mere second later that Bucky's own thrusts grew less controlled, and his breathing pitched lower and far more erratic as he pounded, hips rolling as he came.

An ocean of warmth descended in the space between your thighs, and you still clawed at his back with weak fingers as soft aftershocks wracked through you with the force of your release.

Spent, Bucky stayed in you long after both of your breathing had slowed, his mouth and tongue working softly to soothe the bold, purple marks his teeth had made at your chest. Time passed that could’ve been minutes or hours and you spent it in blissed-out silence, your head to his chest and his heartbeat calming beneath your ear.

It was your favourite sound.

The only break in the quiet was him saying in a whisper, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.” And with his hands stroking down through your hair in such slow, soothing moves, your eyes at last drifted closed.

The last thing you heard was once again that soft praise: “You were so good for me,” and then darkness.

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#fanfic #s. smut ๋࣭ ⭑#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes hcs #james bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x stark!reader #bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x female!reader #bucky barnes x wife!reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes smut

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katiexpunk · 6 months

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The Art of Noticing | Pairing Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: In the hushed corners of this desolate world, where whispers of yesteryears linger among crumbling ruins, you find a peculiar kind of peace; just like you did when you fell asleep in the darkroom for the first time. Still armed with your camera, even in this new world, you try to keep your heart attuned to the silent narratives of a forsaken universe. You used to think this was your strong suit; to be able to immortalize the unnoticed, to preserve the beauty around you, even in a world of darkness. That was until it almost got you killed. And Joel Miller hates you for it. Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word count: ~6.1K Warnings: This one is full on corn with plot; plus lots of emotions. No specific age gap mentioned. References to loss, grief, death and sadness. Reader almost gets her throat slit, until Joel saves the day. I mean, canon-typical violence. Joel is an asshole in the beginning. Angst. Enemies to lovers. Lots of hatred towards a bird lol. Lots of film/photography references. Ellie is a gem, as per usual. Size kink. Reference to a gun/knife. Alcohol. Use of pet names (darlin', baby, good girl, sweetheart, etc.). Unprotected P in V. Oral (M and F receiving). There's a titty fuck. Grinding/dry humping. Fingering. Nipple play. There are no physical descriptions of the reader except that she has hair long enough to whip over her shoulder. Please let me know if I missed anything. A/N: This one has been in my WIPs for months. It started off as an entirely different story, but after going through and re-reading what I originally wrote, I hated it. I have all the feels about this one. Special thank you to @sydneyinacoma for being my emotional sexy support blanket and holding my balls on this one, as per usual. And to @papipascalispunk for originally editing the first version of this story, although it looks totally different now. Iris, you're a gem. Thanks for believing in me even before I did. I hope I make you proud with this one. Masterlist | Read on AO3

Tumbling at the edge Of disaster, This is how I lived. Oh see how the chrysanthemums Are dry now, Yet still beautiful. ~ Noelle Kocot

In the hushed corners of this desolate world, where whispers of yesteryears linger among crumbling ruins, you find a peculiar kind of peace; just like you did when you fell asleep in the darkroom for the first time. Your mother had always told you there was beauty in capturing the poetry in the often-ignored details, and she made sure you were given the tools you needed to do so. She was kind like that. Sometimes it's as if her presence still lingers vividly in your viewfinder, her radiant smile eternally illuminating your memories.

Your film helps you to hold on to the details that no one else is around to remember anymore, details you might one day forget; details like the color of your best friend's eyes, the warm hue of orange of your grandfather’s favorite recliner, and even the nearly lime green color of the fresh green tomatoes from your garden.

In a place where the larger story has faded, you still revel in the tiny tales—the vines reclaiming forgotten streets, sunlight gently embracing relics of the past, and the murmurs of tales etched into the decay. You think about the scratches carved into the dining room table of your childhood home and often wish you could once again find your seat around it.

But that reality is gone.

No longer is the girl who liked to swim or play with dolls. No longer is the girl who fought with her sister for stealing clothes from her closet, or her brother for hitting too hard.

Like many others, she’s gone. They’re gone.

She was whisked away to make room for the woman you are today; the person you’ve had to become to survive.

Still armed with your camera, even in this new world, you try to keep your heart attuned to the silent narratives of a forsaken universe. You used to think this was your strong suit; to be able to immortalize the unnoticed, to preserve the beauty around you, even in a world of darkness.

That was until it almost got you killed.

And Joel Miller hates you for it.

++++

Months after your patrol that went wrong, you bump into Joel outside the Tipsy Bison, giving him a cursory glance before turning around.

The idea of saying sorry crosses your mind, but for whatever reason, you don't. Your kindness, once a vibrant tapestry, is now a threadbare token. Besides, it’s his fault. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to the doorway. If anything, he should be apologizing to you.

You’re in a rather grumpy mood this evening, having wasted the last of your film only to overexpose the prints earlier in the day. Every single one – ruined. Sure, before the outbreak, this might not have bothered you as much, but now, finding film is like striking gold, and your stash is dwindling at an alarming rate. The frustration hangs over your head like a cloudy day. All you want to do is go home and sulk – forget about the mistake – at least if you were at home crying over your photographs, you wouldn’t be subject to prying eyes.

“Watch it,” Joel says, voice low and even, a sharp hint of annoyance behind his tone.

You stop in your tracks. You know you should walk away from this. But your temper is already on edge, sensitivity on hyperdrive, and something about the sneer of Joel’s voice gets under your skin. You spin around in a huff and toss your hair with annoyance. “Maybe next time don’t block the door,” you bark.

Joel retorts, red-hot at your audacity. “‘Scuse me? Wanna run that by me again, sweetheart?

The pet name is patronizing; you’re a real stick in his craw.

"You heard me," you snap back, punctuating your annoyance by crossing your arms over one another across your chest.

Joel turns around and takes a large stride toward you, closing the gap between your bodies so he’s nearly chest-to-chest with yours, his imposing figure towering over you, and his eyes narrow. “What’s got your panties in a twist tonight, hmm?” Joel asks, voice dripping with sarcasm and void of any genuine concern.

“You” you say, “you’re always so fucki–” before you can continue your sentence, Joel stops you by placing his large index finger onto your lips to hush you. "You've got one helluva smart mouth, darlin’," he says, voice low, almost menacing.

You freeze, looking up at him unsure of what to say as he brings his face inches from yours, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath. The flecks of amber that dance around the edges of his irises catch your attention. As you swallow, your eyes momentarily flicker down to the thin line of his lips. Abruptly, he withdraws his hand, leaving an echo of intensity lingering in the suspended moment.

He isn’t particularly nice, but you have to admit, he is fucking hot. Since his arrival in town, he's been a magnetic force, his somber aura unmistakable to even the most casual of onlookers. A silhouette of brooding intensity, with shoulders that carve the space around him and biceps that speak of strength. His voice, a rasp in the wind, adds another layer to his already large presence.

“I’ve been told,” you pause. “Just – just get out of my way,” you say firmly, walking away as your shoulders brush against him.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" you scoff in your best imitation of his voice. You exhale sharply, fully aware of the true reason behind the agitation. You haven’t been fucked in years, and the heat that Joel stirs low in your belly is an incredibly frustrating feeling, knowing you’ll never get to do anything about it.

God damn infuriating man.

++++

As you lay in bed that night, you can't help but replay your encounters with Joel, the scenes repeat like an annoying commercial that won't leave your mind. Memories of your patrol with him keep playing on a loop, embedding themselves in your thoughts, refusing to fade away in the darkness of the night. "You could’a been killed," Joel's words still ring in your ears, the weight of his tone and the intensity in his eyes seared into your memory. You remember the sounds – the bone-crushing crunch and the grim, wet thud as Joel swiftly dealt with the raider who tried to slit your throat for your backpack, all while you were innocently looking through the lens of your camera, attempting to take a picture of a bird on a tree branch.

“I told you to follow my instructions, to listen, and you almost got killed on my watch – f’what? A picture of a fucking bird?” he said, trying to get you to see his point of view. Of course, you’ve apologized. Profusely, even, but it falls on deaf ears.

Ever since that moment, Joel hasn’t looked at you the same. You're certain all he sees is a stupid little girl, unable to protect herself. Nothing but a burden. Dead weight on his already sore shoulders.

Just go to sleep and forget about it, forget about him, you think to yourself, stirring in the scratchy fabric of your sheets.

As you drift off, you wonder what the bird saw that day.

++++

With a grunt, Joel manages to kick off his boots in the entryway, and they land with a loud thud against the floor. The worn wooden stairs creak beneath his weight as he ascends the steps, the dim hallway leading to Ellie's room. Pushing the door ajar, he finds her peacefully asleep. A small smile tugs at his lips, grateful to see her warm and safe.

Retreating to his room, Joel sheds the remnants of the day – his jacket, the weight of exhaustion, and the lingering sensation of your soft lips under his finger. As he settles into bed, the worn mattress groaning beneath him, he remembers the sound of your sweet voice; your puffy, teary eyes looking up at him as you apologized; and the sticky feeling of the blood on his hands from the man who tried to hurt you.

He wishes he would have pulled you close; and held you in the safe embrace of his arms.

He’ll never admit it, but he forgave you almost immediately, and it terrifies him more than anything in this new world ever could.

He’s already lost so much, and he’s not sure how much more he can take.

Surely it’s easier to hate you, rather than admit the truth, rather than lose you.

“Fuckin’ bird,” he mumbles before drifting off to sleep.

++++

"Come on, you've gotta be there! It's gonna be a total snooze without you," Ellie pleads, practically begging you to join her at the annual community holiday gathering.

Whereas Joel mostly acts like a grade-A jerk, Ellie is like a breath of fresh air. From the moment you met her, you’ve had a connection – you taught her the ropes of film exposure, and she's good company in a world where friends are a rare commodity. Despite your initial reluctance, you eventually cave. It’s not really your thing, but it’s a taste of normalcy, or what passes for it in this broken world, that you crave; plus, you convince yourself that you might even get a few good photos out of it.

Standing alone at the bar, you try to relax. You fiddle with the strap of your camera that rests on the bartop as you reminisce about how before the world turned to shit, you would have been quick to capitalize on an opportunity like this – to meet a nice guy, maybe have a drink or two and then end the night between the sheets.

You close your eyes and try to recall the last time you were touched, but it’s fruitless. It’s been so long since you’ve felt the gentle caress of a man or anyone for that matter.

You huff your residual irritation at the thought as you notice Joel talking with Tess in the distance. Tess. She’s rather new to town. You’ve only spoken once or twice, but you’ve gathered that she is a formidable woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, but still somehow kind.

Plus she can hunt, a welcome skill around here. As she converses with Joel, you take the time to drink in the details about her that you hadn’t noticed before. You guess she’s in her mid-40s, her hair is a mousey shade of brown with small shiny threads of gray in the mix, but she wears it well. Her complexion is soft, and her smile is nice. She’s pretty. You try not to color yourself too hard in the various shades of green as you wonder if Joel thinks the same.

“Another,” you signal to the bartender, and he fills your glass with amber liquid.

Maybe it’s the booze or the thick air from the crowded room causing your brain to go fuzzy, but you find yourself lost living out an alternate reality in your mind – one where Joel doesn’t hate you. One where he calls you a good girl, voice thick like honey, as he fucks you within an inch of your life.

Ellie’s voice calls you back to reality as she yells your name, signaling you to join her at the other end of the room. Downing the last of your drink, appreciating the subtle warmth it brings to your insides, you carefully place the glass on the bartop, shooting a subtle nod of appreciation to the bartender as you do; you grab your camera and place the strap around your neck. As you navigate the space toward Ellie, your keen awareness catches Joel breaking from his conversation with Tess, his gaze searing into you as you walk past both of them. His face is unreadable, but that doesn’t stop your pulse from quickening under his attention.

++++

After hours of socializing, all you crave is the comfort of your bed. Exhausted, you stumble out of the building, your balance betraying you on the gravel beneath your feet. Shit. You stand up, brushing off the lingering dirt from your knees, inadvertently smearing a small fleck of blood into your skin in the process. Of course, the one night you decide to wear a dress, the only one you own, you would end up injured.

“Really don’t have much spatial awareness, do ya, Darlin’?” Joel says, appearing out of the darkness, his dark and husky voice rings in your ears. It comes out a little harsher than he intended.

You shoot him a glare, half-hoping your eyes could actually launch daggers and finish him off right then and there. "Why do you always have to be such an asshole to me?" you demand, your frustration boiling over. “I’ve already apologized as much as I can, it’s fine if you don’t like me, but you could at least be cordial,” you say, voice defeated.

His mouth opens like he has something to say, but he doesn’t respond. "Right. Screw this, I'm going home,” you sigh as you walk away, thoroughly done with whatever messed-up game of cat and mouse the two of you are playing.

Joel watches you walk away, wishing he dared to go after you.

++++

Months go by, and despite the shifting atmosphere, as the crisp embrace of autumn gradually succumbs to the biting chill of winter; the air between you and Joel remains unchanged. His indifference is as unyielding as the encroaching winter snow.

“Tommy, please don’t make me go,” you beg. “He doesn’t even like me,” you cry, hoping he’ll have some sort of mercy on you.

“Sweetheart, he doesn’t like anyone. ‘M sorry, but it’s gotta be you two this time, ” Tommy replies, the sentiment of his voice echoing that there is no other option.

As you’re packing your backpack, you consider taking your camera but decide against it. Joel’s words pierce through you once more, “you almost got killed on my watch – f’what? A picture of a fucking bird?” You stash it in your dresser drawer, exchange it for a beanie and gloves, and walk out of the room to head to the stables.

Underneath the dappled morning sunlight filtering through the trees, you tread the familiar path to the barn, a soft crunch of gravel beneath your boots. The earthy scent of hay and the distant sounds of horses create a tranquil backdrop. As you approach the stables, your gaze catches Joel's silhouette – he stands, a rugged figure, in a weathered leather jacket and denim jeans with a knife sheathed at his side and a gun slung casually over his shoulder.

"Hey," you utter, your voice a gentle cadence, drawing closer to him. His gaze assesses you with a measured scrutiny, and with a subtle nod, he responds in a low murmur, "Ready?" The acknowledgment of your greeting remains absent.

Once inside the barn, you see the stable attendant readying your ride.

“‘M sorry, but you two are gonna have to share a horse,” he says, matter of fact. “Good ole bessy here has a lame foot that we gotta take care of before she’s back in commission,” he adds, patting the horse on the side. “And every other horse already has a rider for the day,” he adds. You think you hear Joel groan, but you can’t be sure.

You give the horse a friendly greeting, running your hand along its sturdy neck, a silent bond of understanding. Climbing onto its back, you settle in comfortably. Joel, without a word, positions himself behind you. The feeling of his thick chest pressed up against your back causes your breathing to hitch in your throat. Your eyes flutter closed as Joel reaches around you to grab the reins and he gently nudges the horse to go.

The rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on the path fills the air as you and Joel ride in tandem, a shared silence enveloping the space between you. The warmth of your body pressed against him, and the faint scent of your strawberry shampoo mingled with the earthy aroma of the trail, causes Joel to stiffen behind you. He adjusts his hips, subtly pulling them back, so you don’t notice.

You ride like that for what seems like an hour or more, until Joel breaks the silence, "So what’s the deal with the camera,” he asks as the horses continue their steady pace. His question throws you off. Is he being friendly?

“Oh, uh – well, my mom gave it to me when I was a little girl,” you say. Your voice goes an octave higher as you continue, “It’s all I have left of her now. All I have left of anyone, really,” you say. You bring your gloved hand up to wipe away the bead of snot that has gathered at the tip of your nose, sensitive from the cold, as you wait for his response.

“Hmm,” he adds, sensing the sadness, the grief behind your words; a hard truth almost everyone left alive has had to live. His heart hurts for you, hell, it hurts for him, too.

“Must be hard, reckon there’s not much worth takin’ a photo of these days,” he says, his head scanning from right to left to look out for any potential threats.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you pause.

“When I was younger, I used to think the sound of thunder was just the sound of god rearranging the furniture,” you say, slightly angling your head back to look at him, “it’s all about perception, Joel.”

He peers down at you, a furrow forming on his brow as he considers your words, his eyes tracking down to linger on your lips. Before you can say anything more, your attention flickers upward to the sky, the clear blue sky has been replaced by dark, ominous-looking clouds, and a raindrop falls to your cheek.

++++

By the time you find shelter, far from the comforts of Jackson, you’re both completely drenched.

“Stay here,” Joel says, hopping off the horse and swinging the rifle over his shoulders into his thick hands. You brush away the beads of water collecting on your lashes as you watch him enter the home to make sure it’s safe. He’s gone for what feels like forever, and after he returns, the rifle is slung over his shoulder again. It’s safe.

“Alright, darlin’ – all clear, let’s get outta this mess,” he says, offering his hand to help you get off the animal. Once steady, he takes the horse by the reins to lead him into the garage for shelter.

The rain-soaked chill clings to your skin as you and Joel step into the abandoned home, seeking refuge from the biting cold. Droplets cascade from your clothes, leaving a small puddle beneath your feet. The air inside is still, the only sound is the soft creaking of the dilapidated structure, the percussion of the raindrops falling on the roof, and the whip of the wind beating against the siding of the house.

Without a word, you both start shedding your damp layers, your shivers becoming more pronounced in the cool silence. You stand in the dusty living room, clad in only your bra and underwear, as you hold your arms crossed over your chest partially to warm yourself but also to shield yourself from Joel’s eyes, slightly self-conscious.

Joel briefly walks off before he returns from the bedroom off the side of the living room, having managed to find an old blanket among the remnants of the forgotten lives of the people who once lived in the home. He holds it open wide to you, an offering, and you turn your body so he can drape it around your shoulders. Once secured, you find a little bit of relief in its thick fibers.

You turn around to face him, and he stands there, rubbing his hands together in front of him in an attempt to warm himself.

“Joel, you’re freezing,” you say, slightly taking the blanket off of your shoulders as if to offer it to him. “‘M fine, Darlin’ – I’ll be fine, keep it, you need to get warm,” he says, but you see the way his body shakes as he says it, his tender curls plastered to his forehead; weighed down by the water collecting in them.

At that moment, you witness a fracture in Joel's stoic facade, the rugged exterior showing hairline cracks. The formidable walls he's meticulously built begin to crumble.

"Joel, seriously, we can share – come here," you insist, extending the blanket open with one arm, inviting him into the cocoon of warmth. The gesture carries an unspoken understanding, a truce. You might hate me, but I don’t hate you.

Joel hesitates for a second, his eyes tracing over your skin; as if he’s committing the sight of your hard nipples and damp skin to memory.

At last, he acquiesces, closing the gap between your bodies. His hands encircle your waist, drawing you close as he wraps both arms around you. You respond by wrapping your arms around his neck, and the blanket falls around both of your bodies. With him this close, you notice the subtle scent he carries with him, a touch of rain, a dash of cinnamon, and a hint of sweat. You’re not sure how, but he smells good.

With a long exhale, he tightens his hold on you, enfolding you against the sturdy warmth of his body. You melt into him, your cheek resting on the soft skin of his chest, and your breathing returns to a steady rhythm. You both pause there, letting the warmth swallow you up; eventually, the goosebumps that once littered both your bodies, begin to fade.

Your stomach flips as you listen to the subtle pitter patterns of his heart and the rhythmic sounds of his breathing. You had forgotten how good it feels to just be held; to have another body pressed up against yours. You realize Joel must feel the same, your attention flickers to the hard stiffness pushing against your stomach.

Tilting your face up to meet his, your arms still entwined around his neck, you whisper "Joel," your voice suggestive and questioning at the same time. His name hangs in the charged air.

"Darlin'," he responds in a low murmur, and before you can formulate a response, his lips claim yours in an unexpected yet tender collision. Joel groans and forces his tongue into your mouth. The intensity surges, and he begins to pull you back towards the couch. Joel pauses when the back of his calves meet the edge of the cushions, and he deepens the kiss before sitting back, pulling you with him onto his lap, the blanket falling to the floor leaving you almost bare on top of him.

The air in the home is still cold, but you don’t care, the adrenaline pulsing through your veins and your red-hot desire for him is more than enough to keep you warm. He’s as hard as a rock under his underwear, and you hum, noting how good his cock feels beneath you. You haven’t seen it yet, but you can tell he’s big.

“Are you sure you want this? What about Tess?” you ask, grinding against his erection. Joel grunts as he gropes both of your breasts with his hands, his lips meeting yours once more.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters, leaning back to look at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more,” he says, his hands leaving your breasts to find your hips, and he pulls you down harder onto his clothed erection. “And Tess and I are just friends,” he adds, “You’re the one I haven’t been able to get outta my head.”

Joel closes his eyes, and his mouth hinges slightly open. It has been a while since you’ve been laid, but god were you glad to see you could still render a man speechless.

Joel’s long, firm fingers find their way up your back to the clasp of your bra. He begins to unhook it. “Take this off,” he says, and you do as he says, throwing the damp lace onto the floor, leaving yourself completely topless on top of him.

“God damn, Darlin’ –”, Joel responds to the sight of you.

“Like what you see?” you say, feeling confident, and less intimated now that Joel is beneath you. Of course, he could overpower you in a matter of seconds, but in this moment, you have the upper hand. You grasp his chin, admiring the feel of the coarse hair on your fingertips, and lean down to kiss him hard.

His cock throbs against you, and your pussy drips in response. You stay there, kissing him, grinding your clothed cunt into him, enjoying the desperate sounds he makes as you do. His firm body, soft tummy, and compact muscles spur you on. You grin as you trace your hands down his smooth chest, noting the scars -- from what, who, you can only imagine – until your hands eventually make their way down to the band of his underwear.

Joel stops you, firmly gripping your chin to look at him. He pauses there and then pulls your face towards his, firmly sucking your bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth. “Mmm, Joel,” you mutter, the words leaving your lips fumbled and sloppy. Joel intensely stares into your eyes for a moment, and you stare back, eyes wide in disbelief that this is happening.

“C’mere,” Joel says, breaking the silence with another kiss, as you rock your hips against him again, the movement sending sparks straight to your core. God, you’re so fucking wet for him – a dripping mess.

Joel presses his face against your chest and works his way to your pebbled nipple before daring his tongue out to lick it. You push a still slightly damp curl away from his forehead, before clenching his hair in your fist. His breath is almost desperate as he laps at your tender nipples, alternating between sucking and little flicks of his tongue. “Joel,” you moan, pulling his face into your chest.

He growls softly, and sucks at your nipple harder, then rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You make a little noise in response. He trails the flat of his tongue up the valley of your breasts and over your exposed throat before kissing it, his hips lifting to you a bit as he does. He can’t wait to be buried inside of you.

“Up, baby. There’s a bed in the back room,” he says, tapping your thigh. You shimmy off of him, and he rises to full height. It doesn't take long for his lips to find you again. Kissing in a way that’s almost as violent as he is, you walk backward this time, making your way to the bedroom with Joel’s guidance.

It isn’t much, just skeletal remains of what was once a sanctuary. A duvet rests on the creaky old bed, its once vibrant pattern lost to time and dust. The room is mostly bare apart from the bed and a half-falling apart nightstand. Joel sits down on the bed and you fall to your knees in front of him. Your fingers hook under the elastic of his underwear, and his hips cant up to help you pull the fabric down and off his legs.

The cock that springs free is thick and long. You’re intimidated only momentarily until the need to feel him overwhelms you.

You spit into your palm and take his heavy member in your hand, before beginning to jerk him off. You slide your thumb across his swollen and red tip, your other hand gripping the thick, dark coarse hair against the base of him.

Joel’s eyes roll back into his head at the sensation of him in your soft palms. You bend forward and place his cock in the space between your breasts, you tilt your chin down and open your mouth so a long line of drool dribbles down to the cleft of your chest for lubrication, and then you squeeze the flesh around his length, rubbing up and down the entirety of him.

“Fuck nghh — that’s, ugh, that’s so good baby,” he grunts, his hands grabbing the nape of your neck.

And it is good. Almost too good.

“Darlin’, shit – ah, you gotta stop or I’m gonna come,” he says, his voice low.

“Maybe I want you to,” you purr, torn between making him coat your tits with come, or letting him fuck you first.

“No,” he says, voice more firm this time, “Gotta feel that perfect pussy before I do, baby girl,” he says, rising to full height, his arms wrapping under your armpits to bring you up with him. In one swift move, he has you turned and your back hits the mattress while a soft oof escapes your lungs.

Joel has a hazy, dark look in his eye as he hovers over you. His pupils are blown open wide with lust. You think he might fuck you then, but he looks down and notices that your pussy is still covered by the thin lace of your now-soiled panties. He kisses down your chest, your tummy, and his head eventually finds its place between your thighs. He plants a soft kiss on your mound, and he mutters how sweet he thinks you’re going to taste.

“Think we oughta find out,” he says, and he hooks his thumbs around the fabric and pulls them off your frame. Within seconds, his soft lips are on your wet folds.

"Fuck –,” you cry out as he licks a firm stripe up your pussy. Joel moans before making his tongue flat and massaging your clit with it. It’s so fucking good. "Taste so sweet, Darlin’, knew you would," Joel breathes, his breath hot against you.

He sinks a thick middle finger into you, and your walls clamp around the welcomed intrusion. His finger grazes against the soft spongy spot inside you that feels so good, and he works it in and out of you before adding another finger, twisting and working them both into you with precision. You’re so fucking close. You choke out a moan in response, enjoying the sensation of his long and thick fingers rubbing against your walls as his tongue makes tight circles around your sensitive clit.

You pull at your nipple with one hand and hold on to the top of his head, his hair entangled between your fingers as you attempt to hold on to him, an anchor to keep you from floating away, and he devours you.

His fingers thrust faster, his mouth firm on your throbbing bud, and he works to throw you over the cliff of your orgasm. You wail out, and the slurping groans that come from Joel are primal and filthy.

“Be a good girl for me,” he demands, his words barely audible with his mouth on your puffy lips, “want you to come,” he moans. “Come on pretty girl, I’ve got you – let me taste your sweet release.”

His dirty talk is all you need. "Yes, oh my god – Yes! Joel, fuck, I'm coming, don’t stop" you cry, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, your chest hot. Your vision goes white as you release yourself to him. Your back arches and your legs flex; your stomach feels like it’s being sucked into itself, and Joel works you through it, lapping up your come.

He rises from between your legs, his beard slick with your release, and smiles at you. As satisfied as you are at the moment, he’s the one that looks it. “Kiss me, darlin’,” he says, and his lips find yours. You savor the way it tastes; a hint of tang, but just so. You reach your hand in between your bodies to grab his cock, and he takes the hint.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he says, lining the entrance of his cock, the tip of it weeping with pre-cum, up against your wet and waiting hole. He presses his hips forward gently, and you begin to relax and flutter around him, feeling the subtle sting of an unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant, stretch.

“So big, feels so full, Joel,” you cry, “I know, baby. But I know she can handle it,” he coos, pressing impossibly deeper into you, until eventually he’s buried in you to the hilt. Underneath his solid frame, skin to skin, his cock firm inside of you, you feel your skin prickle hot and blood rushes through your ears. He fucks you equisitely, his chest crowding yours, but he bears the brunt of his weight on his forearms so as not to crush you too much.

He steadies like this for a while, before he eventually pushes himself up and grips the back of your knees. You follow his cue and pull them up, feet flat on the mattress beneath you. He folds them cross-cross onto your chest, obscenely stretching your needy hole around the girth of him.

You can’t breathe. He’s so big you swear you can feel him in your lungs. His cock drags in and out of you, making you shudder and your toes curl. The way he fucks you is so much – hard, deep, and passionate.

“You feel so good, Darlin’. Gripping me so fucking good, being such a good girl,” Joel moans.

“God, don’t stop, ugh I’m so close,” you say, eyes closing.

“Eyes open, baby. Want you to look at me while you come on my cock,” he says, as he takes your chin in his thumb and forefinger, demanding your attention.

Something snaps inside you, and your whole body tenses, and then releases in a sweet gush. “Jesus,” his blunt nails dig into the flesh of your hips before his jaw falls slack. With one more thrust, he loses himself, buried deep inside of you, your walls coaxing his balls empty. “Fuck, baby,” he growls as he empties everything inside you, finishing his climax with a guttural groan.

Joel pulls out, and you sigh at the loss of being full of him. He bends forward to press a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling sharp breaths, before falling to your side on the mattress.

You sit up onto your forearms, and a dribble of his release comes out of you. You grin down at him, surveying the damage. Joel’s complexion is pink, and his eyes are closed – he’s successfully been fucked into oblivion.

“Cmere, darlin’,” he says, eyes still closed, opening one arm open to welcome you into the warmth of his chest. You lay there, once again listening to his heart and the sounds of the rain on the grimy window in the room. You trail your index finger down his sternum.

“You know, I thought you hated me,” you say, your voice a little sad, but you know you need to get this off your chest. “I know you had to kill that guy because I wasn’t paying attention, and I really am sor–” Joel once again silences your sentence by placing his finger on your lips.

“Never say sorry to me again, Darlin’,” he says “‘sides, I’m the one who should be apologizin’, I’ve been a real asshole to you,” his voice sincere. “I just – I don’t know what I would ha’ done if I didn’t get to that guy in time, I’d never forgive myself if I lost you and could have prevented it.” His head drops to the pillow and he stares at the ceiling; your head finds it’s place once again the crook of his arm, nuzzled up against his side body for warmth.

There’s still so much more he wants to say, but he knows that he’ll have the time to do it later. He stares at the rough texture above him for a moment longer, before he quickly gets up, as if to remember something.

“Be right back,” he says and walks into the other room. He returns with a pack and pulls from it a little black container. “Found this during a raid the other day – thought of you,” he says, handing it to you. You jiggle it up by your ear and smile.

Film.

Joel Miller may be an asshole.

But he’s an asshole that most definitely doesn’t hate you.

END

Tagging moots and those who showed interest in the preview: @untamedheart81 @darkheartgatita @endlessthxxghts @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @bastardmandennis @dins-riduur-anthe @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @survivingandenduring @nosesitter @pedroswife69 @morallyinept @milly-louise @toxicanonymity @javiscigarette @planet-marz1 @anavatazes @dugiioh As always, please let me know if you want to be added or removed from my tag lists.xx

#joel miller the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #The last of us #enemies to lovers #pwp fics #pedro pascal character #joel miller #pedrohub #film photography

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madelynraemunson · 1 month

Text

CASUAL part 2

see part one here.

modern!incel!asshole! eddie x fem!reader

It’s 7 in the morning. Eddie is seen doom-pacing in the halls of Hawkins High.

a/n: i promised y’all part 2 so here ya go. let’s make him pay. 💋 also shout out to @love-anonymous-writer for bringing this universe to life. a little angst here and there is good for the soul <3

who got the last laugh?

[WC: 1.1k words]

“Please respond…please respond…please respond…”

The soles of Eddie’s shoes slam against the tiles of Hawkins High as he rushes to your locker. Meanwhile his entire soul has left his body.

You didn’t answer any of his phone calls. All the texts he sent you were left on read. Having been so accustomed to your instant replies, Eddie essentially catapulted himself into a full-blown panic last night when he saw the ominous text you sent him...and the nothingness from you that followed soon after.

The crickets of Forrest Hills that taunted his eardrums later that night served as a vengeful metaphor of the brick wall you built between you and him. The girl who once gave him everything has now started giving him nothing. You’re nowhere, but everywhere. It’s like you’ve become a ghost.

When he sees you, color drains from Eddie’s guilty face. You look so beautiful today, hair curled down to the small of your back, a nice simple dress and some slippers, with makeup ever so gracefully applied. A class act, even when plagued with the utmost disrespect.

“Hi," he says to you as he approaches.

“Hi.”

As far as Munson knows, he no longer exists to you. He's a shadow now, a carapace of a boy you used to love 'cuz now — after hearing what you heard in his trailer — you know he's not the same boy that made you feel all the butterflies. That boy is long gone. You even start to wonder if that version of Eddie even existed.

“C-can we talk, please?” he requests.

“What’s to talk about?” you challenge him, stoically. “Don’t wanna annoy you with my rambling.”

“You never annoy me…” he attempts as you mindlessly comb through your locker for your homeroom notebook.

“Mm.”

You were casual about it. Too casual about it.

“You… uh…” he clears his throat. “You made me cookies yesterday?”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I was at your door for quite a while so you must’ve been busy. Cookies were taken care of though.”

“I see…” Eddie mutters as the pieces all start coming together.

He thinks about how he always leaves his windows cracked open. His uncle would whoop his ass if he hot-boxed the trailer again, so it became a habit. But the trailer park is small, and on certain afternoon, if someone from a nearby unit had dropped a pin, Eddie would hear it. Suddenly, fear arises in him.

Surely, you didn't hear everything he and The Boys™️ said. He had his headphones on and he couldn't have possibly been that loud, could he? Unless technology failed him again.

The warning bell sounds throughout the halls and you excuse yourself from the narrative. Eddie tags after you like a lost puppy, nearly tripping on his shoelaces along the way.

"W-wait!"

The first class of the morning is homeroom. A class you unfortunately shared with Eddie, Grant, and Harmony.

You didn't want to see any of their faces. Eddie's face would serve as a reminder of how fake and construed the fucker is. Grant's would remind you of how insignificant you were to the guys (despite how welcomed they made you feel at the start). And Harmony. Harmony's beautiful face — with a body far too developed for a girl in her grade to match — would only remind you of the fact that the girl didn't inherently do anything to you... other than be beautiful and get caught in the crossfire of horny, greasy teenage boys.

It’s a fucking mess.

You swallow hard and keep your chin up regardless. Because what other choice do you have? You either feign your confidence or let irrelevant boys crush it.

You continue strutting over to your seat as Eddie trails behind at a measurable distance. Along the way, you inevitably run into the Junior Queen of Hawkins High herself, Harmony Heathers.

Harmony issues you a sweet smile. You smile back at her in return. And you didn't even need to turn your back to know that Eddie most likely did a double-take when sliding past her.

The late bell rings, indicating the start of class.

“Okay,” your homeroom teacher Mrs. Helleck exhales as she clasps her hands together. “Good morning everybody. For Red Ribbon Week this week, we’re gonna be doing a group project. Worth 20-percent of your grade.”

The class erupts in agonistic groans while Mrs. Helleck attempts to calm them down. You feel Eddie’s gaze burn into you, indicative to the fact that he was looking forward to using you again like he always seems to do. This time around it would be for a grade instead of a two-pump fuck. But you had something else in mind.

“You will be doing a presentation,” Helleck continues. “With a partner of your choice. Your job is to create a slogan along with a list of reasons why you should stay away from drugs.”

“Drugs Instead of Hugs,” Grant mutters to Eddie.

The general vicinity collectively praises his lukewarm wannabe 4-Chan edged joke.

You roll your eyes while your poor homeroom teacher tries to proceed with her instructions, despite the immature snickers.

“You will be presenting with your partner on Friday. Do not wait until last minute to do this assignment please. Deadlines catch up to you fast.”

Mrs. Helleck makes her way over to you.

Like Dungeons and Dragons, everyone in the class is assigned a “classroom role”. You’re the leader of the pack, the ‘foreman’, to which you never understood because up until today you never had the confidence to call the shots. The alphabet has never been on your side anyways.

“Now dear,” your teacher smiles down at you. “Since your last name starts with an A, you get first choice. Who would you like to work with?”

Eddie’s gaze is extra fixated on you now. It gives you a greater deal of satisfaction than tossing those cookies ever did. It was you who had the reigns now, instead of those woman-patronizing incels.

You start to smile connivingly, to which the guys start to gulp over. You can tell they’re putting two and two together, their two brain cells collectively working over time to discover that you had a delicious upper-cut up your sleeve.

It’s the very least they can do. If they wanted to taint your name to smithereens in your absence, you’re sure as hell going to give them something else to lose their minds about in Math 3.

And when all eyes are fixated on you, you tilt your chin up to project your voice. You want to make sure everyone, especially Grant and Eddie, hear you loud and clear when you sinisterly announce,

“I pick Harmony.”

tag list: @damp4eddie @eddiesguitarskills @babygirl229 @love-anonymous-writer @ziggeddie @socially-awkward-eliza @shesahellfirebabe @ali-r3n @yourdailymemedelivery @mincloud @jupitersnights @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist @whisperingtales @fearlessreid @emma-munson

divider by: @benkeibear

#eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson mini series #requests #maddy’s requests 🍸#part 2 #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you

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huhniebowl · 2 months

Text

French Toast?

dominic fike x reader

warning(s); none!

Listen to 7 hours when reading!:)

a/n: yeah, im whipping these mf's OUT! thank you for this yummy request!

this is short but fun. also calling myself out heavy here...i 100% went through both the justin bieber and bts phase...

*still editing this a bit, so bear with me!*

You don’t obsess.

You’ve never had a One Direction phase. You never had the primal urge to deck your walls with Justin Bieber posters, and you never succumbed to the fanfictions of BTS.

You’re firm on the narrative that obsessing over someone who has no idea who you are, a complete waste of time. So you never indulged.

So why is it that you’re leaning against a barricade, a sign below your feet with, “Dominic, play your unreleased shit!” written in big sparkly bubble letters.

Pierced tits showing nice and pretty under a fitted white t-shirt you made just for the show.

“Fuck me Dominic Fuck!” ironed on the front. His actual last name printed small and in parentheses under the second fuck.

Your wordplay landed perfectly. Other fans coming up to you with laughs and praise.

"You know," Ian, your best friend's boyfriend, begins, giving a playful glance as you slip your phone into your mini purse, "I still can't believe you've succumbed to this."

"Ian's got a point," Aria chimes in, leaning into him.

"You beat the One Direction phase, but this? This is the one you can’t beat?” She raises an eyebrow.

You roll your eyes.

"Fuck off," You start, uncrossing your arms and sliding your manicured nails into the pockets of your low-rise jeans, "This is perfectly normal, thank you very much. Mind your business."

You jut your hip out, and lean your weight to your right leg.

"Besides, I’d rather this than the Larry allegations.” You stick your tongue out.

Aria gasps, "You didn't!"

"Oh, she most certainly did," Ian confirms with a nod, stepping out of the way.

Before you can revel in your victory, Aria launches herself at you, locking you in a loose headlock. Laughter fills the air as she swings you around, and soon, the three of you are engrossed in conversation.

Occasionally pestering Ian to snap some photos of you and Aria as the field begins to fill up.

Amidst the chatter, you lose track of time.

Engaging with a girl behind you who complimented your shirt. You share a laugh with her as you recall having to fight with a 10-year-old for the last pack of sparkly iron-on letters at Michaels.

You’re handing her phone back with your number saved when the lights start to dim, and whip around to your bestfriend, smiling big.

"Oh my fuck, it's time, it's time!" You squeal, grabbing onto her arm.

Your heart races, pounding against your ribs, as adrenaline courses through your veins.

With the rest of the crowd, you scream at the top of your lungs, cupping your hands around your mouth to amplify the sound.

A single bulb illuminates the stage and outsteps Dominic. Bathed in golden light.

Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes widen at the sight of him so close.

He looks unreal.

Dominic extends his hands in his signature heart as the opening instrumental of "How Much Is Weed" begins to play.

You steal a glance at Aria, both of you screaming the first few lyrics together before dancing. Shaking your heads, and moving your hands as you rap the lyrics bar for bar.

Completely losing yourselves in the moment.

About 30 minutes into his set, Dominic launches into "7 Hours," your favorite off the album.

Aria shouts, and it rings with your own, as you both grasp each other's shoulders in anticipation. She knows you’ve been waiting for this one.

"I just wish that you would move round me, move round me," Dominic's voice fills the air, wisping goosebumps over your body.

You find yourself captivated.

Unable to put into words how hearing the song live feels. There's a rawness to his voice that transcends the studio version and you wish you could forever hear it like this.

Closing your eyes, you give in to the pulsating rhythm, slowly spinning in a circle and moving your hips in a way that's usually reserved for after a few tequila shots.

The new friend you made earlier joins in, hyping you up alongside Aria, while the golden stage lighting envelops you in its warm glow.

It's a sensation you haven't felt in ages, an intoxicating blend of music and friends. You feel comfortable in your skin, like you're hottest here, and you poke your ass out just a bit during your last twirl.

As the chorus returns, you throw your hands up in the air and lean against both girls, belting out the lyrics with all your heart while swaying to the beat.

As you open your eyes, momentarily blinded by the lights, a chill runs through you.

You find yourself locking eyes with Dominic, his gaze piercing and intense as he sings. His eyes linger on your face before trailing down to your body, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his lips as if he's reading the words on your shirt.

Just as quickly as the moment began, Dominic diverts his attention back to the crowd.

You try to shake off the idea that he was actually looking at you. There’s no way, you tell yourself; surely, he was just scanning the audience, his eyes drifting past you to someone else in the sea of fans.

But then, he glances over at you again, and again, and another time after that.

It became clear that he’s singling you out amidst the sea of faces. His eyes, pools of depth and intensity, captivating you with each lingering look.

Entire verses pass with your eyes locked in a silent exchange, a language of longing? Desire? You're not sure, but you know you don't want him to look at anyone else around you like this.

You're in awe by the intensity of his attention.

Sooner than you'd like, his second segment ends. And the world that was created just for you two, shatters.

You let out a breath and try to calm how jittery you feel. Nerves running wild as you get ready to hold up your little sign, and brace yourself for what's to come as Dominic prepares to address the audience.

"There's a girl up here," he laughs, "Who, I swear I locked eyes with for the majority of that set." The crowd erupts into screams.

Glancing over at your best friend, your eyes widen. When you turn back toward the stage, Dominic is indeed looking right at you.

"What's your name?" He asks, bending down on the edge of the stage and holding his mic out to you.

With your stomach in knots, you manage to speak your name into the mic without stuttering, thanks to the grace of whatever god is out there.

Dominic attempts to repeat it but ends up completely butchering it. Seeing your laugh as you shake you head, he places the mic back to your lips, clearly hears your name, and pronounces it correctly.

"That's a beautiful name," He grins, "Not as beautiful as you though." The screams ring louder and your eyebrows raise.

You're not sure if you're still breathing at this point. Dominic backs up towards his mic stand and leans on it.

"Her shirt says 'Fuck me Dominic Fuck,'" He announces with a shake of his head, "My last name in the tinest font possible under the fuck that should be Fike." The crowd roars, and Dom lets out a breathless chuckle.

"I don't know," He drawls out your name, his voice carrying a playful tone as he sways with his mic stand, commanding the stage with effortless charm.

"I'd be down, but at least take me out to dinner first?" He tilts his head with a simper, sending the fans into a frenzy.

Aria curses excitedly, her phone camera poised to capture the entire moment.

Feeling a surge of confidence, you find your voice again and begin shouting something back, prompting Dominic to step forward, thrusting the mic in your direction.

"You're right, I'm sorry. Let's go get french toast after this," You offer. "The thick kind, not the thin shit."

His laughter rings out boyishly and he throws his head back.

It's a sound that makes your stomach flutter, the only sound you ever want to hear.

"I'm not usually like this, I swear," Dominic points, his movements fluid as he untangles himself from his orange mic cord.

"ButImdownmeetmebackstage. Okaynextsongletsgo!" He talks so fast that you almost didn't hear, and your mouth drops before you laugh.

It's loud, and unfiltered, and you just can't believe your life right now.

Especially when one of the stage crew members hands you a backstage lanyard over the barricade. Your ears ring at the amount of screams that comes from the fans around you.

For the umpteenth time tonight, Dominic catches your eye, and with a wink he launches into AntPile.

You blow him kiss, and goofily wink back.

You know he saw it.

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lightvixxen · 2 months

Text

A shy boy with a dom side

SOOO i have no excuse. this may be a little series, we'll see how this does.

Warnings: SMUT its nothing extreme so I don't feel there's any warnings. AFAB reader tho, + dom!spencer!! MDNI

wc:1k-ish

summary: a Friday night taking a turn.

It was a Friday night, and you and Spencer had a few glasses of wine. And Now sat on your couch. You don’t remember how the conversation got to this point.

“Whats…” You stop to think, swirling the glass in your hands before speaking again. “your biggest kink?” Spencer looks at you, then looks off to the side, obviously thinking about the question.

“I’m not sure…bondage most likely,” Spencer tells you, shrugging before taking a sip of his wine. “But choking and, uh, slapping is up there too.” His face was red, and whether it was from the conversation or wine you couldn’t tell.

“Huh, I was expecting you to say something a little more Vanilla honestly,” you say, setting your wine glass down on the coffee table in front of you. “Isn’t the bondage a little cliche though? I mean guy with handcuffs likes using them, the biggest stereotype in the book.”

“Oh, I um.” He clears his throat, “I wasn’t talking about…handcuffs, I was talking about actual rope.” That made you raise your eyebrows.

“So….are you the one being tied up or are you doing the tying.” You ask, your curiosity was officially peaked, you honestly had thought Spencer was going to say something like praise being his biggest kink.

“Well considering I am a dominant, I do the tying up. I much prefer it anyway. It gives me a level of control they no longer have.” He said it so softly you almost missed it. “Anyway, back to you, what's your biggest…fantasy?” He asks, obviously trying to turn the attention away from himself.

“Fantasy? Not kink?” You ask, a little stunned.

“That's what I said.”

“Well, it starts just like this…Though the person varies…” You start, trying to form this specific fantasy into words. Spencer nods along, watching how your face slowly turns red, and how you avoid eye contact.

“And well they get up, maybe circle me for a second while we talk, of course, I’m oblivious to it. They slowly make their way behind me, and wrap their hand around my throat…and hands slowly wander…”

You didn’t even notice he had gotten up. Before you feel the couch dip behind you and his breath on your neck. Spencer's hand slowly wraps around your throat, giving you enough time to stop him.

“Like this?” his voice was low, it caused the hair on your neck to stand. You were almost frozen.

“Do I have your permission to… continue?” You nod slowly, not trusting your voice at the moment. “Words sweetheart.” He demands, “I need verbal consent.”

“Yes, you can continue.” You almost gasped when the hand not around your throat connected with your breast. His fingers expertly play with your hardening nipples through your tank top.

“Good girl. Now, what else happens in this little fantasy of yours? Hm?” he asks, the grip he has on your throat expertly tightens, this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

“T-they play with my breasts for a little…while also kissing down my shoulders and- oh my god.” A small moan leaves you, everything you describe Spencer does. His mouth is warm against your neck, unexpectedly he sucks a mark into your neck.

“Keep going.” He tells you.

“And then after a while their hands move down…” Again, he complies, his hand on your breasts moving downwards, messing with the elastic of your shorts. “They usually rub…me through my panties but-” before you could get another word out, Spencer's hand delved into your shorts.

“No panties? Surprising…knew a man was coming over and yet you go commando? Planning to flash me, my dear?”

“N-no I just didn’t feel like it today.” your breath was shaky already.

“Alright…Sorry sweetheart but since you can’t stick to your narrative we’re doing this my way. Okay?” he asks, his hand on your throat grabbing your chin, forcing you to look at him.

You nod, luckily this time he didn’t need you to verbalize what you needed. Spencer's hands made direct contact with your clit. His fingers slowly traced circles against it. You gasp, your hips automatically bucking against his hand.

“You this wet already? I’ve barely done anything…” you could hear the smirk in his voice, one of his fingers slowly tracing around your wet hole, before it sinks into you. A sinful squelch sound can be heard.

Spencer sets a fast pace, he quickly finds that spongey spot inside you, and with terrifying precision targets it. He quickly brings you to the edge, your moans grow louder as each second passes.

“Fuck-I’m close Spence-” you moan, grabbing his arm, you have no intention of stopping him, but it just feels too good.

“You got it, cum for me, sweet girl.” He tells you, keeping the pace of his fingers.

“Choke me again please!” you beg, Spencer chuckles but complies, his other hand tightening against your throat once again. With one squeeze you were coming undone.

“Shit, shit I’m cumming.” you moan, your walls clenching around his fingers. Your legs clamp shut around his hand, he smiles behind you. His fingers continue to work against you until you wince in overstimulation.

Your legs relax, spreading to let him retrieve his hand from the apex of your thighs. Spencer brings his hand up to his mouth, licking off his fingers.

“For a germaphobe, you’re quite gross” You pant, head lolling back to look at the man behind you. He chuckles, walking into your kitchen to retrieve a damp cloth.

“And for a profiler, you're not very observant.” He shoots back, walking towards your front, he kneels, gently removing your shorts to clean your thighs.

“Well-” you’re retort was cut short when Spencer licked a stripe up your cunt, swirling his tongue around your already sensitive clit.

“Careful how you talk to me. I have no restraints about fucking you over this couch.” He tells you, blowing against your clit before finally cleaning up your thighs.

“Why not just do it now?” you ask, curious as to why he’s decided to stop here.

“I don’t have any condoms, But I won’t hesitate to take you here and now if you even think a bratty retort.” He tells you simply.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #smut #lightvixxens spencer

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hopelesslyromanticshark · 3 months

Text

✮⋆˙ roman tragedy; jason grace x daughter of poseidon! reader blurb

content: jason grace x daughter of poseidon! reader blurb warning: complete angst, don't even feel bad, written in about 20 minutes but my brain was brainning sooooo author's note: this is what happens when you guys ask for part ii's...IT GETS WORSEEEEEEEE SOMETIMES ITS BETTER TO NOT ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT BUT WHO AM I TO DISAPPOINTED 😘😘 i should feel bad but i dont MUHAHAHAHAHA

gods, jason loved you more than he ever thought possible. from the moment he met you, he knew it was meant to be. sure, he could blame the fates or something like that, but predestination gave him the heebie jeebies. he preferred to believe that you guys just stumbled upon each other and something deep inside knew this person was the one.

and sure, sneaking around wasn't exactly ideal, but she was worth any cost in jason's mind. plus, the two always found ways to keep it exciting. new places to sneak kisses in or the secret way they passed notes while surrounded by friends. he loved it; she was a nice breath of air, relaxing and easy to be with. something his roman bones ached for.

now, jason was sure the world could open up and swallow him whole and he wouldn't care. he wouldn't give a single shit, or flying rats ass, or fuck. he wouldn't- no, he couldn't. how the hell did they expect him to care about anything ever again when he just received the worst news of his life? his beautiful, sweet, lovely, ocean girl was gone. not even a fate deserving of a hero, just some monster got the jump on her and she drown. the daughter of poseidon drowned. he was mad, but also couldn't find it in him to voice this anger. he was heartbroken, but the tears wouldn't leave his eyes and the sobs were getting corked at his throat. his body was fighting itself to express, tearing apart at his atoms, surely. that was the only explanation for the spikey feeling taking over his body.

gods, he could destroy it all, make it rain until the planet flooded or cut all the electricity. because he understood now.

jason grace had been naive to think he could escape the roman narrative, to think he could escape the tragedy that always seemed to linger around the gods.

he'd been naive to think he was more than just another story to be told. just another moral to save future generations.

#postcards from covey ౨ৎ #all my love ౨ৎ #pjo #pjo fandom #hoo #heroes of olympus x reader #jason grace #jason grace x reader

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sp4cepunisher · 1 year

Text

dress [ e. williams ]

summary ; ellie loves to see you in your dress, almost as much as she loves seeing you out of it.

warnings ; 18+ themes, minors dni ! pure smut, top!ellie x bottom!reader. very strong language, explicit depictions of sexual intercourse [ reader receiving; fingering ] + semi-public sex basically ellie can’t stop looking at you and fantasising about you because you’re just so fucking hot and you can’t help but do the same because she looks so good in her suit sooo she fucks you in the bathroom at a party!!!

author’s note ; buckle yourselves in, folks! because… *evil little smirk* this is one hell of a raunchy piece of gay, smutty smut. it’s like, a great mix of romantic and dirty and just brimful of all the good stuff! thank you so much to the anon who requested this because it’s actually my first piece of full smut since my return! so! i hope i haven’t lost my sparkle! + if i’ve forgotten to feature any warnings above which you think should be included, (as always) pleeeease let me know! also, like... half way? three quarters of the way? through writing this i became very aware of the fact that it was aaactually supposed to be more of a make love kind of narrative, buuut i got way too wrapped up in the idea of the reader’s dress, which then unfolded into pure smut whiiich then just... became a super raunchy desperate bathroom situation and.... *scratches my head* uuuh.... yeah! i hope that’s cool with you because there isn’t much i can do about it, now! *blows you all the biggest, fattest kiss ever* okay, i thiiink that’s it from me! enjoy this you sick, twisted little fucks!!! (jk i love u we’re sick + twisted together<3)

. . .

ellie wasn’t particularly fond of parties.

sure, she enjoyed a drink. to a certain extent, she liked to mingle. and yeah, she enjoyed music (that being said, it had to be good music). but ellie’s favourite part about any party was when she was able to attend with you, like tonight; adorned in a dress you had found in the back and beyond of your wardrobe; your features complimented by light makeup with a demeanour a little looser than usual, thanks to the one, two, three, four drinks which you had been sipping and cradling in your hand throughout the evening. you were shining; a golden statue amongst the other grey bodies; glowing like a household fire, and ellie was enamoured by the way in which she could practically see the happiness radiating from your every pore. making an appearance at dina’s birthday party hadn’t exactly been at the top of ellie’s to-do list, but the night actually hadn’t turned out to be as bad as she had anticipated. as far she was concerned, ellie would have been content in staying at the party all night if that meant being able to continue catching lucky glimpses of your upper thigh whenever you would sit down, or being able to admire the way your nipples would harden beneath the thin fabric of your dress whenever the cool summer breeze would make its way through the open door and kiss over your bare shoulders.

you were a little tipsy. probably more than your sober self would have cared to admit in any other circumstance, but right now you didn’t care. your veins were flooded with serotonin, head as light as air and body warm from the alcohol, which had been sliding down your throat like honeyed velvet far too easily that evening. you had actually felt happy; watching the birthday girl spinning around in admirers’ arms, but always finding her way back to jesse; content in remaining seated at one of the tables, you had been enjoying chatting to those who came and left the few seats beside you, catching up and sharing a few polite laughs. but what had made you the happiest was the feeling of a certain girl’s eyes fixed to the side of your head for what had seemed like hours, now. it had been hours. you knew that ellie preferred to remain at the sidelines at things like this— close enough to keep you in her eyeline, but far enough away to ensure that she didn’t have to mix with too many people, aside from those who would linger at the bar for a few minutes— but you could tell that the majority of her attention had been dedicated to you, and only you.

“hey, party girl!” a voice cut through your train of thought, and you knew that the person standing beside you was dina before you had even turned your head. there she was; a little sweaty from dancing but still looking as pretty as ever, chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath, a smile plastered to her face as you looked up at her. “y’wanna dance?”

“oh,” you shook your head insistently, eyebrows furrowing a little. “no, thanks. i’d end up on my ass if i danced, right now.”

“c’mo—n,” she reached for your hand, curling and uncurling her fingers as she silently willed you to place your hand in hers. “it’s my birthday. are you really gonna refuse me a dance?”

you sighed. it wasn’t just an excuse, although you didn’t love dancing in a room full of people. you really were too tipsy to remain content in your self-awareness. “dina. there are still like, twenty people out there who wanna dance with you.” you gestured towards the abundance of people that remained out on the floor.

“but there’s only one person who i wanna dance with, right now. buuut, she’s sitting right here, refusing me my wish, on my birthday!”

you rubbed your fingers across your forehead, eyes searching dina’s for even the tiniest glimpse of her giving up, but you weren’t sure you were going to get it. you couldn’t help but allow your gaze to drift over to the bar, eyes immediately finding ellie and lips curling up into a smile when you noticed the way in which her green eyes sparkled.

“cheers to another trip around the sun, dina! another year older and wiser, and yet, (y/n) still won’t dance with you!” dina’s gaze soon followed yours when she received no reply, her face immediately softening when she realised what— or rather, who— had grabbed your attention before she could continue guilt tripping you into making a fool out of yourself. “oooh, i see,” a smile was evident in her voice. “you’d rather sit here and stare at ellie all night, huh?”

you turned back to look at her, rolling your eyes. “actually, she’s been staring at me all night.”

dina laughed. you knew how much she loved you and ellie together. “okay, well. i guess i can’t exactly stand in the way of love-”

“oh my god, stop.”

“-but you owe me a dance next time, okay?”

not being entirely sure when “next time” would be, but realising that it was probably in your best interests to hold your tongue, since you were pretty sure you had — god knows how, because she was stubborn when she wanted to be — just managed to get out of dancing with dina, you simply nodded your head and smiled politely. “okay, dee.” you rested your chin on your fists as you propped your elbows up on the table. while you watched as she turned back around to regain her rightful position on the dancefloor, you hadn’t been aware of the sound of wooden chair legs raking across the oak flooring as the seat beside was pulled out.

“hey, you.”

the voice didn’t make you jump exactly, but it did take you by surprise to assume that someone else may actually want to be in your company. that was, of course, until your turned your head to put a name to the body in the chair and came to realise that it was ellie; dressed in the white button-down shirt that she had borrowed from jesse, (which was technically too big for her but which she made do with by tucking it into her trousers) and complimented by the contrasting black tie which you had secured around her neck a few hours earlier, after she had complained that she had “no fucking idea how to tie a stupid tie”. you knew that dina’s choice of dress code hadn’t thrilled ellie— she was the most comfortable in one of her old sweatshirts and a pair of her battered black jeans— but my god, did she look good in her make-shift suit. with half of her hair tied up into a messy bun at the back of her head and the other half barely brushing her shoulders, you couldn’t quite believe that she was all yours.

“hey,” you breathed, smile stretching over your features as soon as you were aware of a steady hand coming to rest on the small of your back, and you felt your girlfriend’s lips press a gentle kiss to your exposed shoulder.

“having a good night?” she whispered into your skin, the loose ends of her hair tickling your pores which caused goosebumps to rise up over the back of your neck.

“yeah, actually. it’s been fun. s’nice seeing dina so happy,” you nodded. “are you?”

ellie shrugged her shoulders gently, eyes making their way around the room momentarily but finding their way back to you with no problem. “yeah, i mean... i thought it was gonna be worse.”

you let your eyes drift over ellie’s features; having free rein over the sandy shore of her freckles and the glint in her tidal eyes, her auburn wisps framing them as if an art exhibition; she belonged in a museum. you were well aware of how much she regarded these kinds of events with disfavour, and knew how much she would have preferred spending the evening inside, alone, with you. “always the optimist, babe,” you teased her, lifting a hand from beneath your chin and using it to give her cotton-clad knee a squeeze; subtle in nature but obvious to your girlfriend in both reassurance and affection. “but, i am glad we came. i mean, look at her,” you reverted your attention back to dina, gaze softening as you watched her being swayed in jesse’s arms, still a magnet beneath every onlookers’ cobalt eyes. “she’s glowing.”

but ellie had no real desire to look at dina. not when she could look at you. her eyes were glued to you; wandering over the slope of your back, the dent of your spine nestled between your shoulder blades as if sculpted by god himself, and which she honestly believed she could litter with kisses until the sun came up. how the definition of your breastbone shone in the light, taunting her; almost beseeching her to drag her callused fingertips over the skin to bring about the inevitable goosebumps which would come decorate you like sequins. the way your delicate fingers wrapped themselves around your glass, lifting it from the table and bringing it to your lips, which appeared like two pristine rose petals; how your throat twitched as the alcohol disappeared and you swallowed it down so easily. “you’re even brighter,” she whispered, her words making themselves known to you before she had even really processed them; brisk in the way they launched themselves from her lips but weightless in the way they drifted down before your face. it was too late to stop them now. actually, she didn’t really want to stop them. “you look beautiful, tonight. have i told you that?”

you turned your head back to look at the girl beside you, your action soothed by the feeling of her hand travelling up the expanse of your back, tracing your spine with her thumb and allowing her fingers to follow closely behind. “only like, twenty times,” your comment evoked a certain glint in ellie’s eyes. “but, so do you.” you batted the compliment back, almost without missing a beat.

she scoffed. “please, i feel ridiculous.”

you shook your head insistently, dutch courage guiding your hand like a puppeteer and sliding it further up ellie’s thigh. you loved the feeling of the fabric against your fingertips, the roughness of the fibres contrasted with the sleekness of her skin hidden beneath them; the rise and fall of her muscle which felt like heaven to you, in that moment. “you shouldn’t,” your voice was lower now, just loud enough to still be heard by only ellie above the music. “you look so good.”

the solidity evident your words peaked ellie’s interest. sure, you had told her how well you thought she pulled the look off before you had arrived at the party together, but the most self-conscious parts of ellie had all rallied round to persuade the girl that you were simply just being nice. however, although she knew that you were a little more tipsy than usual, the look in your eyes seemed to ignite something in her; the need to argue her opinion until she was blue in the face evaporated when she noticed the earnest in your face and felt the way in which your thumb was rubbing gentle circles against her inner thigh. “well,” she leaned forward, tucking your hair behind your ear with her nimble fingers, but not before the side of her knuckle grazed against your neck. “that makes two of us, then.”

“oh, stop.”

“been looking at you all night.”

“mm, i know. felt your eyes on me.”

“can you blame me?”

“well, i could look at you in this suit forever,” you whispered, feeling yourself becoming bolder with every breath. “it’s like, made for you.”

“except it’s fuckin’ huge.” ellie grinned. “but, your dress? so perfect. you look so gorgeous,” her fingers slid over your collarbone and to the right, where they caressed the strap of your dress, skimming your skin in their wake. “don’t know which i’d rather see; you in the dress, or…” her eyes flicked back up to find yours, and you noticed that they were considerably darker than before. “you out of it.”

silk words, woven right before your eyes pulled on your brows and caused them to rise, top teeth tugging your bottom between them as an automatic response to the way her sultry words made you feel. the butterflies in your stomach were awoken, swarming in a pack and reaching your throat where you were at a loss for words for a good few seconds. the confidence in your previous comments had been snuffed out just by ellie’s eyes finding yours and the words she had uttered, for your ears only. it had always been easy for the girl to make you feel so small; so shy and yet so bold in your willingness to do anything for her if she asked.

“cat got your tongue?” she whispered, noticing the way in which she had silenced you and revelling in it while the pad of her index finger ran over your jaw. she observed the way the corners of your lips twitched with a shadow of a smile before you leaned a little closer to her, and she couldn’t help but let her gaze fall to the way in which the edge of your dress pulled away from your chest. the valley of supple skin between your breasts was almost calling for her; begging to be kissed and licked and sucked between her teeth, reddened and bruised and marked for a couple of days.

“no,” you bluffed, shrugging your shoulders as nonchalantly as you could manage to pass off. “i was just waiting for you to tell me which one you’d prefer.“

“how about i show you?”

. . .

a cacophony of sound; feet shuffling, the door locking, deep breaths and heavy sighs, filled the intimate space of the room which yourself and ellie soon found yourselves in. her provocative comment had caused you both to make quick work of rising from your seats at the table, your hand slotting into hers like second nature, and your underwear already becoming bedewed from beneath your skirt as she tugged you towards the washroom.

your head was spinning in the best way possible, partly thanks to the alcohol, but otherwise due to the adrenaline which was pulsing through your body like heroin. everything was a blur; everything except the features belonging to your girlfriend which rested just a mere few centimetres from your own face. kisses that were being pressed to your lips took a couple of seconds to be reciprocated, but which were soon accompanied by arms which snaked around your waist and pulled you from the wood of the door, flush against her body as the kisses deepened and soon became one messy, passionate, wordless conversation of shared i love you’s, i missed you’s, i want you’s. your body seemed to become utterly malleable in that moment, moulding into ellie’s like sand as her hips pushed into yours and her hands smoothed over the rise of your ass while yours slid over her shoulders and enjoyed the softness of her cotton shirt against your fingertips.

“mm,” she pulled away from the kiss, lips pink and pupils already blown out so much that her eyes— always so pretty in their viridescence— now seemed deeply sable. “been wanting to touch you all night,” her words were hot against the side of your face as she leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, taking them down to your neck where she tasted your perfume on her tongue. you felt her fingers teasing the edge of your skirt, the pads of each digit gliding over the silky fabric and barely skimming the skin of your upper thighs.

“you’ve got me now,” you reassured her, head taking full advantage of the solidness of the door that it rested against. “all to yourself,”

your words caused the girl to smile. “oh, i know. i’m so lucky,” her lips spoke against your collarbone when she finally reached it, teeth grazing the prominent bone menacingly while her fingers toyed with the elastic hem on your underwear. “y’gonna let me touch you, baby?” ellie whispered again, lifting her head to catch your eyes in her darkened stare.

“yes, ellie,”

“mm? you want me to?”

her index fingers hooked around the waistband.

“god, yes,”

“say please,”

her thumb brushed over your veiled folds.

“please, ellie. please,”

your pristine manners, the breathiness of your voice, and the way in which she could almost feel how your cunt was throbbing beneath her touch caused any light that was still evident in ellie’s eyes to be blown out; totally snuffed in a mere couple of seconds. agile fingers pushed the thin piece of material aside while the open palm of her free hand trailed over your breasts, and you felt the cool pads of her digits begin rubbing circles on your clit; firm enough to make your body go stiff, but slow enough to ensure that she could gather all of your wetness.

“fuck, baby,” ellie sighed, eyes threatening to roll back just from the feel of you beneath her digits. “you’ve been wet for a while, huh?”

you nodded, head feeling weightless atop your shoulders as your girlfriend continued her exploration of your arousal.

“is that right? been wet for me all night?” her voice seemed quieter now as she leaned in closer to you, lips pressing against your shoulder in open-mouthed kisses.

you nodded your head again, eyelids heavy and chest beginning to rise and fall a little faster the moment you felt her fingers pick up beneath your skirt. “yes, oh my god,”

“mm, does that feel good?” ellie’s words were hot against your skin; almost scorching against your pulse as her lips began climbing the lustrous slope of your neck.

“feels so good,” you made sure to keep your voice down, the feeling of intense pleasure swarming your body not being quite enough to swipe your conscience completely clean of the fact that yourself and ellie were separated from the other residents of jackson only by a wooden barrier. “need you…”

“yeah? what do y’need me to do, sweet girl?”

the way in which ellie’s fingers were encircling your clit was beginning to make your knees wobble; you needed more, she knew you did. your body was trembling against hers like a newborn calf, your fingers gripping onto her shirt. “need you to fuck me,” you weren’t embarrassed to say it, nor were you too stubborn, which would certainly have been the case if the shoe had happened to be on the other foot. plus, you knew how much ellie enjoyed hearing you tell her what you wanted; how much it satisfied her every need alone, just to simply hear the words come out of your mouth. “please…”

the girl hummed, her middle and third finger parting to slide over your folds, which were both so deliciously slick with the wetness she had been enjoying only a few seconds earlier. she lifted her head from your shoulder, catching your gaze as best she could from behind your blissful expression and heavy eyes to soak up the desperation and ardour which resided in your irises. “i love you,” she whispered, leaning close enough to whisper against your lips. you remained quiet, the sound of your deep inhales and exhales being the only shadow of an answer that she received. that was when she decided to dip the very tip of her middle finger into your luscious hole, which she could already tell was flooded with your arousal in an attempt to prompt a real response from you. “do you love me, baby?”

you released a shaky breath, lips parting a little wider when you felt ellie ease her finger into you a little further, but still not enough to be fully satisfied. “yes,” you nodded, voice heavy but still quiet enough to remain undetected.

“yeah?” she was mocking you now, her finger dipping in and out of your hole at a snail’s pace; still not enough to relieve you. “say it,” your walls were in desperate need of something to tighten around, your wetness beginning to dampen your inner thighs as your girlfriend taunted you, her free hand coming to slide one strap of your dress down your arm, then another. pulling the material from over your breasts, her eyes trailed over the way your pebbled nipples protruded from the silken skin, and the prepossessing fullness of your tits. “c’mon. tell me you fucking love me, pretty girl.”

“i love you,” you breathed, and that seemed to be music to ellie’s ears; the music she had been yearning to hear all night, and enough to finally make her sink her finger into you completely. you instinctively gripped onto her shoulder at the sensation, eyes turning to the ceiling and lips parting to let out a breathy moan as you felt the callused pad of her digit skim over your walls. she was easing you open, just like she always loved to do, while her thumb took its time in smoothing over your nipples with ease. you could already feel your feet threatening to slip out from under, and therefore you kept one hand clamped on ellie’s shoulder in a vice-like grasp, while the other remained tucked behind your back; palm open and desperate in its search for a solid grip on the wood.

your girlfriend teased the outer edge of your hole with a second finger. "mmm,” ellie’s voice vibrated over the expanse of your chest as she littered the rise of your breasts with sloppy kisses, tongue wetting the skin unapologetically. “you feel so fucking good, baby,” the warmth of her breath blew over your hardened nipples, and you felt your back begin to arch from each of the simultaneous sensations which were now ricocheting throughout your body like bullets; one, after the other, after the other. it was then that you felt your nipple become swathed by the flick of ellie’s tongue; then, the sheathing of her lips, and with a subtle curl of her finger, your back started arching off of the door when you felt her push a second digit inside you.

“oh, fuck,” you gasped, arm coming across to drape itself around both of ellie’s shoulder and your nails digging into her bicep through her shirt. she wasn’t going easy on you now, either; both fingers crescent moons, and already pushing against the sponginess of your g-spot like it was nothing. finally finishing her gentle assault on your breasts, she lifted her head and admired the way in which your eyes had fallen closed, jaw having falling slack and your eyebrows furrowed in pleasure.

“you like that? like it when you can feel me nice ‘nd deep, sweet girl?”

“ye–es, fuck... ellie,”

“sound so pretty when you say my name,” oh, she was getting comfortable, now. “always love hearing it, baby...” ellie knew you were teetering on the edge of an orgasm; clinging onto the last sliver of sanity which barely remained, and so she was tactical in the bending of her thumb and its newfound position on your clit. the obscene squelching which could be heard from beneath your skirt made you bite down on your lip in your best attempt to hold back your moans, and made ellie grin against your jaw as she came to rest her face in the crook of your neck. “oh, fuck yeah,”

the noticeable tightness of your cunt, on top of the incessant pleasure she was supplying to your every nerve through the rhythmic movements of her fingers was threatening to let you down; lungs swelling with the need to cry out from how close you were getting to reaching orgasm. ellie could sense it. she had noticed the way in which your knees had began to buckle and how your spine had curved, body slumped against the door as if you were fully prepared to give it all up. with her gentle words of encouragement being pressed into your neck as if she intended to make them stain, the brunette made quick work of snaking her arm around your waist to hold you up, her grip firm, yet somehow, so gentle, as you reached the great peak of your entirely euphoric, entirely secret, little meeting.

“ellie,” you panted, her name almost totally lost on your lips from beneath the breathy moans that followed. “oh my god. p–please don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop, baby,”

you felt ellie moan into the side of your neck, her thumb brushing over your swollen clit where it began to rub small, firm circles again. “yeah? are you gonna cum?”

“fuck, fuck, fuck, yes,”

her fingers sped up, plunging in and out of your soaking cunt, desperate to earn her prize. “cum for me, pretty girl. i’ve got you, c’mon. i’ve got you,” the way in which the girl coaxed you through the pleasure— disregarding the gibberish which followed your previous coherence, yet making sure to savour every syllable— only made your orgasm more intense. your walls spasmed around ellie’s fingers, eyes rolling back into your head and lips pressed tightly together to muffle the moans which rose up in your throat and threatened to crash straight through them, like a tsunami past a floodgate. your orgasm washed over you; intense and merciless, rendering you stone-cold sober yet disorienting you like a concussion, and with no room for anything other than a ripple in your abdomen, and the absolute soaking of ellie’s hand.

your girlfriend could feel your pulse through your neck, thumping against her face, her skin practically burning from the warmth that was radiating from your body as it remained flush against hers; rendered totally rigid only a few minutes ago, but now falling limp and docile. she couldn’t help but moan into your neck when she slowed her movements enough to feel the stickiness that coated her fingers, her palm, her fucking wrist at this point. she made sure to slide her fingers out of you with conscious and noticeable care, her other hand soon reaching down to slip your underwear back into its original position over the top of your heat. once your grip had loosened from around ellie’s shoulder, and she was content in the sturdiness of your stance upon letting go of your waist, the two of you shared a smile; ellie’s accompanied by eyes which were evidently florescent, and yours through heavy lids.

“good?”

“mm,” you nodded. “always so good,”

your girlfriend leaned in and smiled, capturing your lips in a kiss which was rich in love and reassurance, and which you were quick to return. “good,” she whispered once the two of you had pulled away. “i don’t know how the hell you stayed so quiet, though.”

you grinned, cheeks turning a gentle shade of pink as ellie pushed your hair back from your face. “well, i mean... i’d rather dina remember tonight for reasons other than what we got up to in the bathroom, y’know.”

ellie nodded her head, watching as you slipped the straps of your dress back over your shoulders and smoothed down your skirt. her eyes were full of adoration, pupils still twinkling in the dim light of the room as she took a moment to just look at you. somehow, you looked more beautiful in that moment than you had looked all night, if that was even possible; your eyelids still weighty, skin abundant with that particular kind of glow and your lips slightly reddened. “i love you,” she reminded you, lifting your chin between her thumb and index finger. “a lot.”

“and i love you,”

“even in this stupid suit?”

“oh,” you nodded, biting back a smirk. “especially in that stupid suit.”

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams smut #ellie williams the last of us #ellie the last of us #ellie williams #ellie williams fanfic #tlou 2 fanfic #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us 2 fanfiction #tlou 2

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call-sign-shark · 8 months

Text

Day 2: Cut Your Wings || Alfie Solomons x Reader

Requested by a lovely Anon 🖤

TW: Kinktober prompt- cut, dubcon, blood, inflected pain, masturbation?, enemies with sexual tension, canonical violence, dirty talk, sexual torture, kidnapping

Words: 2K

Notes: This work is a part of the Peaky Kinktober Event you can find here. Comment on the event post if you want to be tagged in the future works for Kinktober. Also this one ain't as smutty as I thought because I got carried away by the narrative?? Shark please, that ain't the goal of Kinktober??

A grunt escaped from your lips as you desperately tried to free yourself from the heavy shackles imprisoning your wrists. You moved them back and forth, then left and right, turning your hands in every position possible, and yet nothing worked. The handcuffs were too tight for you to slip from them. Another painful moan echoed in the damp and dark room of the distillery in which the jew's henchmen had locked you a few hours ago. The cold metal bit your flesh again. "Fuck". When loud footsteps resounded behind the heavy wooden door of your prison, you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat and prayed to God for a quick and painless death because you knew that Alfie Solomons wasn't a forgiving man. Quite the contrary, his quick temper, and frightening antics only fueled his reputation as one of the most dangerous criminals in London.

"So that's the fucking little rat my men told me about." He stated, standing in the middle of the open door, both of his hands resting on the handle of his cane and a black hat hiding one of his hazel gray eyes.

"Fuck you, fucking cunt! When Tommy will know about this y'all going to regret it!" Words passed your thoughts, spitting their venom at him and yet the man remained silent. You even wondered if he had paid attention to what you just said or if the voices in his head were louder than yours. His gaze, intense and unfathomable, was observing you attentively as if he was trying to decipher the secrets of the most unique precious stone he had even held in his palm. After what seemed to be an eternity, Alfie Solomons pursued his lips, stroked his scruffy beard, and nodded, coming to an agreement with himself.

"See, my mates here told me that Tommy Shelby had sent a few men to London, but here's the problem – He said 'men'. And not 'little girl', which is definitely what you are. A bloody and nosey little girl. Hmhm." He agreed with his own statement before walking to the dusty furniture that was leaning against one of the brick walls. Then, he took off his hat and his long dark coat, and put the cane aside before walking towards you. He stopped in front of you, tattooed arms crossed on his muscular chest. The unusual amount of greenish ink deeply engraved in his skin caught your attention for a short while, you curiously observing the pattern it formed. Of course, both Tommy and Arthur had tattoos, but not as many as the mad baker.

"Would you look at ya. Haven't you something else to do instead of following a Birmingham scumbag's orders? Like finding yourself a man or something like this, y'know. 'Cause I don't see why such a young lass like ya puts her own life into danger for Tommy fucking Shelby." As he talked, Alfie had closed the distance between you and him. He was now leaning above you, so close that his scorching breath was fanning over your skin and the hairs of his beard were almost tickling your face. "So can you tell me why? The only reason I see is that Tommy Shelby sticks his cock in you and it has magically bred some loyalty." The right corner of his full lips curled into a mocking grin when he noticed how his words had lit a fire of rage in your eyes. Bang on, he thought, "No. It's more complex than that, innit? He doesn't want you and yet you remained devoted to him in the hope that one day, maybe, he'd look at you differently. He'd look at you like a woman to fuck senseless and not a pawn of his game."

"Kill me, Solomons. Kill me now or I'll fucking cut you once I'll be out of this shit-stinking place." You hissed, baring your teeth like a cornered animal, the truth hurting you more than a gunwound. For a split second, Alfie swore you would have dug your fangs into his throat, sinking them deep until you tasted blood if you hadn't been restrained by chains and handcuffs.

"Cut me?" The baker repeated these two words, pretending to be surprised while the tone in his voice betrayed how amused he was, "And what kind of tool would you use to cut me? This?" As he said so, Alfie pulled your grey beret out of the large pocket of his trousers, holding it to have a good grip at the base of the razor blades that were sewn to the fabric. "You Peaky girl like to cut people with this right? So come on, threaten me again little bird, I dare you." He said with both of his eyebrows raised in a taunting expression.

"D'ya think you're scaring me? I'm not scared, I'm a Peaky Blinder and I'm going to make things clear again: you better kill me now because if you miss this chance, I'll fucking cut your face the next time we meet–" You didn't finish your sentence, your words replaced by a scream of pain when Alfie, without a single warning, slashed your arm with your peaky cap. Blood soon filled the gash and overflowed from it, soaking the white fabric of your shirt in a crimson stain.

"Go ahead, dove. Say it again." This time you remained silent, staring at him in horror. He had cut deep, deep enough for you to feel the sickening pulse of your own heart in the wound. Your refusal to obey led Alfie to burst into an unexpected rage. His face reddened, and his brows furrowed, casting their shadow eyes. With one strong and brutal movement, Alfie's free hand grabbed your face, his calloused fingers sinking into your cheeks until your jaw hurt. "SAY IT AGAIN AND I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING WINGS!" He barked, a bit of spit spilled in his beard and bloodshot eyes staring at your very soul. "See, you don't stand a chance here my sweet dove. You're just a little girl playing gangsters". In an unsettling mood swing, his temper had gone quiet again.

"I'm not gonna kill you peaky girl, that would be too easy. I see your eyes, and what I see in them is that you ain't afraid of death and I reckon this is a trait I particularly fancy in someone. So what should I do with you? We might..." He made a short pause when he noticed a tiny detail he hadn't spotted before. Alfie's hazel grey eyes abandoned yours and dropped to your bosom where he could see the round shape of your hardened nipples pointing through the fabric of your shirt. Licking his lips, Alfie's iris darkened with mischief and something you never expected to witness in the eyes of an enemy – lust. An unpleasant shiver ran down your spine as the baker's smirk suddenly turned into a wicked and threatening smile, "I know, dove. I know what I'm going to do with you. Everything's clear in my mind". A sparkle of pure madness enlightened his face, just like an artist struck by inspiration. With his words followed his hand, that came meeting your trembling body. His strong palm roamed all over you, the friction it created snatching a whimper from your tight throat while you understood his obscene plans.

"No, no! Please! Alfie--" You wanted to scream but you couldn't, petrified from the moment his fingers trailed down your belly and ended their exploration between your legs. The noisy juggling of the chains you produced by struggling sounded like a melody in Alfie's ears, who hummed in satisfaction at your cunt's warmth he could feel through the fabric of your trousers. His fingers pressed a bit more against your core, shooting a wave of forbidden arousal through your entire body and making your legs shake.

"You're in heat, lil' dove." He noted with an amused tone before closing the distance between your ear and his lips. You squeezed your eyes shut at the overwhelming scratching sensation of his gruff beard against your skin and the blazing blast of his breath. The room spun as you found yourself intoxicated by the fragrance of his cologne. Musky, and with a dab of cedarwood. His scent was as raw and wild as him. "I'm pretty sure you're all wet, aren't you?" He cooed in your ear. His rough fingers, applying pressure at the exact spot where your throbbing clit was, started to rub it in slow and circular motions. As much as you hated the thought of it, his skillful caresses lit a fire of desire within you, so much that you felt your own wetness soaking your panties, "How long since a man stretched that lonely pussy?"

"Don't touch me!" You growled, but as convincing as you had tried to sound convincing you still failed judging by how Alfie's brow arched. He let out a dark chuckle. Doing the exact opposite, his fingers kept fondling your sensitive bud but this time his wet and warm tongue licked your neck just like a predator would do to get a first taste of his freshly caught prey.

"Oh I'm not gonna touch you dove." The muffled sound of your cap falling on the concrete ground made you open your eyes again. You had barely lifted your eyelids when your gaze met Alfie's other hand, who was kneading his massive bulge. As afraid as you were, you could not help but let out a soft yet needy moan "I'm not gonna touch you. What I'm going to do cannot be described, no no it can't because I don't want God to hear it. What I can tell you though is that you'll never come back to Birmingham once you'll know the feeling of my cock buried deep inside you." His words' immediate effects upon you had your teased pussy clenching onto nothing and reminding you how desperately empty you were. An emptiness Tommy would never fill, "Are you thinking about him now?"

You weren't.

Alfie didn't need you to answer, for the way you brought your hips closer to his fingers and grind against them was enough. The mad baker's mouth sucked on the sensitive flesh of your neck, pinching it between his lips to leave a bright red mark on you, claiming his newly acquired property. All these sensations soon became unbearable: the friction of your shirt against your erected tits, the cold bite of the handcuffs on your wrists, and the increasingly faster rubbing of your clit destroyed what remained of your will of fighting. Never in your life you had been touched for you had always kept your virginity unspoiled for Thomas. A stupid and fruitless devotion.

You gave in to the pleasure and surprised yourself by thinking about how big Alfie's dick looked, unable to look anywhere else.

"Don't s-stop." You muttered under your breath, your climax building as Alfie kept assaulting your sweet bundle of nerves: he was nothing but gentle with it, almost hurting you with how rough he rubbed you. With your mouth parted and your breath quickening, you felt the delightful warmth of an orgasm coming but, all of sudden, Alfie stopped.

"Enough for today. We'll see if you deserve more tomorrow." He said.

If you have appreciated what you've just read please take the time to reblog and/or comment. Your reactions are the real fuel and motivation of writers.

tags: @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @mollybegger-blog @hwangrimi @munson24 @tommyshelbywhore @devotedlyshadowytheorist @stevie75 @brummiereader @triplethreat77 @sebastianstangirl01 1 @izzy10369 @kimvolturicullen @peakyltd

#Peaky blinders #Alfie solomons #Alfie solomons x reader #Tom Hardy smut #Peaky blinders x reader #Alfie solomons smut #Peaky blinders smut #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons fanfic #Tom Hardy #Tom Hardy x reader #Peaky Kinktober #Tommy Shelby

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mapoeggplant · 11 months

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skip to loafer chapter 53 // spoilers

the analogy of between a crab and falling in love: what’s hidding in between all the sand that shima hides himself in?

this chapter kinda encapsulates a lot of unresolved plots and bring back things that were discussed before, as a way to, little by little, start to close shima’s arc on understanding his feelings. and, for my happiness (and for a lot of you guys reading me, i supposed), we finally had a confirmation that shima doesn’t quite understand or can’t even separate his feelings inside him, all because of his history with rejection, broken family, and the coldness of the ones around him. the boy, who tries to grasp his sandy feelings, who stubbornly kept slipping between his fingers, is finally dipping his toes in the ocean.

what mukai and shima discussed at the sauna is very important for a lot of things. not only for the present narrative, but for a context in general about how skip to loafer deals with feelings and love. instead of approaching a safe solution and going for the “she was the one who could save him”, takamatsu-senpai chose to go through the more complicated and bumpier road: she started to make her own characters question the idea of romantic love that was shoved down their (and ours) throat since they were born.

is not that shima doesn’t love mitsumi — he just doesn’t understand the concept of romantic feelings or how everything “ends” with it (it was interesting to me how he said “ends”, the never-ending idea that romantic love is the final goal. it never “starts anything; it’s always “the end” of things). for him, everything falls in the same blurry and messed up category and end as easily as it started. however now, after years and years of being shutten down and used for people’s own selfish desires, shima is finally free to think and act for himself. but we don’t learn to swim at the bottom of the ocean: we need to start at the beach.

mukai telling shima that he’s often shutting people down and pushing people away without noticing was there for two main reasons, in my opinion: one, show a little more about mukai himself and his own feelings in relation to shima, a friend that he holds dear and wants to see opening up a little more, warming himself towards others; and two, to make shima start to question “what am i doing to the people that care about me?”. this is a trigger that sensei used to bring back a lot of important moments between shima and mitsumi and connect the dots inside his head. what i didn’t expect was that she would such beautiful analogy: a crab.

by swimming around their past, shima starts to ask himself: how does mitsumi feels about me. it’s funny how, even after all that conversation with mukai, he didn’t start with the obvious and questioned himself. he was thinking about her — about the other. what brough him back to his own heart was the girl herself, without both even realizing it.

grabbing the crab in the middle of it is the safest option. you’re protecting yourself of a possibility of being hurt and are able to maintain a safe distance from all the dangerous attributes of the crab. by always staying in the middle of his own feelings and never really going for the claws of his own mind, shima maintained his safety and “never got hurt” (and here i strictly mean hurt by his own ghosts, who he tried to deny instead of facing it). i mean, if he doesn’t move, they won’t be able to attack him. if he stays protected, there won’t be a necessity of changing what you know so well.

but…there’s always a first time, right? and i don’t mean this only for the act of holding a crab: this might be shima’s not only first time doing so, but also the first time he ever felt something different for someone — something more. something he never met before.

and mitsumi, on the other hand, appear serene on his eyes. she did have her first time already — and was bitten by the crab. she was the one who put herself out there and risked being hurt. and, unfortunately, he was the one who made this happen.

by shima’s reaction (the full-on blush), it’s easy to interpretate that he had some kind of realization and that…well...yeah it involves the crab. and mukai. and mitsumi. and the beach. and the ocean. and the sand, that he could never grasp before. what did he realize? he himself isn’t sure, as he tells mukai (“how was the crab?” “i don’t know). and, well, how can someone who has never seen a crab be so sure that what they are seeing is, in fact, a crab?

sensei made it clear, with all the words, with mukai being a sensei for a day: shima is, for the first time in his life, having to deal with a feeling that’s completely new and scary for him. romantic love isn’t easy. for a kid who grew watching his own understanding of romantic love (his parents) be so broken and twisted, romantic love is something that can only cause harm. so no, it’s not that he doesn’t understand love per se: he just doesn’t know how to approach it within himself. it’s up to him, now, if he's going to sing his hands in the sand and find the answer for all the questions he’s dealing with.

as for my last words, what i want to remind everyone: no, it won’t be resolved so fast. not next chapter and, maybe, nor the next. i mean, why should it be? love, be it platonic or not, isn’t something to be forced out of someone. it’s something that requires more than a simple “yes or no”, something that doesn’t grow overnight. none of them are wrong. mitsumi never imposed something on him, she only did what her heart told her to do. shima never wanted to hurt her in some way — in fact, this is one of his biggest fears, up to now. they both are trying to understand themselves, the world, and the universe. they are in the apices of their teenage years, in the apices of committing mistakes for dumb reasons and for sealing peace with simplicity. they all have lot of different crabs with lot of different meanings hiding inside their particular beaches. it’s up to them if they are going to start digging it or not.

and, as always, thank you thank you so much for reading what i have to say and my crazy rambling. i hope that we can now start a great discussion about it 💛 oh and people!! don't be afraid of talking to your crab — sometimes they know more bout us than ourselves 🦀

🌻 this analyze was originally posted on my twitter

#skip to loafer #skip and loafer #skip to loafer chapter 53 #this analyze feels like all my other analyzed compacted in one iofjasifja #i will never stop studying these kids #specially shima #shima I love you sm #as your mother I'm very proud #duckmetas

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frankie-bell · 8 months

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An Essay Exploring Psycho-Pass's Most Controversial Character

I know I’m opening a huge, slimy can of worms and potentially incurring the wrath of half the Psycho-Pass fandom, but I feel compelled to share my feelings on Mika Shimotsuki and how I believe she serves as a lightning rod for fan culture misogyny. Now, before I start, let me just say that this essay isn’t targeted at any one individual, and it’s just my personal opinion, which you are more than welcome to disagree with. I’d also like to stress that, despite my love for Mika’s character, I’m going to try my very best to approach this topic from an academic standpoint rather than an emotional one. I recently picked Parasocial Relationships and their effect on female celebrities and fictional characters as a thesis for my Gender and Media course, and it really got me thinking about this anime in particular, so here we go…

Let’s tackle the female side of things first, because it’s the one that shocks and disappoints me the most. Don’t get me wrong -- I think fandoms with a strong female presence are awesome, complex, uplifting, and oftentimes incredibly positive and inclusive spaces. I love being a female genre fan and interacting with other female genre fans. That said, I’ve noticed female fandom can sometimes fall prey to online bullying and misogynistic groupthink when it comes to (a) female characters they find arrogant, bossy, mean, etc. and (b) female characters who are positioned as potential love interests for their collective male "blorbos," "husbandos," "faves," whatever the term may be. These two things very often overlap, which I’ll touch on later, but for now, let’s talk about the first point.

There was a big movement online several years ago urging creators to “let women be mean. Let them be angry. Let them be petty and complex and difficult. Let them be messy.” I fully support this idea in both theory and practice and wish it were that simple, but unfortunately, it’s not, because uncomfortably large swaths of fandom don’t like/appreciate unapologetically mean female characters the way they do male characters. Men in fiction are allowed to be cutthroat, selfish, cruel, narcissistic, arrogant, and even evil without garnering even a fraction of the judgement that female characters receive for simply being “difficult” or “unlikable.”

Take, for instance, Shougo Makishima. The Psycho-Pass fandom at large adores this character (myself included), despite the fact that he’s a remorseless sociopath who touts the importance of free will as a wholesale excuse for murder. He is a bad person, full-stop, and yet he garners love -- even sympathy -- in abundance. He’s the subject of fawning fan fiction, chibi art, thirst tweets, and endless Reddit analysis. Fans are capable of seeing him, murderous warts and all, as a product of the warped dystopian society Sibyl has created. But Mika? Nope. Just “a bitch, a whiner, an arrogant little girl who deserves to get slapped in the mouth.” (I am not making this up. These are the type of comments I see *female* fans making left and right about her character). She receives far more hate for giving up the location of Akane’s grandmother as a blackmailed, frightened teenager than Makishima does for slashing Yuki’s throat or blowing up Masaoka. Hell, she catches more heat for Akane’s grandmother than Sakuya Togane, the woman’s actual murderer and -- I can’t stress this enough -- a 41-year-old adult man.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking -- Makishima and Togane are villains, so their personality flaws (putting it lightly) and horrible actions are essential to the narrative and indicative of good storytelling. We’re meant to “love to hate them.” All correct, and yet this doesn’t change or excuse the fact that their standing in the fandom, when compared to the equally complex and emotionally fractured Mika, is textbook pernicious misogyny. But, for the sake of argument, let’s compare Mika to another character ostensibly on the side of good -- Nobuchika Ginoza. [Note: Ginoza is my favorite character in Psycho-Pass, and any commentary regarding his PP1 shittiness is made with pure love and appreciation for him and nuanced character growth in general.]

When we first meet Ginoza, he is rude, terse, unyielding, intellectually smug, and totally unforgiving of those closest to him. He’s a brilliant character, and his behavior, no matter how insufferable and seemingly cruel, is the result of compounded trauma -- the trauma of having his father ripped away when he was only nine, the trauma of being unfairly judged for the “sins” of said latent criminal father, the trauma of his mother numbing her pain with medication and eventually becoming something akin to a human corpse, the trauma of finding a new support system and best friend in Kougami only to once again be “abandoned” for the other side of the law. In many ways, he’s still a hurt child lashing out at the world, unwilling to see it for the complicated, morally gray place that it is, because being mad is easier. Telling himself that Enforcers are nothing more than dogs for him to guide and use as shields is easier. Blindly trusting the judgements handed down by Sibyl is easier.

In this way, he and Mika are remarkably similar. When she first joins the MWPSB, she’s a 17-year-old minor whose best friend (and probably first love) was dismembered by a latent criminal under the direction of a serial killer disguising himself as a teacher -- a trusted authority figure. She’s filled with guilt and self-loathing over her failure to act, and the easiest way for her to sort out her feelings and ensure the same thing doesn’t happen again is to harden herself to all latent criminals. Distrusting them, treating them as “other,” is her form of self-preservation. Yes, it makes her come across as mean, as closed-minded, as unlikable, but that’s not a bad thing. It’s good storytelling, and it presents her with plenty of potential for growth, which she is certainly given.

[Upon discovering that her best friend, fellow Oso Academy student Kagami Kawarazaki, has been murdered by Rikako Oryo, Mika breaks down in tears, blaming herself for the tragedy. This is the moment her distrust of latent criminals is solidified.]

But, unlike Ginoza (a 28-year-old adult man), over half the fandom decided that Mika was so awful, so totally unforgivable, such a “heinous cunt,” that they were unwilling to allow her the time and space to grow beyond her trauma and immaturity. But why? Is it because we’ve been taught to judge women, even fictional ones, based on a different set of criteria than men? I think the answer is obvious, and I urge fans who dislike Mika’s character with such intensity to seriously examine their reasoning. I don’t mean to say that she’s infallible (hardly) or that it’s wrong to dislike her. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, and no one person’s take is more valid than another’s, but it’s definitely something to think about in the larger conversation that is media analysis.

Which brings me to Akane Tsunemori, someone who fits all the abovementioned criteria for a “likeable” female character. [Another note: I love Akane, and none of this is meant to disparage her. I am simply trying to point out that she’s a more easily digestible female when viewed through the patriarchal lens of pop culture.] She’s smart but not arrogant about it, strong-willed but never disagreeable, empathetic but not easily led by her emotions, and most importantly, she’s always kind to the fandom’s male faves. She is, in almost every way, trademark "Best Girl" material, and Mika is her foil (at least in PP2). She’s set up to be the anti-Akane, both in personality and narrative function. If Akane trusts someone, Mika doesn’t. If Akane wants to bend the rules, Mika is rigid in upholding them. If Akane isn’t afraid of clouding her Hue, Mika is downright terrified.

Though it’s never stated outright, she probably hoped her senior Inspector would serve as a mentor figure, yet we see none of that from Akane, who often abandons Mika to chase down seemingly wild leads and appears to be stuck in the past, yearning for the original Division 01. (Mika even says as much to Ginoza in a novelization of the first film.) On top of that, I think it’s important to remember that we’re predisposed to side with Akane, as she is both our POV protagonist *and* the hero of the narrative. We have unprecedented access to her private moments, motivations, and methodology. We know she means well and trust that her unconventional strategy will pay off in the end. Mika does not. All she knows is that her direct superior is habitually breaking the rules, overloading her team with what feels like excessive busywork, and ignoring the more bureaucratic side of the job in favor of unconventional/unsanctioned detective work. If I’m being perfectly honest, I would also be submitting concerned reports to my boss.

[When Akane blatantly disregards Sibyl's judgement of bomber Akira Kitazawa, talking him down from a Crime Coefficient of 302 to 299, Mika confronts her for putting both their colleagues and nearby civilians in danger. This later proves to be the right call, as Kitazawa attacks Inspector Risa Aoyanagi and escapes police custody.]

[While investigating Kirito Kamui, Akane keeps her suspicions/theories close to the chest, leaving Mika and the rest of Division 01 in the dark as to her game plan.]

[Although Akane's decision to entrust Hinakawa with all 185 Halos proves to be the right one, it's understandable why Mika is taken aback by her placing so much responsibility on a single subordinate -- especially one with Hinakawa's history.]

Now, that’s not to say Mika’s feelings about Akane are purely altruistic. She’s definitely jealous of her senior Inspector and resents her standing within the Bureau, which makes her behave in ways both petty and vindictive. But I’d argue that this, too, is understandable, if not wholly forgivable, when viewed through Mika’s eyes. Picture this: You’re the youngest-ever recruit to a highly coveted position. You follow protocol to a T, are deferential to your superiors, and show a genuine aptitude for the job. Even your callousness toward the Enforcers (again, your childhood best friend was butchered by a latent criminal) is in accordance with Sybil’s will. Shitty, yes, but standard for someone raised within the Orwellian hellscape of 2100s Japan. And yet, everyone around you prefers your senior Inspector. Your subordinates defer to her when you’re the officer in charge (Hinakawa) and even help her game the system (Ginoza). The Chief tells you you’re boring, but displays obvious favoritism toward her. This severely harms your self-esteem and colors the way you interact with everyone around you. After all, it’s hard to feel like a valued member of the team when you’re being undermined and lectured at every turn. This doesn’t excuse Mika’s behavior, and if she didn’t evolve, I might understand some of the hate, but she does evolve. Spectacularly. She’s just not Akane, and that’s okay.

[While dealing with the hostage situation in PP2, Mika notices Hinakawa working on something off to the side. When she confronts him about it, he admits that he's acting on Akane's orders, even though Mika is technically the officer in charge.]

[A similar incident occurs in Sinners of the System: Case. 1, when Ginoza shoots down Mika's (admittedly ridiculous) plan, which she interprets as him once again siding with Akane over her.]

Again, this is good storytelling at work, and you can acknowledge that these two women are diametrically opposed and still appreciate -- hell, even like -- both of them for the well-written characters they are. After all, most Psycho-Pass fans like both Kougami and Ginoza in PP1 despite their many differences, not to mention the fact that Ginoza is (and I say this with love) a giant asshole. Let’s not forget, he was *this close* to microwaving Kougami at Chief Kasei’s behest. You can tell yourself he wouldn’t have, but are you sure? Are you really sure? But we forgive him, because he’s a man. Anyway, back to Akane and Mika. For reasons I’ll never understand, many fans find it borderline impossible to love two women with beef, whether it’s one-sided or mutual. There can only be one Best Girl, and everyone better be on her team. It reminds me of the Sansa vs. Daenerys discourse that gripped the Game of Thrones fandom in its last few seasons. This is doubly ridiculous in Psycho-Pass’s case, because Akane and Mika come to trust, respect, and depend on each other. But people decided to hate this 19-year-old forever, so none of that matters.

[Notice how Ginoza's gaze narrows ominously in the last frame, suggesting he might actually have pulled the trigger, thereby killing his best friend, had Akane not intervened.]

Now, let’s return to my earlier point about certain fans irrationally hating any female character they deem unworthy of their blorbo, husbando, etc. This is where Parasocial Relationships become extremely interesting. As mentioned above, Ginoza is my favorite character in Psycho-Pass, which I think is pretty common. While I myself have never been one for self-insertion or creating OCs to pair with my favorite characters, I understand that it’s a popular trend, and if you enjoy it, more power to you. It becomes problematic, however, when those who engage in self-shipping/OC-shipping decide to collectively gang up on the female character creators have paired (or hinted at pairing) with the object of their affection. Enter GinoMika. Now, I know what you’re thinking -- “But Mika’s a lesbian!” I don’t necessarily agree. Do I think she was in love with her best friend at Oso Academy? Yes. Do I think she had a crush on Yayoi at the beginning of PP2? Yes. Do I also think it’s obvious she currently has feelings for Ginoza, which have been steadily growing since Sinners of the System? Absolutely. For this reason, I interpret her as being both bisexual and demisexual. But that’s beside the point --

The point is that many Ginoza fans who ship him with themselves, their OCs, or Akane (remember, she’s Best Girl) seem to enjoy trashing on Mika like it’s an Olympic sport. And when I say “trashing,” I don’t mean your normal yet still disappointing level of ship nonsense; I mean unhinged, violent rhetoric that makes me feel like the Internet is a place where women can never win. And why? Because she was mean to him when she first started working for the MWPSB? As if he was oh-so-kind to the Enforcers who worked under him. I seem to recall him screaming at his father and threatening to “make him pay” for visiting his sick wife without permission. Oh, and then there was the time he introduced Akane to her new colleagues by telling her, “Don’t think that the guys you’re about to meet are humans like us.” But yes, Mika once told him that she didn’t want his opinion as a latent criminal, which is so much worse. And before you can say that she’s still a bitch to him, let me point out that she is a textbook tsundere. That’s how she flirts, shows affection, etc. She can never come right out and say what she means, because that would make her vulnerable. But she can surreptitiously tell Ginoza he better come back alive by insisting he return her special Dominator. You know, because it would be a real hassle if she had to replace that thing.

[The language Ginoza uses when introducing Akane to the Enforcers, including his own best friend and father, is deeply dehumanizing.]

[When Aoyanagi takes Masaoka to visit his estranged wife, Ginoza reacts with explosive anger, reprimanding his father in front of their colleagues and threatening to retaliate should he do it again.]

Which brings us, at long last, to the male portion of the fandom. While many female fans like to call Mika out for her more negative character traits, completely ignoring any and all growth she’s experienced since PP2, male fans tend to direct their anger, dislike, etc. in a much more aggressive manner. I wish I was exaggerating when I say that I’ve seen multiple posts praying for Mika’s rape and subsequent murder. You can’t dive into a single “Season 4 Wish List” thread without finding at least one person wishing extreme ill on Mika Shimotsuki. It's pure misogyny, classic “I’ll fuck the bitch right out of her” rhetoric, and it has no place in this fandom or any other. You would never see a male character being talked about in these terms. Consider this: There’s more fan fiction featuring Mika being raped or coerced into sex by her tormentor, Sakuya Togane, than her having a positive, consensual experience with any other character. Love her or hate her, that is extremely fucked up. We as a fandom need to do better, because once this type of misogyny can be weaponized against fictional characters, it becomes much easier to use against real people. Fan culture, though it might seem trivial, says a lot about us and our values.

[This is just a sampling of the comments you'll find on Twitter, Tumblr, Reddit, and other social media sites.]

That said, I’d like to end this essay on a more positive note, so let’s take a look at all the ways in which Mika has become a better, more compassionate human being over the course of the series...

By PP3, she shows obvious concern for her Enforcers, values their opinions, and treats them like integral members of her team. In an especially cute scene, she even fist-bumps Tenma Todoroki after they work seamlessly to defeat Koichi Azusawa’s henchmen. She also makes a point to attend the party thrown in the Enforcers’ quarters, as she now longs to be part of the gang -- a gang she would have actively shunned in PP2.

[During First Inspector, Mika shows time and again that she's willing to work with and for her Enforcers.]

[As Chief, Mika realizes that Enforcers deserve respect and gratitude from their superiors. They are no longer dogs to her.]

[In PP2, Mika tells Ginoza she doesn't care what the Enforcers think of her. By PP3, however, we see her display concern that her team might find her dull. She wants to be liked and accepted by them.]

She becomes far more flexible with her co-workers, allowing Inspectors Arata Shindo and Kei Mikhail Ignatov plenty of freedom to conduct investigations as they see fit. Yes, she consistently scolds them (textbook tsundere behavior), but this is done in a manner far more humorous than anything else. We know she actually trusts them and has their best interests at heart; she just can’t bring herself to say it aloud. She also repeatedly takes heat from Chief Hosorogi on their behalf and is genuinely worried for Arata when it seems like Sibyl might “eliminate” him. The palpable relief on her face when she finds out he’s allowed to remain an Inspector speaks volumes.

[Throughout PP3, Mika allows Kei and Arata to play to their individual strengths, even if it means bending the rules -- something she would never have done in PP2 or the first film.]

[Just look at that excited face. No caption necessary.]

She goes out of her way to make sure the immigrant prostitutes saved by religious leader Joseph Auma are protected following his death. This is an especially big deal, since many of these individuals are latent criminals, and Mika is forced to ask her newfound nemesis, Frederica Hanashiro, for a favor in order to secure their safety. When she tries to pretend it’s no big deal, Frederica calls her bluff by pointing out that no one would stoop to asking someone they hate for help in order to protect people whose fates they don’t care about.

[Even though Mika detests Frederica, she puts the well-being of the immigrants before her own pride.]

In Sinners of the System: Case. 1, her distrust of latent criminals is permanently altered after dealing with Izumi Yasaka, whom she works tirelessly to rescue and comes to view as brave, capable, and worthy of reintegration into society. She also displays genuine concern for and lack of discrimination toward Takeya Kukuri, the young son of a latent criminal, and is horrified to discover that the latent criminal inmates at Sanctuary are being used as disposable tools to move nuclear waste canisters.

[Sinners of the System: Case. 1 marks a decided shift in the way Mika views latent criminals. Instead of lumping them all together, she begins to see them as individuals who deserve basic human rights.]

[Even though Mika is unable to save all the latent criminals at Sanctuary, she does everything in her power to ensure Yasaka and Takeya walk away clean.]

When Enforcer Mao Kisaragi turns out to be the “fox within the CID,” Mika and the rest of Division 01 are united in supporting her claim of innocence. Mika trusts (without concrete proof, mind you) that she’s telling the truth about being an unwitting accomplice, something she never would have done in PP2 or even the first film.

[While the old Mika would have been the first person to distrust Kisaragi, here we see her standing up for the beleaguered Enforcer.]

She comes to respect Division 01 (Akane, Ginoza, Sugo, Hinakawa, Kunizuka, and Shion), views them as a surrogate family, and misses them once their unit is disbanded. In Sinners of the System: Case. 3, Frederica Hanashiro, who temporarily worked as part of their unit, says, “CID Division 01… They’re not just capable; they have a rare teamwork that overcomes the barrier between Inspectors and Enforcers.” Yes, this is mostly due to Akane’s guiding influence, but it’s clear Frederica is talking about the whole team. It’s taken Mika years to get there, but she is now definitely part of the group, not a jealous outsider looking in. In fact, even Mika’s obvious dislike of Frederica in PP3 is a clear result of this affection. After finally finding a place to belong, she feels as though Frederica swooped in and stole her found family, leaving her right back where she started -- on the outside.

[Though she'll never admit it, Mika views Ginoza as both a mentor and a friend. When he leaves the PSB to join SAD/MOFA, she misses having him around.]

[During her lowest moment in PP2, a jealous Mika actually hopes that Akane's Hue will darken. In Sinners of the System: Case. 2, she pleads with her to take her own safety more seriously. It's clear a big change has occurred in the intervening years.]

[Instead of feeling constant competition with Akane, by PP3, Mika is finally able to give her her due. It's clear they trust and respect each other despite their many differences.]

She’s grown from an immature young woman who couldn’t bring herself to take responsibility for her failures -- most notably her involvement in Akane’s grandmother’s murder -- to a responsible PSB Chief who holds herself accountable for anything that goes wrong with her Inspectors and Enforcers. This is most evident in her reaction to Koichi Azusawa taking control of Nona Tower and subsequently endangering the lives of MWPSB faculty and agents. We first see inklings of this change near the end of PP2, when Kunizuka tells Mika she’ll never forgive the person who gave up Aoi Tsunemori’s location, and Mika responds in kind. It’s clear that she’s not merely parroting a response to save her own skin but is deeply troubled and filled with regret over her own actions.

[In PP2, Mika is constantly blaming others for her mistakes. By First Inspector, she's owning mistakes she didn't even make.]

[Mika trusts her team so much, she's willing to put her job on the line.]

[Although Mika doesn't come clean to Kunizuka about her role in Aoi Tsunemori's death, it's clear she’s haunted by it. Later, when she confesses the truth to Ginoza, he admits to feeling a similar guilt over the way he treated his late father, telling Mika they'll have to bear their respective shame silently for the rest of their lives.]

And lastly, I believe the biggest example of Mika's growth can be found in what is arguably her most important relationship -- the one she shares with Ginoza. Whether you view them as mentor/mentee, begrudging friends, potential love interests, or all three, you can't deny that they have one of the most interesting and entertaining dynamics in the series. As mentioned above, when Mika first meets Ginoza, she views him as a cautionary tale. His demotion from Inspector to Enforcer is her worst nightmare, something that could conceivably happen to her, though she'll never admit it. Because of this, she treats him with hostility, disregarding his opinions and shunning his advice. But the longer they work together, the more we realize that Ginoza brings out the best in Mika -- and vice-versa. His calm, cool demeanor tempers her fiery spirit, and her enthusiasm makes him feel like he still has a purpose. By the time PP3 rolls around, he's become her #1 confidant, the person she calls whenever she has intel to share, grievances to air, etc. And you can't deny that Mika is the one person who makes Ginoza funny. Their flirtatious banter is genuinely charming and shows the softer, more human side of both their characters.

[Given her history with latent criminals, Mika refuses to listen to Ginoza, even when he's coming from a place of experience and genuinely trying to help her.]

[After working together for several years, Mika learns to value Ginoza's opinion and even feels proud when he compliments her.]

[During the Sanctuary case, Ginoza admits to both Akane and himself that being an Enforcer isn't so bad, as long as Mika is the one calling the shots. He knows she has a good heart, and working for her reminds him why he joined the MWPSB in the first place.]

[Notice how Mika's body language changes from PP2 to Sinners of the System. She now looks at Ginoza with appreciation and, in certain instances, affection. The fact that he views her the same way speaks volumes about how far their relationship has come.]

If you made it to the end of this mammoth post, thank you for sticking with me. Hopefully, we can all treat Mika with a little more patience, kindness, and respect when PP4 arrives.

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ghosttownwherenoonegoes · 1 year

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Uncle Wayne comforts you after a nightmare (e.m. x gn!reader, Y/N thinks of Uncle Wayne as their dad)

A/N: I had a night of nightmares, the first of which left me sweaty and shaking for about an hour before I felt brave enough to try sleeping again. And then I had another nightmare. And then I had to go to work. I was writing this in my head all day until I finally got to come home and type it up. I should be studying right now but I haven't written in WEEKS and it's slowly rotting me from the inside out, so here we go.

Dedicated this fic to @badgirlforeddiemunson because she left me a note from Uncle Wayne in my inbox which was exactly what I needed, it made me cry and I wanted to leave this little dedication as a thank you to her! 🙏❤️

A massive thank you as well to @fandomohana for helping me with Uncle Wayne's characterisation in this; this fic wouldn't be what it is without you!💗😍🙏

Aaaand a big big thank you to @ilovecupcakesandtea , who stopped me from deleting this fic because I felt like I'd forgotten how to write our beloved and bestest dad Uncle Wayne buuuut it turns out I was just being mean towards myself... There's a surprise😂💀thank you for reading this for me and validating my characterisation choices!💕💕💕

Tw; nightmare (not described so it can fit any nightmare you may have had), crying (reader), reader wakes up afraid, general anxiety (not wanting to wake a sleeping Munson and then feeling guilty for doing it accidentally despite best efforts not to), Uncle Wayne and Eddie are both absolute sweethearts, as aforementioned, Y/N sees Uncle Wayne as being like a parent to them & this is explicit in the narrative (totally not me showing my own feelings👀🥺), brief allusion to marrying Eddie one day throuhg Uncle Wayne's narration.

People who asked to be tagged in this: @pandawithprobs @arianatheangel-girl @ali-r3n @sagaonpandora @digital-charlie @tracymbcm @cherrycolas-things @simping-over-boys-with-trauma @stevesmunsons @esme-viridian @eddiemunsonsgf2 @browneyes8288 @allthefandomstogether @robinsbuckleys

Word count: 4, 197 (this took TWO MONTHS of grabbing ten minutes here and there every day where I could🥺🥺🥺)

(SEEING THEM SIDE BY SIDE LIKE THIS IS KILLING MEEEE ~ OMG PLEASEEEEE😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔💔💔💔)

You awake with a start, your heart pounding in your head, nerves ablaze, body trembling. Sweat drenches your body. You feel cold, sticky. Disgusting.

The remnants of your nightmare cling to you as surely as the twisted sheets beneath you, your body writhing uncontrollably in the face of your terror.

You lay there in the dark, trying desperately to reorient yourself.

You can see Eddie’s beautiful guitar, looking like she was made for another dimension, hanging up on the mirror. You can see Eddie’s handmade Corroded Coffin banner (and you know what the secret is; that Uncle Wayne had stencilled the logo on prior to Eddie painting his band’s name on the old bedsheet - Eddie had been so excited that his hands were shaking too badly for him to do it on his own), you can see the way Eddie’s blinds never close all the way, letting the moonlight spill into the room.

You turn your head, your breathing still erratic, that lump in your throat growing more pronounced as the seconds tick past, and you see the one person in the world who fills your lungs with oxygen, your heart with rainbows, and your soul with reminders of all your reasons why.

Eddie.

You want so very badly to wake up the sleeping man, but you feel guilty at even the thought of doing that. Why should you disturb his sleep just because you had a nightmare? It would have been more than fine if the shoe was on the other foot, you would have wanted Eddie to wake you up so that he didn’t have to calm himself down alone, but for you to wake him up in the same situation, even knowing as you do that Eddie would want to be woken up so he could comfort you? No way, you won’t do that to him.

In the end, this thought is what breaks you: you're suffering but you're not allowing yourself Eddie because you want him to rest.

A sob rips out of your throat and you quickly muffle it with a hand, not wanting to accidentally wake him up either, stumbling out of Eddie's bed. You make your way down the narrow hall to come into the living room, eyes darting around nervously, looking for something to ground you; something to make you finally and fully realise that you're awake, you're safe, it's over. And then your eyes land on something - someone - which makes all the bad stuff not seem so scary anymore.

You see dearest Uncle Wayne asleep on the pullout bed.

And then you cry harder.

On shaky legs do you come to stand beside the bed, looking down at the human sized lump underneath the worn duvet. You bend down at the waist and lightly shake Uncle Wayne. In reality, you don't even shake him, you just half-heartedly wiggle your hand back and forth across the soft expanse of duvet. It is too gentle a movement for Uncle Wayne to be able to feel it, especially through the duvet. You don't want to wake him up, not really, but you also don't want to be alone in your fear, you want someone to comfort you.

But you don't want to wake anyone up just because you had a nightmare. You are a person grown, you can handle a nightmare without waking someone, right?

Wrong.

You wince against the tiny voice in your head, and partially give yourself what you want by sitting down on the floor beside Uncle Wayne's bed, leaning your head against what you figure is his shoulder. Your tears fall easily, your bottom lip starting to become sore with how hard you are biting down on it to keep yourself from making a sound. You are surprised that even walking into the living room hasn't woken Uncle Wayne up; he's a heavy sleeper unless one of his kids need him, unless you or Eddie need him.

"Uncle Wayne," you whisper as quietly as possible, one of your hands creeping under the duvet as you search for one of his; you know how he lays, you know roughly where his hands are basing on how he's laying, and indeed do you find one of his hands. You curl your fingers loosely around his as slowly and as carefully as you can, trying so hard not to wake him up even though you're desperately looking for comfort. "I'm really sorry. I had a nightmare and I - I need you but I don't wanna wake you up because you'll get mad at me." At this thought do you cry harder still, and the secretly awake Uncle Wayne's heart bleeds at all of the pain in your voice, barely audible even in the stillness of the room. "That's why I'm out here, I didn't even wanna wake up our Eddie but you're both all I want right now... but I can't because I'm an adult and I shouldn't be crying here over a nightmare and you're - you don't need me waking you up and - "

The only reason Uncle Wayne can still make your words out is because he knows you, he knows you, but as tears drip sore with audible plinks on the duvet and as you bend over his hand, pressing your forehead against his palm, you're practically incoherent. Uncle Wayne decides that it is time to come clean and 'wake up'.

When you start to repeat yourself, it means that your cycle of anxiety is starting, and he wants to quell it immediately. One of his kids need him, so who the fuck cares that he's just worked a twelve hour shift?

One of his kids needs him.

The hand which is pressing against your forehead twitches as Uncle Wayne splays his fingers, the pads rubbing lightly against your hairline. You start, not expecting the 'sleepy' touch of a man who has actually been awake since the moment you woke up; you had almost screamed. He knows you well enough to know that you don't ever want to bother him, and that's why you haven't woken him up this night, so he had decided to feign sleep so that he could pretend to wake up on his own; hoping to alleviate the guilt if you had woken him up. Uncle Wayne doesn't know if you know about this, but that's a conversation for when you're calmer and he is more 'awake'.

Fingers slide further across your scalp and begin to lightly smooth over your hair, the rustling of bedsheets tells you that your Uncle Wayne is rolling over, bringing himself closer to you as he gives up the game.

"Hey now, sweetpea," Uncle Wayne's voice is deeper than usual with sleep but just as gruff, and it is at perfect odds with the sheer kindness you see in his eyes, all the little night lights and lamps around the trailer creating a warm ambience in an already warm and loving home. "What monsters you been tryna' fight, darlin'?"

All at once, you feel like a small child standing at the foot of your parents’ bed. Distantly, you realise that you are, and tears drip anew down your face, faster and harder than before. You woke him up you woke him up stupid stupid you woke him up - you inhale shakily and two words rip out of your throat like they are terrified they'll be swallowed if they don't jump off the tip of your tongue right now.

Uncle Wayne always manages to make you realise how not okay you are; you fool the world easily and sometimes even Eddie has to squint at you to decide for himself, but Uncle Wayne? No wool fits over his eyes, no matter how well it's knitted.

“Nightmare. Bad.”

The hand on your hair stills at the tremble in your voice and the way your bottom lip wobbles. You bite down on it hard to keep from making a sound, feeling awful about the fact that you have woken Uncle Wayne up. The pullout bed is small but Uncle Wayne shuffles back as far as he can and pats the slim vacant space.

"C'mon, in y'get."

At your blank expression, Uncle Wayne smiles with all the patience of the world. He has been through so much and he carries daily with him a great deal of anger due to how the world has treated him his whole damn life, not to mention what it's doing to his boy, and yet he's still so kind. You never fail to be able to draw strength from the inspiration he gives you. "You really think my boy hasn't crawled into bed with me after a nightmare? He might be twenty, but he's still my baby. You don't have to, darlin', but I know that look on your face. I seen it on my boy's so many times right before he crawls in." A pause, a wry smile as if he knows how to really convince you, then, "he did it just last week, last I can remember."

Uncle Wayne sees the second he manages to coax you into it, and it makes him smile. You're careful as you ease into his bed, not wanting to get in his way or be intrusive, but Uncle Wayne makes no fuss about it and simply lays there until you're comfortable. He lets you wrap an arm around him, he lets you nuzzle into that red and blue flannel you love so well, and then he holds you too, his grip tight, firm, his hands hot on your upper arm. He wonders where his baby is, but he knows that you haven't woken him up. The chainsaw snore coming from just down the hall gives you away and you and Uncle Wayne laugh quietly together. Somewhere in the back of your mind, your brain presses record on the sound, wanting to cherish it forevermore.

"Do you think if we ripped an actual chainsaw next to his window he'd sleep through it?"

Uncle Wayne chuckles, fondness saturating his voice, "Far as I know, he still can. Did it when he was fourteen; had to cut a tree back near his window. Was worried I'd wake him, but he slept right through." A smile soaked Uncle Wayne's next words in sunshine, "My boy's grown into himself but his nature ain't changed back from when he was a kid." My Eddie's forever, he thinks.

The humour, always in the serious if one tilts their head, fades away and you're once again left with the fact that Uncle Wayne has selflessly stepped up for someone yet again. You wonder who steps up for him when the time comes. Between you and Eddie, Uncle Wayne's chances are golden.

"You never answered my question, sweetpea," Uncle Wayne dropped a kiss to your forehead. It was more like the press of facial hair to your skin than anything else, but it warmed you from the inside out all the same. "What monsters you been tryna' fight'?" Despite the way he words it, you hear the underlying message immediately:

Talk to me.

You draw in a shuddering breath but Uncle Wayne, who is secretly more of a parental figure to you than either of your parents put together, doesn't try to soothe you beyond how he already is. He lets you cry, he lets you curl into him like he's your protection from the world (he is, even when everything is okay), he lets you take your time in telling him everything, and the entire time he has you wrapped in his arms, pressed tight into his chest. When the nightmare is relived and you're still crying, he addresses his main concern.

"You wanna go back to Eddie, darlin'?" You freeze, thinking that perhaps this is Uncle Wayne's gentle attempt to get rid of you, but he shakes his head when he feels you tense up. "Easy, sweetpea, I ain't meanin' it like that," He squeezes his arms around you and drops a proper kiss to your forehead. "But my boy is gonna' be missin' you. You know he wakes up at the drop of a hat if either of us ain't there with him."

"No," your bottom lip wobbles and more tears drip down your face. Uncle Wayne's calloused thumb wipes them away gently. "I mean... I want Eddie but... Don't wanna leave you." The last four words are quieter than the rest, broken, your bottom lip and chin trembling. You feel sick at the thought of having to pull away from Uncle Wayne, even though you really want Eddie too. But you want Uncle Wayne. "Please don't make me go, please. Don't wanna leave you." You hold onto Uncle Wayne even tighter, crying harder now than you have done ever since you jolted awake, and Uncle Wayne is quick to soothe you.

"Hey, now," Uncle Wayne hushed, hugging you somehow even more securely to him so that you can feel his heart, slow and steady, thumping deep within his chest. It's in the Munson Doctrine that if Uncle Wayne isn't worrying, then everything is okay. His heart is steady, he is okay, and so shall you be. You take an instinctive deep breath and melt. "I said nothin' about leavin'. But you need Eddie, sweetheart. C'mon, I'll go too."

You shake your head again, "N-no, I woke you up. You need sleep. M'okay." Your cheeks burn as Uncle Wayne gives you The Look™️, which always brings you and Eddie to a grinding halt. This is in the Munson Doctrine too; never tell Uncle Wayne that you're fine if you're not. He knows. He always knows.

"I'm coming with you, darlin'. I ain't sleepin' 'til I know you're okay. It ain't a discussion, Y/N."

He pats your shoulder gently and you very reluctantly untangle yourself from him, the urge to cry still very much with you even as your tears start to slow. Uncle Wayne sees your face begin to crumple, ready are you to cry anew, and he stands up with an exaggerated groan, making you giggle. Only a Munson could make you smile while you're crying. Already can you feel the remnants of the nightmare beginning to dissipate and you lean into Uncle Wayne's side as he slots your hands together, walking with you through the trailer into Eddie's bedroom.

Your home away from home.

Uncle Wayne raises a hand and raps on the door three times with the knuckle of his littlest finger and there's a sleepy groan from within which is so perfectly Eddie that it makes the two of you huff laughter. "Y'decent, boy?"

A louder, slightly more exaggerated groan has Uncle Wayne's shoulders shaking with laughter as he pushes the door open, stepping into Eddie's room and pulling you along behind him. You keep your hand tight in his, eyes roaming over the bed as you try to figure out if three adults could fit comfortably onto one bed.

You do not want to let go of Uncle Wayne.

You don't know why. You don't care why. You just want him to stay.

"E-Eddie?" Your voice is thick with all the tears you have shed thus far, and all the tears you have yet to let go of. He doesn't answer you right away and you whimper, which makes both Munsons freeze.

Eddie sits upright like he's on a spring, arms already reaching for you just as Uncle Wayne walks with you across the room, making a beeline for his son and the love of your life.

"Whoa whoa, hey,"

"Hush now, darlin',"

The Munsons simultaneously speak at a level volume to each other so it's a symphony of empathy and love and it triggers a third crying spell within you.

"Get up on the bed, sweetpea, that's it," Uncle Wayne guides you through glassy vision to sit beside Eddie on the bed. Eddie is brushing sleep out of his gorgeous chocolate brown eyes with one hand and he reaches for you with the other, trying to physically wake himself up and comfort you at the same time. "You got 'em, Eddie?"

"Always."

He speaks the word like a vow and it makes you smile.

The expression on your face dies as quickly as it is born, for Uncle Wayne slides his fingers out from between yours and pats your shoulder in a parting gesture. Panic seizes your heart and you grab at him, your fingers finding purchase in the sleeve of that flannel you love so much. "No!!!!" Yet again, the noise you make causes both Munsons to freeze. "No, please don't go! Please don't leave me, Uncle Wayne. Please stay, pl - " You're incoherent in your physical exhaustion and in the remnants of your fear, as well as your physical need for Uncle Wayne.

You're wrapped up in Eddie's arms, his lips at your hairline and his hands rubbing up and down wherever he can reach but even here, you are still shaking like a leaf, one hand holding Eddie in a death grip and the other still holding onto Uncle Wayne's sleeve. When he doesn't move away, your fingers spider down to grip onto his fingers, locking your hands together like you did before. Uncle Wayne blinks hard - a gesture Eddie recognises as his trying not to cry - and something slides into place for the younger Munson.

All at once, around his horrified curiosity about what you had been dreaming about to render you into a shaking crying wreck, Eddie knows exactly what you need to get you feeling safe and secure.

"Dad." His voice is quiet, more serious than you've heard him in a long time, "Can't you stay, just for tonight?"

The thought of this makes you smile even as a few more tears slip down your cheeks, and tender blues and chocolate browns zero in on the expression.

"Is that - "

"Did you just - "

" - a smile?"

The Munson men almost speak over each other in exaggerated tones of surprise and it makes you giggle, a wet yet very welcome sound. In turn, this makes Eddie smile, and seeing both of his kids at once expressing happiness? Why, how can Uncle Wayne deny either of you anything, even when he's tired as all hell from his twelve hour shift and interrupted night of sleep? There are many things lacking in the Munson household but the one thing they have always had in abundance is love. And if what you both want right now is for him to stay with you, then who is he to say no? The fact that something as simple as his presence is enough to chase your fears away warms Uncle Wayne's heart right to its centre, and he feels deep within him that you're gonna be an official Munson one day. You're honourary for now, but he knows what's coming, and he's so excited.

"I think it is, son, clear as day after all them tears," Uncle Wayne carefully pulls his hand away from you as Eddie scoots across the bed towards the side closest to the window. "I ain't gonna say no to that."

You push up closer to Eddie as Uncle Wayne sits down and then eases himself down onto the mattress, getting comfortable. You have a playfully wriggly Munson either side of you and you know they're playing up to make you feel better, to keep you smiling, but you also see now where Eddie gets his dramatics from. All of Eddie really has come from Uncle Wayne, hasn't it?

Eddie wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight into him, and Uncle Wayne remains where he is on the side of the bed closest to the door; he doesn't move much in his sleep, his body used to the slim pull-out bed he's been sleeping on since he legally adoped Eddie well over a decade ago.

"Aren't you gonna come closer to us, dad?"

"How close is closer?" Uncle Wayne tilts his head at Eddie, who only grins and looks at you, effectively putting you on the spot as they allow you to decide what kind of cuddle you want.

You pause and listen to yourself, your eyes closing as you try to get that little voice in the back of your head to tell you what you want. One word drifts across the front of your mind and it jumps off the tip of your tongue, as if it's afraid it will be swallowed if it doesn't voice itself now.

"Sandwich." A pause and then, "wait, no. Toastie." Your words are strange but you are understood; hold me so tight that if you are bread and I am cheese, I will melt between you.

Uncle Wayne smiles and scoots closer to you and to Eddie, wrapping an arm around you. His hand rests on Eddie's wrist as the two of them surround you. "Come on, then, butter up."

His chuckle punctuates Eddie's drawn out groan; only a good pun is met with that kind of reaction. "Of all the puns available, you go with butter? Really?"

Uncle Wayne shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. It makes him look younger and you melt; the Munsons have both had such difficult lives, and where Uncle Wayne is full of anger, he is only ever kind... life lessons he has imparted onto Eddie, whom makes his dad proud every single day. You had told Eddie once that he was living up to the Munson name, and before that flash of indignation and confusion turned into hurt, you had listed all the ways you see Uncle Wayne in him, and Eddie had lit up like a Christmas tree. It is one of your most treasured memories.

You take advantage of the rare moment offered to you by the world after such an awful nightmare and cuddle into Uncle Wayne, pressing your face into that red and blue flannel you love so well. He hums and presses his lips to your forehead, not exactly giving you a kiss but the sentiment is the same. Eddie rolls so that he is cuddled into your back, his nose pressed into the nape of your neck. Uncle Wayne's hand spiders across Eddie's wrist more firmly, grasping his boy to him, and Eddie tilts that same hand palm up so that he can hold his Uncle's wrist, too. The Munsons feel each other's heartbeats pounding firmly underneath skin and it soothes the both of them more than anything else in the world ever will.

You smile into the articial darkness afforded to you by Uncle Wayne's chest. "Ask your dad when I'm asleep, Eddie. Don't wanna relive a third time."

"Wh - how did - I didn't even say anything, sweetheart." Eddie's voice was bemused and you grin, somehow managing to cuddle into Uncle Wayne and pull backwards into Eddie at the same time.

"Didn't have to - I can hear you thinking over there."

"Wondered what that burning smell was," Uncle Wayne playfully wrinkles his nose and the three of you share quiet laughter, marvelling at the power of being able to laugh even when one of you is coming down from an experience of visceral terror.

You burrow down once more, nosing into Uncle Wayne's flannel to get as close to him as you physically can, and Eddie follows you across the minute space left between you so that you become the cheese toastie you have mentioned wanting to become this night and, truthfully, every night. The two people you love most of all surround you now, keep you safe from harm even and especially from your own mind, and you fall asleep to the persistent but gentle vibration of Uncle Wayne's voice through his chest as he begins to tell Eddie all about your nightmare, four arms tightly around you. The scruff of Uncle Wayne's facial hair tickles the top of your head and you feel Eddie pressed tightly against your neck, his heart pounding there. You feel Uncle Wayne's slower and steadier one against your front and you emit a sleepy sound which gives both Munsons pause, one look of fondness and one look of nothing but love on their faces as they look down at you.

Uncle Wayne finishes relaying your nightmare to Eddie and the younger Munson winces with a muttered, "jesus christ" as he presses a kiss to the top of your head, "no wonder they couldn't calm down."

"Sure as hell seems like they found peace now, son," Uncle Wayne's tone is gruff, his words, tender heart and eyes kind, "how about we join 'em?"

Eddie nods and squeezes Uncle Wayne's hand; this is not the first night the two Munsons have fallen asleep holding hands and it sure as shit won't be the last. Oceanic blues and chocolate browns blink tiredly at one another and then close as all three Munsons find comfort, safety, security and love with one another.

Just as it's meant to be; the three Munsons against the rest of the world.

POSTING THIS LINE OF TEXT BECAUSE TUMBLR KEEPS EATING ENDINGS???

#eddie munson x reader #wayne munson #munson family #the munsons #stranger things #wayne munson and eddie munson #eddie and wayne munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson comfort #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff

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