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kafkasmuses · 1 month

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divine figures — luke castellan + reader : nothing could steer luke off his path to god now, until you came along.

tags : southern setting au, small town setting, loser!luke, idolization, christian religious references & imagery, religious inconsistencies, church sex, religious guilt, body worship, sex but poetic, cannibalistic imagery…………..

a/n : heavily inspired by the lovely @murdrdocs!!

luke castellan was never one to follow a religion, well, not at first he wasn’t. he thought it was all bullshit, to put your all into someone nobody is sure even exists, it’s bullshit. but then his mom began insisting that he went, that he needed to find god, they both did, so he went.

luke lacked a father figure, so when he stared up at the statue perched at the apse of the church, he found the man he always lacked in his life, no matter how much the statue ignored his gaze, never bothering to look his way. he was quick to read the bible like it was a drug he just couldn’t get enough of, he sat straight with his eyes forward during each sermon, he kept himself pure.

and he stuck true to that, until you came.

he never really noticed you at first, but you were always there.

always looking over your shoulder to his place in the pew, always smiling at him when he accidentally glances your way, always passing by his house on your bike on hot summer days in hopes of seeing him outside, shirtless and working on his mother’s car.

you hadn’t mustered up the proper courage to speak to him, not until your parents have tugged you over to where he stood with his mother in the nave. your mother and father immediately sparked up conversation with his mother, leaving you to awkwardly look around the church in hopes of finding something worthy of speaking of. nothing, there was nothing. so you just mumbled out a, “hey.”

he hesitates for a second, “hi.”

“did you like the sermon?” your southern drawl, along with your sugar coated smile, luke can feel the thumping of his heart against his knit sweater.

“‘course,” he smiles shyly, “i always do— um.. did you?”

you nod at him, your ability to hold eye contact so well had him feeling nervous, constantly breaking it to glance around the room, “are you excited for easter?”

luke’s lips curve to a brighter smile, one that proves that he hopes that with jesus’ return, there will be a proper savior for him, his prayers will finally be listened to, maybe for once the statue on the wall will glance his way.

jesus molded everything about luke, at this point, if he couldn’t believe in his father, jesus was going to take that place— and he did, luke was taught everything by the bible, all he ever relied on was the words of the lord, everything he ever did was a representation of what lied in those scriptures. he never worshipped another god, never said the lord’s name in vain, always remembered sabbath day, as well as honored his mother and… father.

he didn’t commit adultery, in fact, he never spoke to women, really. his mother kept him sheltered, he was only allowed to speak to the women at church, not any of the women who rode on their bikes past his house, or smiled at him in the library. he just stared at them for a minute and looked away, contemplating how different things would be if he was able to speak to them.

at the thought of women, luke’s mind races back to you, who is currently blinking at him and thinking he didn’t hear you. “i am excited— for easter, will you be at— the um.. the church that day?”

another nod, then an awkward silence as you find nothing more to say, and neither does he. the church was a beautiful place, decorated with swirls of gold and dark wood, colorful stained glass windows that painted pictures of jesus, or virgin mary. if luke could move out of his home and live somewhere he genuinely enjoyed, it would be the church.

there was something so comforting about it, maybe the faint music that played in the background, or the way it smelled of old books and floral perfumes, or the fact that it was just a place where so many people went to put their faith into someone. god was just so important, if luke didn’t know any better, he’d envy him.

“you should come on sabbath days,” you interject his thoughts, leaning in to his vision.

he blinks, eyes refocusing on your face, and he awkwardly chuckles, scratching the back of his neck, “i thought they were for relaxation?”

“and worship,” you correct, and he crystalizes the memory of how each word sounds on your tongue, how it flows out so well, how it makes him swallow.

“right, right,” he wets his lips nervously, “i’ll just— ask my mom. mama?”

as soon as he asks his mom, she’s all smiles at him, nodding and even shaking your hand, thanking you for urging him to go to church more.

“i’ll see you there,” is the last thing you say to luke that day.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

luke would be a liar to say he wasn’t riddled with visions of you in the darkest parts of the night, they started from the day you first spoke to him, and never left him since. he hated how much it plagued him, because it tempted him so well. it was like you were eve, offering him, adam, the apple. you reassure him that it’s sweet, that there’s no harm in taking a bite, and luke is parting his lips, ready to taste it, when he finally wakes up.

the heat of the room is beating down on him, even in the cool of the night. his skin is sticky from sweat, and all he can ever think about is you. it should be a crime, really, how much you had consumed his every waking thought. for once, he wasn’t thinking of the bible verses he would be reading that day, what prayer he would be saying.

luke didn’t know one thing about women, but the way you spoke to him, the way you smiled at him, the glints in your eyes, it had him wondering how he could make your face twist up in pleasure— fuck. he shouldn’t be thinking like this, it’s unholy, it’s weird, but he’s already in too deep.

he’s already fed the memory of how pink your lips are, how soft they look, they probably feel the same. is it a sin to wonder how well you kiss? would you be all - consuming? or slow, sweet? luke doesn’t know why he prefers if you’d be hungry, if you’d bite and nip at him like you’re hungry, like he’s the last supper.

his boxers feel tight on his skin, dick twitching in the confines of them. luke hardly knows this feeling well, he wasn’t one to allow himself to get hard, nor was he one to properly take care of it. but something about the idea of your teeth clashing against his when you kiss him, pushing your tongue into his mouth to taste him properly— it had his fingers pushing underneath the waistband of his underwear.

when his fingertips graze his cock, he immediately shudders, lashes fluttering. every time luke touched himself, it felt like the first time, only now it felt.. better. better because he was thinking of you. luke had never watched porn, he hardly knows what it is, so the idea of what sex would be like is.. a gray area for him.

but he works with what his mind is capable of, which is dry humping. the first setting that comes to mind is the church, which leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but he goes with it. it comes to vividly, you on his lap, wet patch evident on his jeans from where your hips push down, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. when you moan, he does, when you whimper, he does, when you roll your hips, he does.

everything was in sync, and it was all so sinful. masturbation itself wasn’t a sin, unless you thought of someone, and for the longest time, luke never thought of anyone, but you were a parasite he couldn’t shake, and he honestly wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

luke wonders how much the priest will judge him when he utters these thoughts, these events in the confessional tomorrow. he has only ever uttered small, pitiful confessions, i didn’t help my mom with dinner, i turned in a book to the library late, i forgot to pray. he’s never had to confess anything larger.

heat bubbles in luke’s stomach, it’s pleasant, sweet, but it curls, and curls until it’s suffocating, until his wrist is hurting from the fast pumps of his cock, sweat glistening on his skin, cheeks flushed. he can feel a whine scratching up his throat, in the confines of his mind, something is screaming at him, telling him to stop, but it’s too late, he can barely hear it over the blood pumping in his ears.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

when luke comes into the church the next day, it’s a saturday, a sabbath day. typically on these days, he would be spending his time lounging around his house, reading some piece of classical literature that he has hidden from his mother, wishing to keep the inked pictures of statues reeking of desire for one another a secret.

but he was here, and so, he prayed.

the sun had barely risen over the horizon (courtesy of daylight savings), yet the candles in the church were lit, leaving an orange hue to project around the empty room.

luke felt gross, corrupt, unholy.

for once, luke feels as though the statue above is glaring down on him, and he tries his best to not shrink into himself under the piercing gaze. he knows. his mouth is dry with each prayer, fingers sweaty around the rosary, but he wouldn’t allow himself to falter once more.

as soon as he starts his fifth prayer, he hears the creak of the floorboards that he knows all too well, eyes fluttering open so he can look back to see who was there, hoping they hadn’t heard his last confessions in his prayers.

you. his mind is tugged to a halt, every prayer he had rehearsed on his way to the church, completely forgotten. it was all just.. you. you seared on his skin, burned him until he was nothing but smoke. your gaze softens on him, a stark contrast to jesus’ pointed glares, “i didn’t think you’d come.”

his voice is coarse from the nonstop prayers, “of course i would.”

all he can think about is you underneath him, his own skin bitten and scratched, decorated in mulberry and deep pinks, he’s practically salivating at the idea. he wonders if, behind the confines of the church walls, would anyone hear you? would the priests dare to look for whoever is letting out such unholy noises?

luke feels frozen the second he comes back to reality, dick hardening underneath the fabric beyond his control, his mind is tearing itself apart before he can even realize you’re speaking to him.

“— wondering if you’d like to sit next to me tomorrow,” you pose, seemingly unaware of the bulge in luke’s pants that he is desperately trying to naturally cover with his hands. but you knew, you knew the effect you had on him, and he had the same effect on you.

is it so cruel to only tease him harder?

luke swallows the remaining saliva in his drying mouth, quickly moving to a stand, rosary bringing more attention to his covered crotch, “sure, yes— um.. i need to— go.”

before you can even say anything, he is pushing past you, hand moving only to chastly grab your waist for a mere second as he passes, an instinct of trying to keep you stable, but it only makes a heat between your legs grow.

desires go both ways, and it’s only a matter of time before they snap.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

easter was once luke’s most anticipated day of the year, but now it was the day of his nightmares. he barely slept last night, kept himself awake with chores, prayers, and reading the bible until it made him sick. he couldn’t have another dream, he couldn’t let you get to him anymore. he thought it would be easy to avoid you today, but he was cursed with his own mistakes as you sat down next to him in the pew.

the worst part wasn’t that you sat down next to it, it’s that his mind was riddled with disgusting thoughts as soon as he saw how your dress brushed up your thighs, it was so simple, such a small act, but it just made him think the worst possible things.

you bent over the pew, the bottom of your dress tugged up to show your panties, his hands are gripping your hips like his life depends on it, crotch pressed to your clothed pussy from behind.

luke blinks back with his cheeks hot, noticing the bible in your hands. when he speaks, he doesn’t even realize what he’s saying, it’s like he’s possessed, “what verse are you reading?”

“luke 22:40,” you say it so simply, a smile barely teasing your lips.

on reaching the place,

he said to them, “pray that you

will not fall into temptation.”

the saliva on luke’s tongue is sour, near poisonous, his lips were stained maroon from the skin of the apple. luke 22:40 was the exact line he had been reciting to himself, luke was his name. the serpent was squeezing him tight, his breath felt swiped away from his lungs.

luke is quiet for the rest of the evening, even through the sermon, when he should be smiling when everyone else is, clapping when everyone else is— he is just silent, blank - faced.

you can’t decipher what he’s feeling until everyone has gone off to eat after the sermon, and he’s tugging you back into the pew once it’s vacant, fingers forming a tight grip around your wrist, “why are you doing this?”

he’s out of breath, and no matter how tough he tries to seem, he sounds pathetic, his voice a near whimper, like he’s pleading with you.

“doing what?” you blink up at him, doe eyes making his teeth press together.

“you’re tempting me— this, this isn’t fair, why?” his breath is shaky when he exhales.

“i’m not doing anything, luke.”

“you’re making me think— making me imagine things.. sinful things.”

“what exactly are you thinking?” your voice is softer, and the heat of the sun is seeping into the church.

“i..” how can he explain himself? every image that he wants to communicate is all too disgusting, a mixture of hunger and desire, it seemed luke wanted you to eat him alive, “you know what i’m thinking.”

“why don’t you show it to me?”

absolution;

formal release from guilt,

obligation, or punishment.

or..

an ecclesiastical declaration

of forgiveness of sins.

morals trickle down luke’s back when he kisses you, he knows it’s all wrong, he knows he could just leave it at a kiss, but he didn’t want to be haunted with these visions any longer, maybe if he made them a reality, they would just leave. he could be himself again, the picture - perfect religious boy he was always supposed to be. the kiss is small at first, the hesitant movement of lips, the adjusting to the feeling, but it quickly grows into something hungry.

luke didn’t know how to properly kiss, so he just followed your lead, and soon enough, he was kissing you like a starving man. from tongues clashing, to his hand mindlessly moving to your hip, body pressing against yours, it was everything he saw in the pictures printed in those books he read.

when luke falls back into his seat on the pew, you had pulled away from him, admiring how flushed his lips are. when your hand meets his jaw, luke forgets who his god is supposed to be, all he can think about is you, even on the day dedicated to the man he has spent all of his life worshiping.

“please,” it’s barely even audible, only made out by the slight flick of his tongue from the l.

“tell me what you want.”

it felt like luke was sitting in the confessional, admitting all of his nastiest desires when his lips part, finally being able to say his thoughts out loud, “can you— ride me? or.. if you don’t want to— that’s okay.” does luke know what riding is? only from the overheard gossip of other men, but he was told it was something he had to try, when he got married, of course.

“i want to,” it’s as if you aren’t in a church, as if nobody could just walk in and see how you’re moving onto his lap, moving his hands to your ass, letting his desperate fingers tug your dress up. his purity bracelet brushes against your skin when you move to guide his hands to your ass, watching the nervous look in his eyes when he squeezes the flesh.

he has no idea what he’s doing, he just wants to please you, to make you feel as good as he made himself feel to the idea of you the other night. maybe, at this point, luke isn’t praying to jesus, maybe he never was, because you were always in the back of his mind. no matter how guilty it made him feel, how many times he had squeezed his tear - ridden eyes shut and wished he was different, wished he wasn’t so easy to fall for temptation.

god is watching, is what his mind tells him, but your eyes tell him to keep going, watching as he moves his hands to unbuckle his belt, the sound of metal clinging being so improper for the walls ridden with crosses, but it just felt so right. he sucks in a sharp breath when he pulls out his dick, the cool air searing his delicate skin, pupils blown wide when they watch your lips slightly part at the sight.

“you’re so big,” is all you can manage out.

luke’s lips twitch around a small smile, “is that a good thing?”

“if it fits,” you move through a few twists to properly take your panties off, letting them hang off your ankle when you reposition yourself to have your entrance pressing against the tip of his dick, “then yes.”

luke’s lips press together as soon as you start sinking down on him, you’re so slow with it it’s almost torturous. the holy water he had dipped his water in and pressed to his skin, was now scorching him with each inch that filled your velvet walls. when you reached the hilt, it was safe to say you felt stuffed, and luke was making more noise than you.

whimpers, grunts, he tried to hide them all behind the confines of his lips, but they dug their nails into his throat and crawled their way up until it was impossible for him to hold them back. as soon as you began moving, luke was purely fighting for his life against the own noises leaving him to the point of where he had to sit up, pressing his lips to your neck, he was quick to press his lips against the sensitive areas, biting, sucking— he wasn’t even sure if he was doing it properly, but he was just so desperate.

he wanted you to shatter him like fine porcelain, to snap off his glass parts and crush them underneath your fingers with pure ease, to deconstruct every inch of him that he had taken years to build. no matter how empty he would feel in the end, to put himself in your hands, like a lump of clay in the hands of a goddess, he trusted your instincts.

“i want you to ruin me,” he mumbles against the flesh of your neck, barely audible.

“what?” your voice is breathless between moans, walls tightening around his dick with each movement of your hips.

he whimpers out a simple, “sorry.”

you didn’t forget his words, though, in fact, you let your fingers run through his dark curls, tangling through them until you tugged him back from your neck, just so you can take his place, now the one pressing your lips to his neck. he felt small underneath you, but he didn’t hate it, he liked the way that your lips felt on his skin, enough for him to lean his head back to provide you more blank canvas.

you painted him in maroons and mulberries, blooming rose petals on his skin, marking him as your own. no matter how much luke knew he would be praying for forgiveness tonight, in this moment, everything he’s ever stood for has fallen off his broad shoulders. his hair is messy and sticking to his sweaty forehead, skin peppered with bite marks, deep reds, purples, every color in between and beyond.

“‘m gonna—“ luke’s words come out choked, dick pulsing inside of you, “gonna cum—“

luke’s orgasm hits him hard enough to have tears pooling into his eyes, maybe it was the guilt, or the everlasting pleasure, he wasn’t entirely sure, how could he even be? all he could think of was you, now.

“do you still believe in god?” you offer him once you’re off him and he’s putting his belt back on.

he stares at you for a second, hesitating, then his lips part, “yes.”

#୨୧ (jules yapping) .ᐟ #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan oneshot #pjo luke #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan smut #luke castellan x you #charlie bushnell imagine #charlie bushnell x reader #charlie bushnell #charlie bushnell x you

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all-purpose-dish-soap · 2 months

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TF141 reactions to "want me to paint your nails?"

PRICE has never been asked that question before

knee-jerk reaction is no. because he is a man.

but he knows better than that, too; it's just an assumption he was raised with and he's lived too long and seen too much to care about other people's judgement.

he leans over and watches you paint yours. seems harmless enough.

he allows you to paint one (1) pinky nail.

you do as neat a job as you can. very deliberate strokes. sliding one of your unpainted nails around the edge of his cuticle to catch a smudge.

you say "there you go :)"

he nods, seems pretty unaffected by the whole thing. just indulging you, it's a good captain thing to do. fun is allowed sometimes as a little treat.

if you catch him looking down at that one painted pinky nail in thought, in meetings, running his thumb over it in thought, no you didn't.

GHOST balks. acts like that's a stupid question. this is a lie.

even if you shrug and say okay, your loss, he feels kinda tingly about it in the stomach for a minute.

but if you were to just... maybe reach over and pull his hand in anyway, he wouldn't stop you.

he just lets you paint his nails. all of them. just sits there like it's not happening.

activates the monkey grooming part of his brain. not only are you doing a nice thing for him for no reason, you're touching him.

like, you're holding his hand almost. that shit is intimate.

his touch-starved ass starts having pavlovian reactions to the smell of nail polish after that.

GAZ says yeah. asks you to show him.

you lean in and show him the hand you're working on.

when you pull his hand over to do his, he pulls an uno reverse. flips your hand over in his.

plucks the nail polish brush out of your hand and starts painting the thumbnail of your non-dominant hand.

he's just doing it as an excuse to have your hand in his. he does not deny it when you point this out. no, he's not letting go.

his grip is secure. you protest and he counters by asking you how long it takes to dry. how many layers. if this is your favorite color. how to clean up that dot he just made on your fingertip.

he is so coolheaded about it that he flusters you the more you try to argue. you eventually have to just shut up and let him work. and answer his questions.

he is smirking.

after that, he makes a point to grab your hand whenever you're not wearing gloves and check your nails. if they're chipped, he quips it's time for him to fill you in.

SOAP says sure >:)

do not trust him. this is a mistake.

the minute you scoot over to pick his hand up, he yanks you over and wrestles you to the floor.

pot of nail polish? spilled. your freshly painted nails? ruined. done for.

you should've known. like this is seriously your fault. you know him.

he gets your nail polish on his fingers by accident. then happily smudges it wherever he can reach.

he loves wrestling :) and playing too rough on purpose

eventually he will apologize for ruining your manicure.

helps you repaint them. you're awed when he does a better job than you could.

he has steady hands. part of his demo skillset. and he likes sketching, so

you don't have to clean up any of the nails he paints.

he even uses your detail brush to draw a little something on your accent nail to remind you of him. you think it's just something to make up for his bullshit, but now whenever he sees it (and that thumbprint of nail polish he left on the back of your shoulder and didn't tell you) he feels like he signed you <3

...

more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

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marvellous1917 · 9 months

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Icarus Falling

(Part 2)

Pairing: mob!Bucky x female!tattoo artist!reader

Summary: It’s gonna be a busy day. Giving a tattoo to a mobster that broke into your home was nothing compared to the fact that you can’t stop thing about how fucking hot he is.

Warnings: lots and lots of swearing, mention of crime (duh), fights, broken bones, tattoo needles, threats, think that’s it.

Part one ⬇️:

A/N: AAHHHH the response to part one was actually insane!!!! I hope this second part is good enough. Love u all <3

———————

Bold is reader’s thoughts.

Italics is Bucky’s thoughts.

The size of the tattoo is in inches.

———————

Walking to the shop, your thoughts were running a mile a minute. Holy fuck, what the fuck, did last night actually happen?, James Barnes is gorgeous and made falling asleep last night really fucking difficult, screw him for making me all hot and bothered. Asshole. But one persistent one came screaming to the front- how the fuck am I supposed to tell Frank?

Unfortunately there was not a lot of time to come up with an answer to that, the shopfront coming into view as you turn the corner. Jigsaw Ink stood proud in the middle of the busy Brooklyn street, the black paint of the walls in stark contrast to the pastel pink of the florists’ to one side and the baby blue of the cafe the other.

The shop was a second home to you, the couch at the front becoming a bed for you sometimes after a night out, or if Caleb was being an ass. Frank was nice enough to let you crash when you needed, trusting you with his business. Frank, and the other two artists at the shop, Billy and Curtis were like family - a weird combination of protective older brothers and best friends who were terribly bad influences on you.

The bell on the door rang when you opened it and there was a yelled “Y/N? That you?” from a deep voice at the back of the room.

“Yeah Frankie, it’s me. I thought Billy was supposed to be here, not you?” You yelled back, moving behind the counter toward your station, dropping your bag and taking off your jacket.

“He was, but he managed to get his ass knocked out last night so he’s taking the day off,” Frank replied laughing, walking out from the back towards you.

“What? Is he ok?” You ask, giving Frank a hug when he got closer.

“Managed to piss somebody off at a bar, not really sure what happened, but he’s fine. Just stupid,” he replied, patting your back as you release him.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy but he is an idiot I swear, you can guarantee it was his fault as well,” you say.

Frank chuckle and nods as a response, “yeah I bet. Hey , you got many appointments today?” He asks.

Shit. How the fuck am I supposed to tell Frank Castle - literally the most protective man on earth - that I had to move all of my appointments to next week because a damn mobster broke into my house and demanded I gave him a tattoo today.

“…uh. No just the one, I had to move the rest,” you answer, praying to whoever was listening that Frank wouldn’t ask any questions.

“Why’s that?”

Fuucckkkk.

“Umm..no reason really..” your mind went completely blank, the only thing running through you head were those goddamn blue eyes.

“Kid, what’s going on?” Franks’ eyes narrowing, seeing straight through your bullshit response.

Ughhh. Change the subject right now. “Y’know you call me kid all the time, you’re not that much older than me Frankie. I mean there’s only-”.

“You’re ramblin’ kid. The fuck is going on?” He says, all sense of humor him from his voice.

Ah, there his is, protective Frankie coming in full force.

“Shit. Ok so here’s what happened-” you tell him the full story, coming home from work to see a dangerous criminal chilling in your apartment, the fear that came with that lovely surprise, Caleb’s debt, the weird philosophical conversation, the tattoo talk. All of it.

Of course, excluding the part where you found yourself extremely attracted to the fucking mobster, his weirdly slightly comforting presence, and the fact that the memory of those blue eyes where all you could see as your hand slipped between your legs before you fell asleep.

To be fair to the man, Frank listened to every word you had to say, not interrupting one. But you could see on his face every single emotion he was feeling, the main one being just straight up confusion.

“Lemme get this straight. The fucking Winter Soldier broke into your house last night and is coming in for a tattoo in..” he checked his watch as he spoke, “..an hour?”

“..yeah.” Hit the nail on the head there Frankie.

“Shit.” He says, rubbing his hand over his face in an act of desperation.

“Yep.” You say, patting his arm to try and reassure him.

“Alright, I’m gonna be here the whole time, don’t you worry about that kid. You’re gonna be fine.” He assures you, obviously worried about you.

“I know that Frankie, and if it’s any consolation, he didn’t seem all that bad.” You answer.

“Not that bad?!” He almost shouts, and incredulous look on his face, “Y/N he’s a fucking gangster. He’s fucking danger-“

“FRANK!” You yell, the only way to cut off his tirade before it starts. “I know that, but last night he didn’t do anything bad,okay, and if he wanted to hurt me, he definitely would have done it by now. I’ll be fine Frank, I’ll just give him the tattoo and that will be it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta set everything up.” You say, moving back to your station, beginning to grab everything you need.

“Holy fuck kid, how are you not freaking the fuck out right now?” He whisper shouts, running one hand up and down his head.

“I’m not sure. I think…I think I trust him not to hurt me. It’s weird, but my gut’s telling me I’ll be fine.” You answer, starting to print some different sized stencils.

“Kid your brain is brok-” Frank starts to say but he’s cut off by his phone ringing. He pulls it from his pocket and says “Shit, it’s my kids’ school, I gotta take it.”

You wave him off, Frank answers the phone with a sigh.

He walks off to the back of the shop, leaving you to finish setting up your station. Frank talks for a minute and wander back towards you.

“My girl got into a fight at school, Maria’s busy at work so I’ve got to go get her,” he says, dragging his hands down his face, in a way only an exasperated father could.

“Oh my god is she ok?” You ask.

“She’s fine, but apparently she broke some little shitheads nose for picking on her friends,”

“Like father, like daughter then,” you respond with a laugh.

“Can the people I care about stop getting themselves in dangerous situations for like five goddamn seconds.” Frank says, throwing a pointed glare your way.

“Frankie, how many times, I’m gonna be fine alright, go get your kid and -I dunno- take her out for ice cream, tell her she did good.” You say, pushing him to the door.

“Only if you’re one hundred percent certain you’ll be fine.” He says, already pulling his jacket from the hook.

“I’m good I swear, now go!”

“Ok ok I’m going, stop pushing me” he says, leaving the shop and letting the door fall closed behind him, the bell ringing as it did.

Only a minute passed before your phone pinged with a text.

James:

Have you already forgotten about me that quickly doll?

Send me the address to the shop

Now… please

Fuck me. Why does just his text give me fucking butterflies. Ugh. How irritating.

You send him the address and his response is cheeky as shit.

James:

See you at 1 doll, you better be wearing something pretty for me.

Little shit.

————

You had the music in the shop bumping, using it to help calm your pounding heart, adrenaline starting to get the best of you. Your favourite song came over the speakers so you turned it up and started to dance a little, knowing that you had at least 10 minutes before Barnes turned up. Unfortunately this action caused you to miss the ringing of the bell on the door.

Holy shit - ink and a show, today is going better than expected already.

Bucky slowly let the door close, trying not to disturb the dancing girl he couldn’t get out of his head. He lent against the wall, just watching and waiting…and staring.

Shaking out your hands to get rid of any nerves, you turn and nearly scream when you see Barnes stood at the door.

“Oh god, sorry I didn’t hear you come in,�� you say, subtly looking him up and down and damn he looks good. Ever the powerful mobster, he wore a black suit, his black shirt had no tie and was unbuttoned at the top. His hair was slicked back from his face, opposite to how it was the night before. This was the other side of him, the business man - James Barnes: the face of multiple charities, the man that law enforcement could never seem to put behind bars. Last night you met the threat, the assassin, and you may be one of the first in his history to survive a meeting with the Soldier.

“No problem doll, I was enjoying the show,” he says, pushing off of the wall and stalking towards you.

Oh my god, “oh..ok, well I have everything set up and ready so if you’re ok to start I say let get going,” you respond, turning to the part of the shop where your station was, nerves flooding back, wanting to get this over as soon as possible.

“Damn girl, not even any small talk?” He asks, slowly following you to the table.

“Oh sorry, I would have asked how your day has been so far, but I didn’t want you to think I was prying into your business. I wouldn’t want you to think I was being disrespectful ab-”

“Ramblin’ again doll, thought I told you that you don’t need to be afraid of me,” he said softly, sounding genuine. “I know what people say about me, I understand why you would be nervous, but I just ask you to not believe everything you hear, ok doll? I’m not who they say I am.” His tone was gentle, almost tired but still pleading, hoping you believe him.

“So you’re not a mobster?” You ask, voice low and calm.

“Oh no I am,” he responds with a small laugh, “I am, and I do what gangsters do. But I am not the ruthless animal I’m made out to be, doll I’m just not. I do what needs to be done.”

His voice breaks slightly on the pet name. His tone is so sincere and tired. Oh my..he’s telling the truth. It actually affects him to hear that about himself.

“Ok,” you respond, siting on your stool next to your station and the table, looking up at him with no fear in your eyes, trusting his words.

“Ok? That’s your response?” He asks, moving around the table to sit on it directly in-front of you.

“Yeah. What did you want me to do Barnes, not believe you?” You ask, all fear gone from your voice.

“Of course not,” he says, confusion laced in his voice, his eyebrows furrowed, “but I wasn’t expecting you to believe me immediately, shit you were scared of me like a minute ago.”

“I know but I think I trust you? You haven’t done anything to me, y’know other than breaking into my apartment. I trust you when you say you’re not someone I should be afraid of.” You answer truthfully.

“…good.” He says, at a loss of what to say next.

“Good. So, Barnes, are we doing this or what?” You ask.

“Yeah let’s do it doll, and please, call me Bucky.” He responds, shrugging off his jacket, folding it and placing it on the head of the table. You had to make a conscious effort to not stare at the way his arms filled out his shirt, but damn it was hard. He sat silently waiting for you to talk.

“Ok..Bucky.. tell me about what size and what placement you want for this.” You say, “I printed some sizes out because I wasn’t sure what size you wanted, and I can reprint or adjust it based in what you want.”

“Oh you a real professional, huh? Not gonna lie to you doll, that serious voice is kinda getting me goin’” he says, smirk on his face, leaning back on his arms, lifting his hips and moving slightly on the table.

Fuck me, what is this man doing to me? He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s talking again.

“I want to get it on my forearm, the inside, and I think that size looks good,” he says, pointing to the 10x8 you printed.

“Ok that sounds good, which arm were you thinking?”

Silence. He stares down at you, an unreadable look on his face. You break eye contact and then freeze.

Shit. Shit. You dumbass. Which arm? Which fucking arm? Are you kidding? I can literally see his metal fucking hand. Oh dear god.

The silence between you goes on for entirely too long. You’re not sure whether you should apologise or wait for him to speak first. You weren’t sure if he would be offended, having a reminder of his injury.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just continues to stare down at you, that blank look on his face. Looking back up at him, you start to apologise but the words get caught in your throat. His eyes. He couldn’t control them the same way he did his face, tons of different emotions flowing through them, none lasting long enough for you to understand before another one took its place.

If only you knew what he was actually thinking. She asked which arm. She knows about my arm, everyone does, but she still asked. She forgot. The arm is all people see, a weapon, an instrument used to inflict nothing but pain. It’s all people see, but she forgot. That’s not what she sees. Maybe…maybe she just sees me.

He’s shuts his racing thoughts down, fully aware of how awkward the silence was becoming. “I’m thinking my right arm might be a little easier for you doll,” he says, an amused look crossing his face, his tongue poking his cheek.

You open your mouth to apologise for your mistake but he holds up his right hand and says, “and please, you don’t have to apologise like I know you’re going to, we’re all good darlin’.”.

He’s gotta stop with the pet names before I melt.

“Ok, uh, are you sure, because I honestly meant no disrespect or anything. I-,” you start, but Bucky cut you off quickly.

“Darlin’, what did I just say?” A stern tone coats his words and goddamn does it send a shiver down your spine. You internally roll your eyes and look away, back to your station, when you feel two warm fingers on your jaw, turning your head back to looks at him. Holy fuck. He places his thumb on the other side of your jaw, forcing you to keep looking at him as he leans in closer. His voice was low when he said, “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Y/N, what did I just say?”

Jesus fucking wept. Somehow his use of your name made your heart pound, and the fact that his hand was so warm and strong holding onto your face.

“You said we’re all good..” you answer trailing off at the end of your sentence. His eyes don’t move from yours for a second.

“And?” He asks, tilting his head slightly.

Christ alive.

“I don’t have to apologise..” you say, eyes flicking between his and falling to his lips for a second and then back to his eyes.

“That’s right darlin’,” his eyes dropped to your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his lip. “So stop, okay?” He says, lifting your chin to catch your eye.

“Yes sir.” It’s an automatic response but you can’t help but be a little proud of yourself when he lets out a small throaty growl at the name.

“Careful doll.” He responds, letting go and leaning back, “How about we get started before I do something you regret, hmm?”

Like I could regret you.

You turn back to your station to try and clear your head of all the dirty thoughts running wild. “Ok.. Bucky, if you could roll up your sleeve so I can wipe the area, I’ll place the stencil and you can check if it’s where you want it to be.” You say, not used to the name he said to call him by.

“Mhm,” he hums, releasing the cuff link on his right sleeve, his prosthetic catching the glare of the light above, the plates shining. He places the cuff link in the pocket of his jacket and begins rolling up his sleeve and folds it at his elbow.

You clean the area and place the stencil straight on his arm, and peel it off.

“There’s a mirror on the wall over there, you can check if it’s alright.” You say.

“Okie dokie doll,” he responded the furrowed his brows, like he was confused at why he said that, not very gangster of him.

I like him. He says okie dokie.

“Looks good there darlin’, and as much as I hate to say it, we gotta speed this up a little, I’m expecting a call at some point around 2:30 and I’d prefer you not have to hear it.” He says, coming back to the table, sitting down and swinging his legs up onto it.

You take his arm, putting it on the rest in a position easiest for tattooing while saying “Why’s that? Would you have to kill me if I overheard your call?” You ask, enough humor in your voice for him to know you’re joking.

“Probably, depends how much you hear.” He said, completely deadpan. He looks at you and you have the strangest feeling that he actually wouldn’t hurt you either way.

“Shit ok. Is that position comfortable for you?”

“I’m all good darlin’, let’s go,” he says, adjusting his position on the table slightly. His left arm rests across his stomach as he sits on the table, leaning against the backrest, his ankles crossed.

“Ok I’m gonna do a small line so you know how it feels,” you look at him and he nods. You draw a line about 2 centimetres long then stop, “how’s that?” You ask.

“Ain’t nothin’ doll, keep goin’.” He responds.

“Ok here we go.” You say, getting back to it.

————

You’ve been tattooing for about 40 minutes, and there hasn’t been a word spoken between the both of you. His arm kept flexing whenever you moved away, and he kept clenching his jaw, like he was in pain but was refusing to admit it, even to himself.

“Are you ok? We can stop for five if you want a break? I’ve just finished the outline so I’ve got to change needles anyway.” You ask, disrupting the silence between you, moving the machine away from his arm so you can switch to a higher grouping for the blackwork.

“I’m fine Y/N, how much longer do you think it’ll take?” He asks, moving his head to look at the outline that you had completed.

“Oh it’s hard to say, but probably another 30 at least,” you respond, looking at him while he was admiring the tattoo so far.

God he’s pretty.

“Shit.” He says, rubbing his forehead with his other hand.

“Are you worried about your call?” You ask calmly.

“Not worried about the call itself… just having to do it here may cause some issues.” He responds, lowering his hand to his thigh.

“Because I’m here? I can go to a different room if you want?” You say, placing the machine back on your station, and turning to look at him fully.

“It’s ok doll, to be honest with you, nothing that needs to be said will make any sense to you anyway, and I mean that in the least offensive way possible.” He says, looking at you with apologetic face, tilting his head slightly. “But depending on the news I get, I wouldn’t want my reaction to… scare you.”

“Oh.. well I guess we’ll see when your call comes.” You answer, unsure of how to react to that.

————

The sharp ringing of his phone interrupts the sounds of the machine. You move the machine away from him, turning it off so he could speak freely without noise.

“I really am sorry about this darlin’, but it’s important-”

“Answer it then, it’s fine Bucky.” You cut him off, concerned he was going to miss it if he kept talking.

He gave you another apologetic look, and then turned his back to you to get off the table and answer the call.

You sat in silence as he started to speak.

“Rogers, what did ya find?” His voice changes from how he speaks to you, deeper and more serious.

The person on the other line speaks for a moment before Bucky responds, “we already knew that, didn’t we? What new information did you find?”

Silence.

“Of course he is..,” there is anger in his tone now, “get someone to tell the asshole he can threaten what he likes, I’m not sitting down with him.”

A moment goes by and you think that may have been the end of it, until you see his shoulders tense and-

“FUCK NO!” He shouts, making you jump a little.

“No Rumlow Gets Nothing, I don’t give a shit what he’s doing… Then send the commissioner a goddam gift basket Steve, some portraits of his family would be nice, remind him why he pays us the fucking protection fee.” He seethes at the man down the phone.

This should not be turning me on, shit.

“For fucks sake… Walker is nothing Steve, just some fucking Nazi junkie with a rich daddy, trying to get his hands on my shit…get Nat to bring his ass in, I’ll deal with it Steve… I said I’d deal with it.”

His tone on the last sentence sends a shiver down your spine, what the fuck does ‘deal with it’ mean?

“Ah shit is he ok?” Bucky asks, tone soft now, caring even, “Damn, he’s gonna be out for blood now.. good for him.. give Clint the week off, find the guys and give the pricks to him, let him get out some of his pent up craziness out.”

Oh Clint sounds fun.

“Ok, alright I gotta go now man. Yeah I’m at the shop… nah it’s nothing..yeah ya did… ok fuck off now.. later man.”

He hangs up the phone, takes a death breath and pinches the place between his eyebrows, his other hand going to his hip. He stands like that before he turns back to you, with a small awkward smile. That was cute.

“Sorry about that doll, hope I didn’t upset ya,” he says, walking around the table and looking down at you.

“You didn’t. I gotta ask though, is your friend or whoever ok?” You ask, not bringing up the start of the call where the man in-front of you all but admitted to a multitude of crimes - blackmail, extortion, supplying drugs. He sounded different- genuine when he asked if the man was ok. It was sweet.

“Clint? Yeah no he’s fine, got jumped last night so he’s pissed about it, but he’s ok, worst thing he got were some nasty bruises and a broken finger.” Bucky responds, confusion on his face, wondering why you care.

“How did he break a finger?” you ask, moving backwards as he sits back on the table.

“Oh he didn’t go down without a fight, clocked one of them on his way out,” he says with a small chuckle.

“Ah, good for crazy Clint,” you say with a smile.

Bucky let’s out a sharp quick laugh, “that exactly what I thought doll,” he says, leaning back and putting his arm on the rest, “ready when you are.” He adds.

Ok right back to it. Got it boss.

“Ok, should only be about 10 more minutes.” You say.

“Alright doll.” He answers, leaning his head back on the rest, tilting his head so he could watch you.

Ten minutes later you were finished, putting your machine down for the final time.

“Okie dokie, I’m all done. Have a look in the mirror, see what ya think,” you say, hoping he liked it, not much you could do about it if he didn’t.

He moves over to the mirror, checking out his new ink, twisting his arm around to see it fully. He’s silent for a little while before he says, “fuck doll, you’re a damn artist.”

“Does that mean you like it?” You ask, failing to hide the hope in your voice.

“I love it. Couldn’t have asked for a better one for my first piece.” He says, walking forwards to stand in-front of you, letting you wrap the fresh tattoo, handing him a leaflet on aftercare as you talk.

“You’re shitting me,” you say, “was that seriously your first one?”

“Yeah, why are you so surprised darlin?” He responds, tilting his head.

“I don’t know, just sorta thought you’d have them all over.” You answer.

“All over, huh. You been thinking about me naked doll?” He says with a cheeky grin, talking half a step closer to you.

Shit.

“What, n-no of course not, why would I do that. I mean I’m sure you look good - uh fine.. naked but I don’t-” you cut yourself off before you embarrass yourself anymore.

“No, no ramble on Y/N please, I’m really enjoying watching you try to figure your way out of the grave you’re digging right now,” he says, chucking lightly.

“Shut up Bucky, leave me alone” you responds, looking down at your feet.

“Hey,” he grabs your chin, again, and add pressure until you’re looking up at his eyes, “don’t ever try and tell me what to do, darlin, I don’t tend to respond well to it. I won’t ‘shut up’ and I’ll never ‘leave you alone’… I like ya too much for that.” He says, sounding like a mix between a threat and a compliment.

“Uh.. okay.” You answer, not sure how to respond to his words.

He can tell that you don’t know what to say, so he mercifully breaks the silence. “I love the tattoo doll, it’s looks amazing. You’ve got a talent Y/N.” He drops his hand from your chin as he speaks.

“Thank you, Bucky. It means a lot.” You answer sincerely.

“How much do I owe you sweetheart?” He asks, reaching into his jacket for his wallet.

That’s a new one.

“Uh, say $180?” You respond.

“$180? Damn you gotta charge more than that doll,” he says pulling some bills from his wallet.

He hands you the bills and says “now that’s for today and it should cover next time too, take half for now and half for then.”

You’re stunned by the fact that he’s already planning for next time but your jaw actually drops when you look at the bills.

They were hundreds.

“Woah I think you gave me the wrong bills,” you say, trying to push the bills back in his hands.

“No I didn’t, I know what I gave you. $180 for today, say $200 for next time and the rest is tip.” He answers smoothly, folding your hand back over the bills.

You look down to count and start shaking your head, “I can’t accept this, it’s way too much.”

“Consider it a thank you for dealing with the inconvenience of me having to do business in the middle of the appointment.” He says with a smile.

“Bucky this is 2000 dollars.”

“I know.” He puts up his hand again, stopping you from talking, “I’m not taking it back doll, just have it will ya?” He says, rolling his sleeve back down, doing the cuff back up with the cufflink and placing his jacket back on.

“Oh my god, you’re serious aren’t you?” You ask, unbelievable he wanted you to have over fifteen hundred dollars as tip.

“Yes I am.” He answers, straightening his jacket, “it also may be a small bribe.”

There it is.

“A bribe for what?” You ask, expecting his to ask you to keep quiet about his call.

“I want you to be my artist, anytime I want a tattoo, I want you doing it for me.” He says, smiling down at you with a hint of…something him his eye.

“Really?” You ask in shock, not expecting that from him.

“Yeah, like I said earlier, you got talent. I want more of you on me.” Bucky says smirking at the euphemism he made.

Fuck me running.

“Oh..shit.. yeah ok, that sounds..,” you swallow heavily, “sounds like a plan.” You smile up at him, trying to hide the way his words affected you.

He smiles back, stepping closer and closer until his chest is almost touching yours.

“Yes it’s does. You’re mine now doll,” he says, a dark look in his eye. You swallow hard again and your breath stutters at his words, eyes going straight to the floor. He notices your reaction and smirks, “my artist, I mean.” He continued.

“Although, judging by your little reaction there, I’d bet you be ok with that, wouldn’t you doll?” He says, his tone slightly mocking.

You say nothing.

He hums, then places his right hand on your cheek and tilts your head so you’re looking him in the eye again.

“Would you?” He asks softly.

“Maybe,” you whisper, a cocky smile breaking out on his face.

“Maybe, huh? ‘Mkay, guess I’ll just have to convince you then doll.” He says back, leaning closer, eyes going to your lips before he looks back up, giving you a chance to get out of the situation.

“Guess so.” You respond, some confidence back in your voice.

He hums again, and then he’s kissing you. His kiss is forceful but somehow still gentle, like he’s holding back as much as he can.

Fucking finally you can’t help but think as you move your hand to his wrist, the other one going to his left bicep, the feel of the solid metal under your hand was new, but not unwelcome.

His metal hand moves, wrapping around your back and pulling you against him, deepening the kiss when you gasp.

Reluctantly, you break the kiss when you run out of air. He leans back, the pressure on your back relieving a bit.

“Damn doll, what the fuck are you doing to me?” He asks, biting his bottom lip.

“Something good, hopefully.” You respond cheekily.

He groans, leaning his head back. “Yeah hopefully darlin’. I hate to say it sweetheart but I gotta get going.” He says, releasing his hold on you. He moves towards the door and for a second you think he going to leave without another word, until he turns back and says “I’ll talk to you later doll, keep your phone on or I’ll drop by.” He finished his sentence with a wink, and then he’s gone, the bell on the door ringing behind him.

Fuucckk. Maybe I’ll break my phone so he has to come by. Who knew the fucking Winter Soldier was actually a gorgeous softie under it all.

————

A/N: Ta da! Finally complete!! Love everyone of you that read this, mwah 😘

I can’t tag anyone else on this post so I will tag the rest in a separate post.

Tags:

@sleepyghostygirl @starlightaurorab @scrynexxtins @where-the-river-bends @imagines-of-the-fandom @bigenargy @uraverageatiny @squeezyvalkyrie @mylifeispainandiloveit @mrvlxgrl @bopbeepboopbopbeep @yvessaintmuerte @thecubanator2 @flubblubbb @teambarnes72 @ria132love @pingpongfingfong @cashhvi @rivthejellyfish @mybakubaby @blue-chup @goatsmcgee @facinated-lemon @daddylorianisastateofmind @buckybarnesb-tch @yeahimcrying @shifting2places @fand0mskullfa1ry @1-800-bxrnes @amiets2 @aliabhatt19 @leabunny @justmarlen3 @bofadeezs @jehduxi @grey107th @king-of-spades-aroace @sebismyhubby @princezzjasmine @sebastianstanswhore @cluckityduck @shuriri4life @calwitch @goodkittyspost @iateall-yourcookies @miss-i-ship-it @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @anawhitethorn @radiator-hands @tripletstephaniescp

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #mob!bucky #mob!au #tattoo artist!reader

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princessbrunette · 6 months

Note

Rafe cameron deffff watches you do your makeup just so he can imagine fucking you and ruining it💪

this took a random turn kinda

you’re sat at your dresser, the light bulbs attached to the mirror illuminating your visage. rafe stands a little ominously behind you, chewing on a hangnail on his middle finger and you ignore him, used to his looming, quiet yet curious presence. your nails clack against the pink glittery wand of your blush brush as you lift it, dusting it across the supple apples of your cheeks and upwards towards your cheekbone.

“whats that do?” he asks a little flatly, not wanting to sound too interested — he was a big manly man after all. everything you did intrigued him however, in his more quieter and calm moments enjoying studying you. perhaps he was antsy because he just wanted to leave the house with you already, and you were taking your time.

“makes your cheeks pretty.” you explain simply, like a mother dismissing a curious child. he wanders around the room casually, watching you through the mirror. you note how cute he looks in his north face fleece, cuddly almost. you smile, unscrewing your lipgloss and lifting the wand to paint it on.

“great.” he stuffs his hands in his pockets with an exaggerated sigh. you freeze in confusion, lips agape assuming the position to apply the gloss.

“what?” your brows furrow cutely, bottom lip pouted and his dick twitches, fist clenching in his pocket. it never took much with rafe.

“y’know, i can’t kiss you if you’re wearing that shit. makes everything all sticky.” he squints, lifting a hand from his pocket in gesture, lifting a hand accusingly to the gloss in your hand. you don’t get the chance to say anything, he speaks up again. “you’re gonna have to…” he sighs again, lowering his voice to be more serious and stepping up to where you sit on your stool, now gazing up at him through painted black lashes. “y’gonna have to take it all off anyway.” he tilts his head a little, the lilt in his voice suggesting a threat was present.

you sigh, turning your body on the stool to face him. “rafe,” you whine, used to his ways. “why?” you wonder what he’d come up with this time, perhaps a new way to be controlling, telling you to take off your makeup because you only need to look pretty for him, or some narcissistic bullshit like that. his lips press flat as his other hand leaves his pocket, coming up to cup your jaw with a surprising gentleness. he tilts your face up a little more so the light from the dim ceiling lamp illuminates you evenly.

“because it’s gonna get all over my white sheets. that’s just kind of… a hassle, huh?” his left eye twitches a little at the same time he tilts his head a smidgen, his voice dropping to a low whisper. oh. you think, lips gaping.

“you wanna f—fuck me, right now?” your voice gets all breathy and pathetic, at almost nothing — just how he liked you and he smiles, cute and boyish and oh so maliciously.

“yeah, i do.” he takes your arm and pulls you to stand, nearly falling into his chest as you do so. you always look so helpless and that makes him feel so powerful, it’s no wonder he kept you around. “i… i think i like it the most when you cry off your makeup. all that black shit under your eyes. i almost feel bad.” he leans his head down a little so he’s closer to your level, and he’s speaking to you in a sympathetic quiet voice, as if it can convince you that his words aren’t a little mean.

“ugh but i just spent ages getting read—”

he cuts off your words with a little slap to the cheek. it’s not hard, believe it or not rafe doesn’t direct his physical rage towards you (not like that, anyway.) but it’s enough to shock you a little with a sting, your eyes filling with tears as if fulfilling his request. the flash of irritation that appeared on his face disappeared into that malicious smile again as he softly transformed the hand that slapped you into a finger pointed at your face. “i said… almost, a’ight?” he soothes a thumb over your hot cheek and you pout, despite everything enjoying his affection and undivided attention. god you’re messed up.

“don’t like when you get all mouthy n’start answering back.” he drawls, his eyes now leaving your own to drag down your body, eyeing your sundress as if deciding what he wants to paw at first. he settles on gripping the hem of it, slowly pulling it up until it gathers at your waist. “i’m gonna have to calm you down, now.” he’s nudging your thighs open with his hand and you’re letting him, gripping his fleece in your two hands for leverage as he cups your cunt through your panties. “hm. knew you’d want that. always do.”

#anon #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron drabble #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx smut #rafe cameron blurb

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gay-dorito-dust · 2 months

Text

How they’d react to you jokingly not wanting to hold their hand.

Rafayel:

Dramatic bastard.

He’s hurt that you’d dare not hold his hand.

Pouty mermaid man for the rest of the day, and when Thomas asks why he was being this way, Rafayel would dramatically say that you broke up with him.

Thomas -unaware of the situation- would text you and ask what the fuck Rafayel was on about, only for you to tell him that you wouldn’t hold his hand. 💀

Thomas: he told me you broke up with him…

You: …why am I not surprised.

Rafayel for : WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO MY EX THOMAS?! 🧜🏻‍♂️🧜🏻‍♂️

The other scenario is that he will forcibly hold your hand, intertwining your fingers so that you couldn’t pull away from him and stay like that for the entire day. Even if he has painting to finish he will try and do it one handed bc he’s extra like that.

You are currently in hand jail for a week according to Rafayel.

Xavier:

Is genuinely concerned and thinks that he might’ve done something/ something had happened recently to you.

Does not understand the concept of a joke sometimes.

Will sit you down and discuss the ‘issue’ only to to look dumbfounded when you tell him that no, nothing was wrong and that you’d gladly hold his hand anytime anyplace.

He looked like a confused puppy with its head tilted to the side when you tell him this. He is confused as to your reasoning for doing such a thing if you were more than okay with holding his hand in the first place.

‘Why did you pull your hand away from mine when I tried to hold your hand the first time?’

‘Xavier it’s a joke I swear-‘

He’ll get over it sooner or later.

Zayne:

Sees through the bullshit.

He knows this game very well as he’s probably overheard his colleges do this prank on their partners to gauge their reaction.

So the moment you do this with him, he will only raise his brow and casually mention that he knows what you’re trying to do.

He’s not as dramatic as raf nor takes it as serious as Xavier, but more of a neutral reaction. He knows you mean nothing by it if you don’t hold his hand and he’s not going to force you to hold his hand unless you wish to.

What a distinguished gentleman-

‘Is there a reason that you participated in this trend?’ He’d inquire.

‘Other than to see your reaction? No, not really.’ You’d reply.

‘Then if you’ve got your wanted result, may I hold your hand?’ Then asks, holding out his large hand to you.

‘I’ll never get one over you, will I?’ You asked as you placed your hand into his with a smile.

Zayne smiles softly. ‘I appreciate the attempts taken in trying, they’re very entertaining.’

#rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x y/n #zayne x reader #zayne imagines #zayne imagine #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #xavier imagine #xavier x reader #xavier imagines #xavier fic #xavier fanfic #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace imagines #love and deepspace imagine

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wakeup01 · 3 months

Text

Playing It Straight

“Roomieee. I need your help with something.” I hear the telltale high pitched cry from my twinky roommate Yuan’s bedroom. The last thing I need right now is his whiny ass distracting me.

“What it is? I have a date with this hot chick in half an hour. You better have clothes on this time dude.” My hand pushes the door to his room ajar and I see him laying down on the bed facing away from me. There was some upbeat trashy pop song playing on his sound system. Yuan begins to gyrate to the beat. “Don’t dance. No dancing.” I order bluntly, turning off his music.

There was being gay and then there was Yuan, who seemed to make it his whole identity. It was bad enough his room was colour coded in pastel purples to match his dusty lavender hair. But he had now painted the whole door too.

“It’s my big butt, I think there’s something wrong with it.” He announces with fake concern, rolling his hips on the bed sheet - revealing more of his smooth slim body than I ever dared wish to see. I make a internal note to ‘mace own eyes later’.

Yuan was not as innocent as he liked to make out and had on numerous occasions attempted to trick me into indulging in his fantasies. Gifting me a bright crop top and calling it a ‘fashionable tank top’ - it certainly turned heads at the gym the one day I wore it, or inviting me to a progressive club with the promise of scoring ‘lots of ass’. And the less said about ‘locktober’ the better, that was NOT a halloween costume. Only last week he had convinced me to listen to some gay as fuck audio tapes while I slept; obviously that crap didn’t work on a man like me. His justification always being ‘you’ll like it, I swear’. This one was a bit on the nose, even for him.

“Dude we talked about this, I’m flattered, really. I get it, I’m a gay bottoms wet dream. I can’t blame you for eying my superior meat.” I puff out my well built chest, barely contained in my tank top. “But fuck, it ain’t gonna happen.” I attempt to not make eye contact with him as he looks over his shoulder at me.

“No, like seriously. Something feels wrong, can you pleeease juth take a looksee. Pretty please.” He pulls down his shorts and moons me as I shield my eyes. It’s like the sun, you’re safe if you don’t look directly at it, right? Internal note: ‘buy more mace’.

“Serious like when you said we were in a ‘mandatory hand holding zone?” I hear muffled giggling coming from his pillow. “Bro it’s probably from all the things you shove up it.” I shudder, trying not to picture THAT in my head. “I’ll look but only if you promise me that you’ll drop that ‘I know you’re secretly gay bullshit.’ My friends at the gym heard that crap last time.”

“Hehe. Ooo thuch a manly jock. Geez, I pwromise. Meathead.” Yuan winks at me and I hated him for it. Hated the weird way it made me feel in my chest.

I sigh loudly for effect and bend down until the cleft of his…cheek is at eye level. I felt so self conscious, how on earth did he talk me into this? I look at my chiseled body just to remind myself, yes I am a man. A masculine man. God, here we go. My eyes briefly glance across his—ew—his raised butt before I quickly look away.

“Bruh I don’t see a thing. It’s a mans butt. Congratulations.” What the hell am I even looking for? I’m sat on the floor checking out a dude’s…posterior. And for what?

“Come on, look clother.” Yuan insists with a slight lisp, curving his back and pushing his rear higher.” Again, I look at my thick biceps, yes, still a man.

His hands pull at his buttocks and slowly part them, revealing his tight hole to me. Woah. One glimpse was all it took. I should have recoiled but instead I was fascinated. I’d never seen a man’s hole before, it was different…

I hear him say something to me but whatever it was, it didn’t seem too important. I couldn’t stop staring, it was like looking into a black hole, and the more I looked the more enraptured I became. It was distorting my worldview, it made me feel like I had been missing out on something all these years.

“Helloooo! See anything?”

“Uuhhh. Maybe.” I mumble, my head getting closer to his rear.

I pull away his hands and replace them with my own, laying my fingers across his round cheeks and spreading them wider. Wow, it was…dare I say, enticing? The rest of the room faded from my mind as my eyes fall deeper into his needy, winking hole. I lean in and my nose makes contact with his crack. I can’t help myself, I inhale and suck up his scent, it acts like an immediate aphrodisiac. My cock wakes up, poking against the edge of the bed.

“You have been lithening to your programming for me then. Good Meathead. Remember when you were the stuck-up clever one, going to college? That was thuch a bore.”

“Say what bro?” College? Did I…? Nah. That smart shit wasn’t for me bro, my head was like beef central. I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about but I was happy to be a good fucking meathead. Something in my mind told me I was supposed to be. It made me even more pumped about the gym session tomorrow, I gotta bulk up my pecs.

“Make sure to take lots of selfies tomorrow ‘bro’, I need to see your gains.” I continue to breathe in the sweet aroma emanating from his behind. What was I doing again? “So, anything there dummy? How about now?” giggle “Isn’t it likth so big.”

He wiggles his hips and pushes back into my face, my lips making contact with his boy pussy. My eyes go wide. Fuck, this was soo gay. I should be revolted, why am I still down here? I could get up and walk away whenever…whenever I wanted to. Suddenly my mouth felt parched, like I had spent a week in the desert. It became clear where this was going. I’m not sure if I could even stop myself at this point, one tiny thing could tip me over the edge and disintegrate my own self image. It was as If I was having an out of body experience, seeing myself pressed against him. I wouldn’t, I was stronger than this. I was straight. Straight as an arrow… straight as a…

“Eat up jock.”

F—fuck. My lips open and my tongue presses up against his rear, dragging up and down between his cheeks and then swirling around his inviting hole. It was like a dam breaking, once I started I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. He tasted too good. Ready for the main course, my tongue dives deep into him and begins to eat him out in earnest, my mouth sucking at his entrance like I’m slurping on a ice cream filling.

While giving him a very manly rimjob I think of a solution to our problem. I finish up indulging in his sweet cake and pull my face out, slapping his jiggly butt cheeks.

“So what’s the issue?” He asks impatiently.

“It’s empty for one. Huhuhu. But I can fix that bro.” I say confidently, rushing to remove my underwear so I can finally nut inside him.

I push his skinny back down against the bed and line up my monster cock with his lubricated hole. Yuan moans into his pillow like he should. I slide into him with ease and flex my arms, feeling proud at ‘conquering’ my roommates hole.

“Good Meathead.” He praises between loud panting. “Mmm. But I thought you were straight.”

“I am. Unff. Just helping a bro out. No homo. Though I do need to see if there’s anything wrong with your throat after I plant my seed in your hole.”

______________________________

The next day.

“Man that was a fucking lit workout.” I exclaim, marvelling at my bulging muscles. I tense my arms and see my veins pop, sweat dripping to the floor. “Though you losers sure focused a lot on your glutes today. Hey—aren’t you ‘queens’ gonna shower?” I turn as my gym bros stop behind me in the locker room.

“Well… we spoke to your roommate about your progress yesterday.” Xavier states, removing his damp muscle tee - his dark shiny skin reflecting the harsh lights from overhead.

Yesterday…for some reason my memories from the day before were a blur. For the life of me I can’t remember what happened. There was some strange taste lingering in my mouth that had been making my dick hard all day. My roommate was certainly in a suspiciously good mood this morning too and made some strange comments about me ‘being hungry for more’.

“About what bro? That Yuan can kiss my ass. Huhuh. Come on, stop checking out each others dicks and let’s go!”

“Uh see, he thinks you’re now ready to be our…” I’d never seen him so unsure of himself before, I roll my eyes at him and slam my locker closed.

“Y’all acting like a bunch of girls.” I swear if Yuan is back to spewing his gay bullshit again…

“Go on. Say it.” One of the others insists, nudging Xavier’s shoulder.

Xavier hesitates and then looks away from me, his cheeks flushing red. “There’s uh, there’s something wrong with my…butt…so could you?” The others fail to stifle a laugh.

I do a double take as Xavier turns and points his toned ass at me, his jockstrap framing it like a wrapped gift. “What the fuck? Bruh what are you doing? Put that shit away.”

“Be a good Meathead.”

I see a flash of my roommates butt cross my minds eye. Uhhh. My cock throbs at the image. Before I know it my legs are kneeling behind my friend, what am I doing? My body certainly seems to be one step ahead, my hands grab at his muscled legs for support. “What the actual fuck. Guys…” I’ve never felt so embarrassed, how am I ever gonna live this down?

A hand pulls on the strap hugging Xaviers left buttock and lets go, letting it snap back into place, a slight jiggle vibrates over his firm rear. Was it my hand? I couldn’t even tell.

“Holy shit. I can’t believe those tapes actually worked. He’s come a long way since he was that scrawny nerd, thinking he was above everyone. Now he’s dumber than all of us. We just need Yuan to join us next. Damn someone make sure to record this” It was hard to take in what they were saying, my mind was fixated…elsewhere. One of them leans down to my side and points their phone camera at my zoned out face. “Dude, we stink…I’m next after you.” Someone pats my back as another hand holds my shoulder in place. “Nothing more manly than licking the salty sweat off a bro’s butt.”

No….

Xavier bends forward, his pert dark cheeks pulling apart - sweat glistening on their surface. And then I see it. What my body craved. His hole. Everything falls into place, my mouth watering at the sight, my eyes entranced. I could no longer deny what I wanted, deny the inevitability of what I was about to do. The depravity would be immortalised on camera too, my dumb face shoved in a mans ass. Oh fuck.

The perfect black void nestled between his tight buttocks seems to suck away my shame as I lick my lips. “So manly.” I repeat to the crowd that had gathered around me. Mmm. Rimming a man’s ass was almost as good as fucking it. I wanted a taste of all the guys, their shiny sweaty bodies, their musk. It was my place in the group, I was their meathead after all. My cock was already throbbing at the thought. Maybe Yuan was onto something with this whole ‘gay’ thing. Yeah, let’s try going full homo. Huhuhuh. Anything for the bros, bro.

Looking down at me confidently, Xavier grips the back of my head.

“Clean my hole bruh.”

_____________________________

A few days later I check in on Yuan to see his progress after a few nights obliviously listening to his ‘jocking’ tapes. Dude, I’m going to enjoy watching him slowly bulk up and dumb down. He’s sat up in bed casually tugging at his cock, mouth agape. The heavy thumping bass of trap music is blaring from his speakers. His room is a complete mess.

“How’s it hanging lil bro?”

“Just…mm—wanking.”

“Can see, Meathead. Hung and dumb, nice. I think you’re about ready to join us at the gym.”

“Hmm. Roomie, I—I need your help with something. It’s my big dick…”

“Huhuhu, there’s something wrong with it, let me be a bro and give you a hand with that stick.” I climb over him and wrap my lips around his cock.

“Thuck…ahem. Fuck yeah brooo!”

#brainwashing #gay #jock #straight to gay

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i-eated-paint · 2 months

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He's driving

#the paint man says his bullshit #paint man hand reveal⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️#tommy hlvrai #tommy coolatta #hlvrai

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loveindefinitely · 4 months

Text

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

06 — PULL A TRIGGER, CLIMB A MOUNTAIN

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

Three hours earlier.

“Change.”

Looking up, you give the hulking man the most annoyed expression you can muster, cocking your hip and folding your arms over your chest. He, in response, only raises a brow and folds his own arms, a clear mocking of your own stance.

Everyone else is already in the other room, checking over weaponry and making plans. They’re loud enough to be heard here, jovial laughter and quickly-spoken Spanish filtering in. A song plays, too, a nice kind of melody that you find yourself enjoying.

“I usually need a shot or two first,” you snark, making no move to take the folded clothes from the balaclava-clad man. “You buying?”

As he shoves the uniform into your chest, you shoot Ghost a nasty glare.

“We have stuff we need to do without you,” he quips, pushing against your shoulder hard enough to have you taking a step back. “That uniform’s too recognisable.”

“What, the American flag’s too much for you?” You lean in once more, shoving your own hand against his chest. He doesn’t budge. “I deserve to be involved, when I’m giving you intel. This whole exclusion bullshit reminds me of kindergarten.”

“Then change, and stop acting like you belong in one,” Ghost snaps, and with one final look your way, storms out of the main room, slamming the wooden sliding doors shut behind him as he does.

You’re alone, now.

The room is vast, and at the small table still sits the laptop.

You’d… just. Done that. Threatened the very man who had taught you everything you know, the very man who had practically adopted you after your mother’s death. The very man of whom you’d just sentenced to death by your own hand. Your own lit match.

“Fuck,” you hiss, burying your face in your free hand.

This was the first time you’d had true solitude since. Well. It might’ve only been a day, but everything that’s happened has made it feel like years. Your throat itches from the knife wound, and you can feel your ribs’ bruising when you inhale.

“Fuck,” you curse once more, looking to the sliding doors.

After the call with Shepherd, the four men had been… well, they’d all had a very individualised response.

Soap had brought you in with an arm around your neck, ranting about how ‘badass’ you had been. Gaz had joined in, ruffling up your hair, placing a hand on your shoulder and asking if you were okay.

You’d said yes.

It had been a lie.

Ghost, without a word, had left to check over his magazines. Price had given you a firm nod and a pat on your back before, he too, left to the other room to sort things out.

“Lucky yer on our side, hen,” Soap had joked goodnaturedly. Gaz had rolled his eyes, saying, “You’re just happy your little Sweetheart can take you in a fight.”

Soap had immediately tackled him to the ground, and that was that.

Now, you stood, lone in the vast space of the room. It was still very early morning, the quiet sound of birds outside mixing with the rambunctiousness of the Los Vaqueros on the other side of the doors. Soft light filters in through the boarded up windows, casting over you in an odd haze.

Dropping the uniform onto the table, your brows furrow when you notice not only the 141’s standard uniform, but also a balaclava not unlike Ghost’s own.

The fabric is oddly soft as you run your hand over it, the paint cracking slightly against the nylon. Putting it aside for now, you then look over the uniform. A black long-sleeve compression shirt, baggy beige cargo pants. They’re definitely a bit too big for you, but admittedly, Ghost was right. It’d be too easy to spot you on the field if you were in Graves’ uniform.

Looking around the room, as if to cement the fact that you were alone, you quickly change, swapping out your bloody uniform for the new one.

It’s when you’re about to pull on the shirt that you look down, seeing the bruises lining your stomach. From the fight with Soap, or from one of your confrontations with the Shadows, you aren’t sure. Pressing softly against one, you can’t help a small grunt at the burst of pain.

You pull the compression shirt over your head, the fabric tight against your skin. How he’d had your size for the shirt and not the pants, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Pulling over the new vest, you transfer all of your old items into it, finding this design much nicer. Not as constricting against your breasts, designed more unisex than Graves’ had been.

Grabbing the balaclava, your feet carry you to the sliding doors, and you open them with little struggle.

You nearly stumble when you find all of the men within pulling on their own masks, stopping in your tracks at the sight. Ghost and Price’s backs are to you, and when you see Ghost pulling on one of the same masks, everything clicks.

He hadn’t wanted you to see his face – had used getting changed as a distraction.

And yet, here were the Los Vaqueros, some of which had never even spoken to Ghost, having the privilege. It shouldn’t make you angry, you shouldn’t care, but you can’t help the onslaught of rejection that floods your system.

When you step forward, into their line of sight, you straighten your spine and take out your gun from its holster, reloading it in precise movements, not looking down at it once. When the magazine clicks into place, you narrow your gaze on Ghost.

“Are we getting this done or having a fashion show?”

“That’s cold,” you murmur, eyes squeezed shut as war-torn fingers swipe grease paint around your eyes, careful in their placement. You sway when the vehicle drives over a pothole, but the fingers continue their ministrations without pause.

Price chuckles softly, wiping his thumb underneath your eye. “Used to do this for Ghost every other day,” he says under his breath, collecting more paint from the pot and continuing to spread it across the upper half of your face.

You’re in the back of a van with both Price and Gaz, Alejandro behind the wheel as you head back to his colonised base.

“You look like one of us now,” Gaz chimes, to your right. Watching you both carefully, his own paint already done, he leans back into his seat. “Uniform, mask… we’ve corrupted you, love.”

You roll your eyes beneath your eyelids. “Good luck with that.”

“Don’t test me,” he laughs, at the same time that Price pulls away once more, looking you over, before deciding that more paint will be needed.

“Feel like a kid at a fair,” you muse, earning a soft chuckle from Price. “Do I get glitter too?”

“Maybe if you’re a good girl,” Price jokes softly, and you let out a laugh of your own. Internally, you register your cheeks heating at the comment, a part of you yearning for such praise from the man. If it didn’t mess up your paint or cause the two to give you weird looks, you’d slap yourself.

“Can’t believe you’re Graves’ Colonel,” Gaz admonishes, and you barely restrain a huff of annoyance. He corrects himself. “Were. Man, he did not deserve you in his ranks. You probably would’ve done better as Commander than he ever could.”

You let your lips curve into a somewhat appreciative smile, eyes still shut as Price continues his studious work. “Believe it or not, we all loved him. Behind the scenes, he treated us pretty well. The guys, anyway.”

You can’t see it, but Gaz and Price share a knowing look, both of them raising their brows. Your eyes remain shut throughout their small, silent exchange.

“How so?” Price asks, gruff, and the tone encourages you to tell the truth.

“Well,” you swallow, unsure of how to approach the issue. You never have, never felt a reason to. “Just. Small things. Jokes, and stuff. I’m the only woman in the Company, actually–”

“What?” Gaz blurts out, not seeming able to stop himself. “You’re serious?”

You let out a somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “...Yeah? That’s pretty normal in military jobs, y’know. Didn’t think it was that weird. At least I’m a Colonel.”

“You don’t think that’s… weird?” Price asks, and it’s only then that you realise he’s stopped painting your face. You blink open your eyes. “The only woman in his Company, and she’s his Colonel?”

Chewing on your inner cheek, you shake your head. “I was one of the very first to be hired by him. We… He was my partner. In nearly every sense of the word,” you admit, a small truth. “I mean. I don’t think that I loved him. Just. Never really had anyone else.”

“How old were you when you joined Shadow Co?” Gaz asks, slowly, carefully.

You mull it over, before supplying an easy answer. “Eighteen, or so. He was twenty-seven when he started, and –”

“That’s so fucked,” Gaz curses, burying his face in his hands. “Seriously. He’s a fucking asshole.”

You’re desperate for a change of topic, anything else but this. Not now, not when your wounds are too fresh, not when you’re about to come face to face with him again. With a deep breath, you divert the situation.

“Am I done?” You ask, looking to the window and trying to catch your reflection to no avail.

“...Yeah,” Price breathes, “You’re done.”

Easing back into your spot, you find your leg bouncing once more, the adrenaline of the upcoming mission keeping you antsy and energetic. You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but you somehow find yourself more awake now than you had been hours ago.

Resting his hand on your knee, Gaz gives you a reassuring smile. “You ready?”

Letting out a low, unsure exhale, you find yourself nodding. “Yeah. I think so. I know what I’m going to say to him. I’m. He’ll come around.”

Gripping your mask in your hand, you move to pull it over your head, the fabric snugly fitting around your skin. It’s an odd sort of comfort, a way of protecting yourself from the emotional wreck that this mission will create. For the first time, you think that you can understand the attachment Ghost has to it.

“If we kill ‘im,” Price starts, but when you instantly flick your gaze to him, starts to backtrack, “If. If it comes down to it. You can’t hold it against us.”

You just check over your ammo, your cartridges, before simply replying.

“I’ll kill him myself.”

“We won’t make you do that,” Gaz says, adamant and firm as he leans in closer to you. “You don’t have to kill ‘im. I know most of us are wanting to do the honours, anyway.”

“I know Soap and Alejandro are just about begging to,” you acquiesce, but you find yourself focusing on the gun in your hands to reset your mindscape anyways. “But. It’s different. If he’s really done all of this… I want closure.”

“You’ll get your closure. Bloodshed or not,” Price pats your back, and you give him a small tilt of your lips, before realising that your mask covers the movement.

“You still good to split with Price and meet with the other team from the helo, hermana?” Alejandro calls from the front, turning slightly to look to you. You give him a thumbs up, and even with his mask on, you can tell he’s wearing a toothy smile.

“Your gun all good?” Gaz asks, jerking his head to the weapon. “Ammo in your pockets, cartridge full?”

Pulling your free hand into a gun gesture, you smile.

“Pew.”

It’s with the weight of the world on your shoulders that you watch Price’s helicopter get shot.

“We’re hit! We’re hit!” Price calls through your shared radio channel, his voice frantic enough to have you skidding to a stop. Distantly, you think you can hear Ghost say something, but it’s quickly shadowed by Price’s, “Going down. We’re going down!”

You’re about a hundred feet away from where Rodolfo and Soap stand, the two also seeming to pause behind a warehouse of some sort.

When you see Soap move to push Rodolfo up the wall, you run as fast as your legs will take you to their position, calling out to them, “I’m coming with!”

“Thought you weren’t making it, cariño!” Rodolfo calls out as you fall alongside them, your heartbeat raging in your ears.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy,” you jest, then pause when you see Ghost to your side. Jerking your head to the wall, you ask, “Need a personal invitation?”

“Price and the pilot need help. You three finish this,” he shakes his head, before turning and leaving for the crash site. Shrugging, you spin back to where Rodolfo’s extending his hand to help you up, which you accept, reaching the top of the wall and swinging your right thigh over it, straddling the brick.

Extending your arm down, you pull Rodolfo up, Soap taking his other hand in a firm grip. When Rodolfo swings around to sit between you both, he curses under his breath.

“Look!” Soap hisses, and when you do as he says, your own stomach falls down to the dirt floor beneath you.

“That’s not ours,” Rodolfo murmurs, and you can barely find your voice.

“A tank,” you say, mindlessly, watching on as a fucking tank pulls into the training area of the compound. “Graves… he has a fucking tank?”

Neither of the two respond, both instead jumping off of the wall, falling into a crouch as they land. They both extend hands to you, more of a supporting gesture than anything, but you don’t take them as you too land on the other side of the brick, entering the training area.

“Ye ready for this?” Soap asks the two of you, a hint of mania creeping onto his blood-flecked face.

“Hell yeah,” Rodolfo breathes, before looking to you with a friendly smile. Ruffling your hair, a familiar gesture, now, he squeezes the nape of your neck. “If you come out of this alive, hermana, we could use you in the Los Vaqueros.”

You bark a laugh, stunned, almost, before shaking your head. “You should talk to your boss about recruiting people, first.”

Rodolfo shrugs. “Ale likes to make me happy.”

“Interviews can happen later, aye?” Soap chuckles, and the three of you look to the tank once more. “Bigger fish to catch, and allat.”

You go to say something else, when –

“Didn’t realise you boys were into kidnapping women now. That’s a bit sketchy, ain’t it?”

Graves. He’s – he’s got a radio, he’s talking, he’s here, he’s. He’s fucking with you, trying to play mind games, trying to break you all over –

“Can’t wait to bake this bastard,” Soap grunts, and you find your footing once more. Sure, you were ready for battle, but your entire reason for being here was to talk to him. Get him to realise his mistakes, come forward, go back to the man you knew.

Rodolfo and Soap are running somewhere, doing their part, and you –

“Is what they said true?” It’s the most important question you have right now. The answer you yearn for.

A moment passes.

“Where did you go, gorgeous? When’d they get ya? Did they blackmail you in Las Almas?” He diverts, and you tighten your grip on your gun, swallowing your litany of curses.

“Answer my questions, Commander. Is. What they said. True.”

“It doesn’t matter, baby. Remember where your loyalties lie,” Graves takes on a sweeter tone, a more… condescending one, you think.

“Please,” you find yourself whispering, begging for him to just. Break this nightmare, rebel against it, be Phillip. “Please tell me this isn’t really you.”

“Oveja pequeña,” he coos, and you swear your spine erupts in hives, “I’m still your Phillip. You’re the one who’s changed – look at you, running off with the 141. I’m disappointed.”

You erupt, then, like a dormant volcano, finally gathering the final push to let lava reign free.

“I’m going to fucking kill you! You just killed fathers, tore apart families! I fucking hate you!” You yell into the radios, no tears falling, merely anger and vengeance clouding your vision.

“Don’t forget that you are under my orders. Whether you’re in my bed or not, you’re my Colonel,” he seethes back, and like a shot while you’re already down, you realise that this is a hopeless cause. You weren’t going to save Shepherd. You weren’t going to save Graves.

All you had left to save was yourself.

They’d lied to you, an indefinite amount of times, for how long, you weren’t sure. Your whole relationship – was that a lie, too? Was your entire life?

“I’m your second in command,” you finally admit out loud, hiding behind a crumbling wall as the tank shoots just a few feet away from you. “So when you get taken down, guess who comes out on top?”

“Listen to yourself!” He shouts, his voice cracking in his sudden anger, “Listen–”

“No, you listen!” You find yourself crying out, taking a few shots at the tank, allowing Soap and Rudy to do their part. “Listen to me, Phillip. You’re going to regret this – all of this. When were you going to tell me you were under Shepherd’s orders, huh? How long have you been fucking me over!”

“Whenever you first came around my cock is my guess, baby,” he responds, icy and cold.

His words only seem to further encourage you to breaking point, adding more and more fury to rush down your veins like its very own hit of morphine.

“Guess what, Commander?”

“Don’t bull–”

“That first time, and every time since?”

He doesn’t bother to interrupt you.

“I faked it.”

With that, you switch Channels to one shared with all of you.

You had heard everything you needed to, and along with it, realised something of vital importance. A small inconsistency that changed everything.

“Ghost team,” you say, neutral and unforgiving, “Graves isn’t in the tank.”

“What’re ye talking about?!” Soap calls through, exuding exhaustion, the sound of explosions crackling through behind his vocals. “He has to be–”

“He’s not,” you say, firm, absolute in your decision. “I don’t know where he is – but he’s not in there. Not his style, anyway – prefers to be in the spotlight.”

“What do we do then, hermana?” Rodolfo asks, sounds strained just as Soap had.

Your answer is easy. “You guys focus on the tank – I’m taking Graves down.”

With that, you run for the wall once more, and with nothing but your intuition, you know exactly where you’ll find your ex-Commander.

As per usual when it comes to your gut-feelings, you’re correct.

It’s within the hanger on the compound that you find him getting into a helicopter – a wound on his forehead and tactical glasses on. Somehow, he’s already found himself injured – a small, selfish part of you satisfied with that information.

“Commander!” You yell as you break through the small window of the hangar, using the butt of your gun to do it. It’s as the door to the heli shuts that he notices you – and you switch back on to his radio.

“This is your last chance,” he grits out, his voice thin and furious. “Before this becomes more than a… domestic fight.”

You wince as the blades start turning, taking shelter behind one of the cargo boxes, wary of any bullets being shot your way. “The only domestic thing about us was your inclination for treating me like your little wife.”

“Always did think you’d look pretty barefoot and pregnant,” he muses, and oh, have you never wanted to kill a man more in your life.

“Aww,” you mock, as the blades’ whirring gets louder and shots echo around you finally, “See, I think you’d look pretty bleeding out at my feet.”

“You did look rather good at mine,” he retorts, and your emotions get the better of you as you peek, shooting three Shadows behind the heli with easy headshots. You’re barely there for two seconds before a burning pain echoes through the side of your shoulder, and you duck down once more.

“Couldn’t even get off,” you pant, relentless to the very end even as your breaths turn into heavy falls of your shoulders, “Was like fucking a Ken doll.”

“You’ve always been a petty bitch,” he snaps, and you smirk.

“I am a bitch, you’re right. And you know what bitches do when someone taunts them? They bite.”

You raise your gun, and for a scary, short second, you realise that blood is flowing in a stream that’s causing the sleeve of your black shirt to grow sticky and damp. Now isn’t the time to care, however, as you take aim at one of the windows of the heli.

Pulling the trigger, the bullet bursts through the window, glass shattering and falling to the ground. It’s as soon as it does, however, that it takes flight, boosting in its acceleration immediately.

Fully peeking, this time, you watch as the helicopter quickly takes off, and even if you had the capacity to shoot at it, it wouldn’t hit the intended target, not with your trembling hands.

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

You get one final sentence in, before the radio cuts off. Even though you can’t see him from this distance, you’re sure you’re making eye contact as you deal your final blow.

“My callsign isn’t baby. It’s Sweetheart.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee

author's note. to everyone asking about the covid, its prettyyy bad haha. i can hardly leave my bed and need 3 blankets in the peak of summer!

at least that means i have downtime to write before my life gets VERY hectic. thank you all for your support again, the feedback and praise for the last chapter made me feel 10x better and i genuinely appreciate you all SO much. thank you thank you thank you!

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uzurimisery · 5 months

Text

chapter 4: the bluff. / coriolanus snow / nsfw

Rating: Explicit

WC: 6746

Warnings: MDNI, rough sex, he's still insane and possessive, PIV, unprotected sex (this guy is never wearing a condom ever), angry sex, he's not a good guy but he's hot, not beta read

AO3 version | Series master

You slammed the dressing room door shut. “What the hell was that , Coriolanus?” pacing the length of the room, anger seeping out of you. “Did you forget what we were supposed to do? We were supposed to play it off, say we were too young. That was not playing it off! That was proposing!”

In your rage, you stumbled in your heels. He watched you curse under your breath, undoing the strap on them and throwing them across the room. Coriolanus didn’t move, cemented in his spot just past the door.

“Listen to me Y/N,” his tone was stern, like a parent scolding a child. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you did!” you interrupted your voice tinged with sarcasm. “You always do whatever you want, don’t you? Here, the gala, the dinner. Always regardless of the consequences!”

Your words were sharp, digging in the fact that whatever was going on between you two there was meant to be a unified front, a single storyline. You were meant to be partners in the power play, both of you using each other to further your positions. All the work that went into constructing the next five years of the act was undone in an instant.

“I thought we were on the same page, Coriolanus. There was a plan for what we were going to do, but you just fucked it up!” He was always hypercritical of himself, internal monologue pointing out his every mistake, but you doing the same set him off.

“Can you shut up for five seconds! Or are you so self-obsessed that you can't let anyone else get a word in.”

“How dare you try and talk to me about being self-obsessed you narcissistic, unthoughtful-”

“There you go! Proving my point. You can’t even get off your high horse for a minute so I can explain why I did that.”

“You want to explain? Fine then, explain.” you spat.

Coriolanus’ jaw clenched. You were so hot and cold with him. He could never gauge what you really wanted in all of this, and you would never just tell him either.

“I saw an opportunity.”

“For what?”

“To play the part, to make the story so much better. Picture it, Coriolanus Snow, a man who has always been so organised and timely there are articles on how to put your life together like him, rushing into something. He’s so in love with his mentor’s daughter that he proposes to her on stage in front of all of Panem, and he doesn’t even have a ring on him because at that moment he realises that he can’t live without her.”

Your eyebrows were drawn, scanning over his face like you were looking for a fault in what he said, as you dissected it. There was nothing wrong with it though. The show was exactly how he described it. It painted him as a kind and caring man, beyond his known abilities at game making.

“You should have told me ahead of time.”

“I didn’t have a chance. I thought of it while getting ready.” he was lying, and you could tell. Seeing through lies was your speciality. He hadn’t thought about it while getting ready.

You called him on his bluff. “Bullshit. You didn’t have any plan, that was all impulse.” you were digging your finger into his chest to make your point. “You could have ruined everything we’ve been working on, made the past year pointless. What if I hadn’t followed along? What if I lost my composure for your little outburst? It’s not just your future on the line here Coriolanus. I’m leaving.”

Your shoulder bumped into his as you moved to walk out of the room, but his arm wrapped around your waist pulling you back and lifting you off the ground.

“Y/N,” he started.

“Let me go!”

“You don’t get to walk away from me. You need to listen to me.”

“I’m done listening to you, put me down!”

“Well, I’m not done talking!” Coriolanus pushed your back against the wall, pinning you in place.

Why couldn’t you just listen to him like you normally did? Why were you so upset with him? What he did was off-script but it still looked good, and it still achieved your shared goals. You didn’t get to walk away from him when he was right.

You slapped him, still able to move your arms. “I told you to let me go.” He tasted blood in his mouth. When he smiled at you, you felt your blood run cold.

“Are you done?” His teeth had traces of blood on them.

You weren’t about to be intimidated by him. You didn’t cower or beg anyone, and that included Coriolanus Snow. “Let. Me. Go.” your demands fell on deaf ears.

His smile only widened, eyes glistening with a sinister light. You thought he’d be furious with you, and hated that you were out of control, but it seemed more like he enjoyed it. That he liked it when you fought back.

“I told you Y/N, I’m not done talking.”

You moved to slap him again but were met with your wrists being grabbed and pinned above your head, utterly defenceless for whatever happened next. The expectation for him to strike you back weighing in the air. But he didn’t. Instead, his lips met yours, forcing your mouth open and letting his tongue in. You tried to fight back but he bit down on your lip and stopped you. His tongue only became more insistent. Copper on both your tongues.

You didn’t hate it. You were still mad at him, obviously, but the sexual tension that always between the two of you beckoned, its tendrils wrapping around you. Who said some angry sex wasn’t the solution to your being mad at him?

Your teeth clacked against each other as you jumped up, wrapping your legs around his midsection. Coriolanus’ free hand moved to support you. Standing like this he was able to grind his hips against yours, the friction delicious. The kiss was messy, both of you trying to prove something to the other with it.

When you pulled apart for air you spoke. “Let me go.” His breath was laboured, just as yours was, the rough makeout session leaving the both of you breathless.

“Not a chance, sweet girl.”

His grip on your wrists loosened, letting you slip free to pull at his hair, connecting your mouths once again. Your moans mixed with his own, body rolling to press your clothed pussy over his erection. Even though he had picked you up a multitude of times, it was always surprising how strong he actually was. His slim build did not give away how strong he actually was.

Everything between you was primal, driven by lust and anger.

Coriolanus brought you over to the couch, dropping you on your back. He liked you best like this, on your back and needy. Your high horse forgotten, and the only thing you rode him. The both of you took care to remove your clothes carefully, neither wanting to deal with a lecture from Tigris as well as knowing you had a dinner to attend in them after this. But that was where the caution ended.

The moment you were naked he had his fingers stretching you open with his thumb toying at your clit. His mouth was all over your skin, biting your breasts, adding to the marks already covering you. He was so rough with you and made you feel so small. But god did he know exactly what to do to you.

Your moans were sharp as he brought you to an orgasm. Everything you did drove him up a wall. Every time he thought he could move past it, ignoring the feeling, your pussy sucked him back in. It was your fault he made a mistake, that he lost his composure, that he went off script. He wanted access to your warmth whenever he wanted.

No matter how much he consumed you, he was still hungry, the type of hunger he hadn’t felt since the war. The one with claws that tore at his insides, teeth grinding into his bones. A bottomless pit that could never be filled. It clouded his mind with thoughts of you, your breasts and hips, the pout of your lips. He could almost always feel the sensation of you against him, biting into your soft flesh. It made him emotionally volatile, willing to risk everything for just a crumb. But every time he got a bite it filled him with dread.

Your perfume, boozy and peachy, a reminder that the only thing that would ever fill this hole was you. That when he was on the brink of death, starving and empty, it was you who would nourish him. Your being the very source of all his problems and all his solutions at the same time. A double-edged sword driving into his heart with every step he took towards you.

“See? Look how good you have it when you just behave.” you weren’t out of it yet, still able to spite back in vitriol.

“Fuck you.”

“Already have.” Coriolanus flipped you on your front, positioning you on your knees with your chest pressed against the couch.

Like this, he got to spread you open, look at what your body could offer him. Why did you have to be you? Why did you have to rival his mind and have such a perfect body? It ruined everything.

His fingers pressed back into you. He could watch you drip down them for hours, whiny and whimpering from his actions. Begging him to fuck you. No matter how you tried to act like you weren’t. You were just like him. Hungry and waiting.

Coriolanus lined up his cock with your entrance. Instead of easing into you, he thrust in fully, jolting your body forward. He wanted it to hurt, to make you feel sorry for blowing up at him. To show you that no matter how you acted out he could fuck you back into place.

He fucked you hard and fast, pulling your head back by your hair. It forced you up and to put your hands on the back of the couch. Your back arched, your shoulders almost against his chest. His other hand pinched at your nipples and tugged at them. It hurt, the perfect mix of pain and pleasure.

Moving his hand out of your hair, his fingers hooked into the side of your mouth. “Your mouth can be used for better things than being disrespectful.” your drool pooled around them, dribbling out the side of your mouth as you spoke.

“I’m gonna cum.” your speech altered from his fingers.

“I don’t care.” he did care, but he couldn’t let you know that, not right now. The biggest ego death to him would be if he was unable to make you cum. It fed his ego every time you clenched down around him, pussy fluttering from your orgasm. He didn’t slow down or let up, fully intent on taking his frustration out on you.

The air between you was hot and heavy, thick with the smell of sex. With his hands free, your waist became his new hold stone. Coriolanus didn’t even have to pull your hips to meet his, you were doing that for him, bucking backwards in time. Each trust had you panting little praises for him.

He wanted to see your face. You felt him pull out of you and then sit down on the couch next to you. “Ride me.”

You shifted, placing your knees on either side of him as you sunk down on his length. When you got to the base, you took a moment to recollect yourself, head tucked into the crook of his neck. Coriolanus’ lips found the crown of your head before he even recognised what he was doing. It was odd. This intimate act in the midst of all of this. He wanted to show you that he cared, that he wasn’t mad at you anymore. Why wasn’t he mad at you anymore? He was the type to let his anger fester, angry with infection. He waited until the moment was right and then he spread his sickness, cutting down whoever upset him. You were more useful than being cut down; however, he felt strongly towards you. The one thing he wouldn’t do is name those feelings.

The drag of your hips cut off his line of thought. He watched as you rode him, your thighs shaky but not letting it stop you. When you pulled your head out to kiss him he met you, enjoying the feeling of your lips against his. Hair and makeup would have a hay day with the two of you but the way you went all the way up, his tip the only thing inside you, to then your ass flush with his thighs made their annoyance worth it. Wanting to feel you cum around him again, his thumb began circling your clit, working you up to another orgasm.

“I’m close.”

“I know.”

Your hips slowed as you came, exhausted from riding him. But Coriolanus wasn’t done. His hand wrapped around your waist, moving you to an elevated position with his dick still inside you, and he began thrusting up into you. “Hold yourself just like that sweet girl.” You did as he told you, your head lulling to the front pressing your forehead against his. With a few final thrusts, he came inside you. You were winded, your eyes closed as he guided your bodies apart and grabbed a disposal west wipe to clean the both of you up. Finally, with that done, he could lay down and settle you on top of him, both of you naked and sweaty.

Neither of you spoke for a while, just listening to each other breathe, your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” apologises always felt like he was trying to speak a foreign language, his tongue struggling to make the sounds. “I shouldn’t have acted impulsively.”

“I'm sorry too. I shouldn’t have blown up on you.” his fingers traced your hairline as you lay on top of him, still reeling from the sex. “I just don’t like when things don’t go to plan, and they’ve not been going to plan between us.”

He couldn’t argue against that. Everything was so fuzzy between you. He didn’t know what you were feeling, but his feelings were you weren’t something he could ignore. When he said that he couldn’t picture his life without you it was true. He thought that speaking it out to the world would alleviate the pressure, and make it something he could keep inside himself, but he didn’t. He needed you to know that it meant it.

“Would it be so bad, marrying me?”

You picked your head up. “No,” you sighed. “It wouldn’t be.” He watched you find your original position, ear over his heart.

“We could be allies.” his heart pounded as you traced patterns on his skin. “You’re the first person I’ve met I’d consider that with. I could make you the First Lady of Panem.”

Being the First Lady was an appealing idea. You’d be able to do so much more in that position. It was a core belief of yours that the games were only the first step in binding the loyalty of the country, to furthering the control over the populace. Aid programs needed to be doled out in the Districts. People who were content were less likely to look behind the curtain and see what was really happening.

“What happens when you fall in love with someone? Would we divorce and I’d lose everything, both the games and my position?” there was uncertainty in your voice.

There could never be someone after you. You were it for him. Sure he could find a docile wife and marry her, leave her be and just have kids with her. But she could never truly know him. But you could, and you were learning the true him. And you wouldn’t make him separate his work and home life, you’d dive into it with him, lethal and cunning.

“That won’t happen,” he was blunt with his statement. “You’re the only one I could do this with.”

It felt like the weight was finally lifting off him some. The pressure that had been building and threatening to blow, to whistle like a kettle. As much as he had intended for your relationship to be a temporary political alliance, he wanted it to be permanent. He didn’t trust people, but he was growing to trust you, knowing that your goals were ultimately the same.

“But what if it does?” He had never seen you so worried about his feelings, genuine concern. “Or what if I fall in love with someone else?”

“Y/N,” his thumb brushed your lips, making you face him again. “I promise you that is never going to happen. Okay?”

“Okay.”

With a final look of determination, kissed you, his lips bruising against your own. He was hoping that it conveyed that he meant it with all his heart. He was never going to fall in love with someone else, the home you made in his heart was always going to be yours. The decor exactly how you left it if you ever walked away, waiting for you to come back. You’d never get the chance to walk away but that was the sentiment, that he could forgive you for leaving him if he took you back and you stayed with him. A dove with a broken wing was still a dove. It might not be able to soar in the slides, free from the gravity of the world, but it was still a dove. Even if he broke you and locked you up, you’d still be you.

He could never love another, not when he loved you. Coriolanus loved you. The realisation shook him, a tempestuous collision of the man he was and the man he wanted to be. The crack formed by Lucy Gray was broken open once again by you. He had convinced himself that love was a weakness, that it was something to be exploited. Over the past year of getting to know you, getting to be with you, you had challenged his core beliefs, forcing him to confront the fact that he loved you.

It was hard admitting it to himself. Just hours earlier he had told Tigris off for even suggesting the idea of it, vehemently denying it. He didn’t want to love you then, terrified at the idea of you finding out and leaving. But you had said it wouldn’t be so bad to be married to him, that you’d be willing to be allies for the rest of your life. The truth was there though, written into every interaction he had with you. The glaring reality that he could no longer ignore, lingered in his eyes like a burned-in image.

It was terrifying, the exact opposite of the control he wanted to have over those around him, to have you control his heart. The practised emotional detachment he had led his life with failed in his darkest hour. The fear that you’d be just like Lucy Gray and run. It didn’t matter that you both worked on the games, that he had seen you develop new ways to punish the Capitol’s enemies, that you had just as much darkness within you as he did. That you were as ruthless as he was. The betrayal he had once experienced at the hands of a District dog had him petrified of it happening again.

Could he erase your existence like he did hers if something happened? The thought was both horrifying and tempting. He didn’t want it to come to that, to erase you, to discard you like a broken toy. You were better than Lucy Gray, you wouldn’t betray him. He wouldn’t let you. But he couldn’t come to you with this, not yet. Coriolanus Snow needed you to break down and beg him to tell him that he loved you. When he could see you, lost in your feelings for him, then he could tell you. Not before, not after. But at the moment when you are in desperate need of him, he could tell you. Only then could he believe that you loved him too.

______________________________________

Things have been busy since then and luckily you have been able to avoid conversation with your mother too. Coriolanus and you had no time to talk about your game plan and what would've happened next as the games started. Every day you were at the Citadel, ensuring things ran smoothly. He was there too, doing his own work, but the amount you had to do kept you from each other. It wasn’t until after the games ended that the two of you got a moment alone. Of course, you had been to several events together but you couldn't talk about things there. So when the last person left the production room, you were finally alone with him.

“Did you mean what you said that night on the balcony, that it was hard pretending that you loved me?”

The two of you were in his private lab. You were sitting on the edge of his desk instead of a chair, something he noticed you liked to do. After the cameras had been turned off you had taken your hair down from the pinned updo made of a braid, letting the braid hang loose. The heels you were wearing off your feet and lost in the room. Coriolianus’ head was in your lap as your fingers brushed through his hair. The slight stubble he’d grown over the last two days catching on your tights.

His voice was muffled by your thigh. “No.”

“No you didn't mean it or no it isn’t hard pretending that you love me?” Your fingers were putting him to sleep. It had been so long since he had been touched like this. He only had one strong memory of his mother. They had been sitting before the fire, her belly full with his younger sister, her finger running through his, much like your own, singing a song he couldn’t remember now, the melody lost with time.

“No,” he finally replied, groggy. “It’s not hard pretending that I love you”

There was a flicker of hope within you when he first confessed to you that night on the balcony. You had convinced yourself that he was being vulnerable with you then, letting you in. Was this him adding kindling to that fire or dousing it?

“Is it easy then?” Each word was laced with intrigue and tinged with trepidation. The question wormed itself into the conversation, hanging in the air like the hum of the machinery. He tensed under you like he had been unprepared for this conversation, a betrayal of how he normally was.

Coriolanus’ response was slow, deliberate and weighted, with every individual syllable chosen carefully. “No, it’s not easy either.” The threading of your fingers felt so good against his scalp, it was criminal. “It’s neither easy nor hard, it’s necessary.” He shrugged with that statement, drowsy from the long day and your actions.

It was strange seeing him like this, his head in your lap as he was half asleep. The Coriolanus you knew was a man of fronts, never betraying his persona of unwavering composure and unyielding strength. He was smart and capable, bringing the Snow family back from the brink of destruction. But now there was no front present. He was relaxed and open, the tension in his shoulders finally released as he rested on your thighs. You could see every pore of skin, every hair out of place. There was a faint scar above his lip, so blended with his skin that you had never seen it before. It had access to the same medical and cosmetic treatments as you did meaning that he had left this one there on purpose. A reminder of something that had happened to him.

You chewed on his words as you watched him. It was neither easy nor hard pretending that he loved you, it was necessary. It was a non-answer, a refusal to tell you his feelings on the matter, that itself a revealing statement. He was used to his words working on others, his honied lips spinning the sweetest lies. But you had watched him, seen him change over the years. Coriolanus was a man burdened with his own demons that sat at the table with him. There was an understanding in that. You had your own demons that sat in the corner of your room every night, watching you sleep and whispering dangerous things. Neither of you were innocent good-hearted people, both of you violent and deadly.

But his cracks were showing, and that night under the stars with too much to drink, he had let you see just how much they were cracking. You were willing to pick up the pieces and help him put them back together. Your own feelings were the same as his, you were just better at hiding it.

“My father wants us to have an engagement party.”

“When?”

“In two weeks at my family estate,” knowing your father, it was going to be a spectacle. He doted on you. “But he wants to have a private dinner before that, just your family and mine.” His only family was Grandma’am and Tigris. If you wanted to, you could count the Plinths as family, even though he hated the thought of having any relationship with them.

“That’s fine. I’m sure Grandma’am will be excited, she’s been pestering me about marrying you while she’s still alive to see it.”

“She wants you to marry me?”

He murmured some form of agreement, still out of it. “She says you make me smile like I haven’t since I was a boy. It’s annoying actually, she keeps demanding that I bring you around for lunch.” This was news. Your interactions with Grandma’am had always been under the pretence of public events, you never thought much of them, but apparently she had. More than that, she thought more of your effect on her grandson.

“You should be kinder to her, you don’t know how long she’s got left.”

Coriolanus’ head lifted from your lap, rubbing his eyes as he propped his head up on a hand. “I know,” it wasn’t nice to have to think about the fact his Grandma’am was up there in age, that she maybe had another 15 years left. If that. “I’ll tell her we’ll do lunch then.”

Your smile was irresistible. “Good. The least you can do for her is let her think that you’ve found someone you genuinely love, and who loves you just as much. She’ll never know that it's just an act either. It’ll let her rest easy knowing you’re taken care of.”

His heart sank, and his stomach dropped out and onto the ground.

“Yeah, it’s a good act too.”

______________________________________

Coriolanus paced in the foyer, stopping every so often his fingers fidgeting with the knot of his tie, loosening and tightening it. His outfit was simple and smart today. His father's button-up with a red tie, a grey pinstripe waistcoat and matching trousers. The black leather of his oxfords had been polished earlier in the morning. He felt antsy, just wanting to get this luncheon over with. He shouldn’t have told you that Grandma’am wanted this, he must have been out of his mind when he did.

“Coriolanus my boy,” Grandma’am had snuck up behind him, making him jump as she put her hands on his shoulders. “You look as handsome as always, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

His smile was weak in the mirror, not reaching his eyes. “Thank you Grandma’am.” She fiddled with the shoulder of his shirt, lining it up properly as it had been moved from his walking around.

“You must really love her if it’s got you like this.”

“I do.” The words were heavy. This was the first time he had acknowledged his feelings for you to another person. The vulnerability threatened to consume him.

“I’m glad,” her eyes became teary as she spoke. “Your mother loved your father so much. I remember their wedding day. She was so nervous, running around like a rabbit. You remind me of her sometimes.” she threw her hands up like the statement was outlandish. “But of course, you’re more like your father than anything else. Strong Coriolanus Snow.”

They rarely talked about his parents, or Tigris’ parents, like this. It was easier for them all to let the dead stay dead. A bittersweet ache spread through him.

“I’m glad.” He reached out and took Grandma's hand, offering her some comfort. Talking about her dead children always set her off. They stood in silence for a beat, hand in hand, each processing their own feelings before he shattered the quiet.

“It’s easier to let the dead stay dead.”

Grandma’am nodded, her handkerchief to her eye to clean up the tears she had spilt. “Sometimes,” she acknowledges, “the past is too painful to revisit. But it’s important to remember Coriolanus. To remember the love, the laughter, the life that was lived. To honour those who came before you.”

But he didn’t want to remember the past. The past made everything worse.

The ring of the elevator cut the conversation short. You were here, and he was nervous. This was no different than a public event, you both knew the parts to play, but it was so different at the same time. You were in his family home, eating with him and his Grandma’am, and doing it purely because you thought she deserved to think someone loved him. Doing it because you cared for her. It was here that his history echoed, ghosts of the past hanging on every wall. Remnants of the boy he once was tucked away in boxes, now dusty with age.

As the elevator doors opened, revealing you standing there, those boxes came out of storage and were placed on the table for you to sort through.

“Oh! Miss Gaul! Please come in.” Grandma’am rushed towards you, excited to have you over.

“Grandma’am,” you chided, pulling her into a hug. She had shrunk in her old age and your heels didn’t help the equation, making you bend down to do so. “I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Y/N. Plus soon enough I’ll Mrs. Snow.”

“I know, I know, I just forget sometimes. Perhaps I should just call you Mrs. Snow!”

“Now I think that’s a wonderful idea!” You took a second to greet Coriolanus with a kiss and then went back to chatting with Grandma’am taking her hands in your own.

You were so delicate with her, it pained him to watch you be so kind to her. You nodded along diligently to whatever she said and were actively engaging in the conversation. He could tell that you weren’t pretending to care and that you actually wanted to speak with his grandmother. She was so animated with you like years had been removed from her. He had spent so long trying to protect her from all that had happened, and all that he had done. His actions had severed parts of their relationship, and with Tigris not living in the apartment anymore, she must have grown lonely. But you brought her back, the vibrant woman who could connect with the world.

Coriolanus sidled up to you, arm wrapping around your waist. “I hate to interrupt your conversation ladies, but I do believe Y/N came here for lunch.” It felt so right to have you like this.

“Yes, yes, Coriolanus,” Grandma’am started, “I’ll go make sure the cook has prepared everything. Why don't you show Y/N into the dining room.”

“Of course, Grandma’am.”

Alone, he nipped at your ear, his breath making your heart skip a beat. His hands were warm, one placed on your stomach the the other on your arm. You could smell the mint on his breath when he uttered a whisper in your ear, his voice low and husky. “You look stunning today.”

You were wearing all black today, something that went against the average Capitol woman. It was a high neck mini dress, stopping a few inches above your knee. The sleeves were long, longer than your hands and instead of normal holes, the fabric was spliced up to your elbow. Your heels were lower than they normally were from press events, no doubt more comfortable. The splash of colour came from your earrings. They were red, with a velvety coating on them, and shaped like rose petals separated and hung on a chain. You had remembered Grandma’am’s love of roses.

“It’s not for you, you know.” you took every opportunity to tease him. “But thank you.”

You had no idea what you did to him. “If it were for me it’d be on the floor by now.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing this is for Grandma’am and not you.” You patted his cheek. “Now are you going to show me to the dining room Coriolanus?” When you said his name you mirrored the way his Grandma’am said it.

A crooked grin rose on his face with a small laugh. “With pleasure, my dear,” he replied biting your ear again before leading you through the grand hallways of the apartment. His hand never left your back until you were sat down. You were on Coriolanus’ right, with his chair being at the head of the table.

The table was smaller than the average dining room table in the Capitol, unsurprising given the number of Snow family members there were left. It looked to seat about 10 people maximum. It was a dark-stained wood, a style that was popular in the prewar days. The walls were a pale blue, covered in a patterned wallpaper. The signature tile flooring of the apartment was carried into the dining room, laid in a geometric style with the table in the centre. It was all a testament to the family’s long history and enduring presence in the Capitol, a microcosm of the Capitol itself.

“Have you told her about the dinner?”

“No I haven’t had a chance yet-”

“What dinner?” Grandma’am sauntered into the room, waiting for Coriolanus to pull out her seat so she could sit. “The cook prepared quite a lunch today,” she listed out the menu after she sat down, Coriolanus returning to his own seat, arms resting on the table.

“That all sounds wonderful Grandma’am. Corio’s told me how wonderful your chef is.”

“Yes, I do agree. It took me ages to find one that I liked, so many of them are lacklustre these days.”

“Well I hope my family’s chef won't disappoint you then.” you grabbed his hand on the table. “My father wanted me to invite you to a family dinner on Friday evening. It’s just a small get-together to introduce everyone to each other properly. After all, we’ll be one family soon.

“Oh, that is a wonderful idea! I’ve always had such admiration for your father’s interior design work.” Grandma’am's voice faded out for Coriolanus as she spoke. Rambling about how your father had ‘brought back the elegance of the Capitol’ through his job. Coriolanus was focused on one thing.

You were wearing the ring. He had gone in between rings for what felt like a millennium till settling on a custom made. It was reminiscent of the one he remembered his mother wearing, covered in diamonds and made of gold. Your was made of platinum, far more durable than gold and less like the be damaged by your time in the labs and only plated in gold. The centre stone was large, 1.5 carats, an emerald cut diamond. The style of the ring was similar to an ornate mirror. There were 22 stones in total, each one glittering from the chandelier's light. He hadn't stopped with just the one ring either, he needed to decorate you in the finest jewels he could buy with the Plinth family fortune. That's why your index finger had a stack of thinner, geometric, stack complimenting the engagement ring.

It thrilled him. Wedding rings were no more than a shackle connecting you to him. A show of his authority over you. Marrying you wasn’t about companionship, it was to own you. To change your last name to his own and let everyone know that he would never leave you alone. Maybe he’d let you hyphenate your last name, and you’d like that, it went against the norm.

His thumb rubbed against his own engagement ring. His was simpler, he didn’t enjoy the over-the-top couture and showmanship of the Capitol, a think gold plated platinum band with a matching kite cut diamond flush set into it. The kite shape echoed by etchings around the placement. You had picked the ring out for him after seeing your own, saying that you wanted it to match with yours. It was ironic that you chose a kite shape. They flew high in the sky, a symbol of freedom and soaring ambition.

The luncheon was nice, you had to admit. You didn’t have a living grandmother and it was nice to talk with Grandma’am as you ate. She kept telling stories of Coriolanus’ youth, much to his chagrin. The stories, and how he treated her, were different than what you had expected. He was cold towards Tigris, but he had so much warmth towards Grandma’am. What had happened between the two that caused a rift? Grandma’am spoke as if the two had been thick as thieves growing up.

When the plates were cleared, you joined Grandma’am in the kitchen as she made coffee for the two of you, Coriolanus somewhere in the apartment answering a message on his communicuff. You had offered to do it but she insisted on doing it herself, telling you that the machine was too complicated for a guest to use. But you know exactly how to use it, but that was a secret.

When she sat across from you, both your mugs steaming, her eyes were sombre. “Can you be honest with a foolish old woman?”

“I don’t see any old women here, but I can be honest.” her chuckle was wethered and dry, telling of someone who had lived through too much.

“I know my Coriolanus is a difficult man,” she always insisted on using his full name. “He’s much like his father in that regard, and I would know having raised them both. But you’re good for him. When I see him with you it's like all the horrible things he had to live through are forgotten, and that he’s that smiling boy running around the apartment with his mother chasing after him again.” Grandma’am’s voice broke as the spoke, teetering on the edge of crying.

You grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She loved him so much.

“I love him Grandma’am, I really do.” candour in every word you spoke. “With him, I feel like I can do anything, be anything. Sometimes I think it’s all too good to be true and that one day I’ll wake up and this was all a dream that I had. Every day I pinch myself to make sure it's still real.”

“Will you always?”

“There’s no future in which I don’t love him. He’s my now and always. And even if one day we weren’t together anymore, I’d still love him and I’d still support him. Just like he’d do the same for me.”

As you spoke Grandma’am’s tears flowed freely, but they weren’t tears of sadness, they were tears of gratitude. She saw in you that she didn’t have to worry anymore, that someone other than her would love him unconditionally. Be a sanctuary to his troubled heart.

“Thank you.” as the older woman bawled you got up to hug her, rubbing her back as she sobbed.

Coriolanus had heard the whole thing but he couldn’t tell if you had said it for her or it was a confession of your true feelings. You were always perfect at playing your part.

taglist: @serrendiipty @namelesslosers @glitteryblizzardsalad

#tdoaa #the death of an actor #uzuri writes #young coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow x reader #corio snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x you #tbosas #the hunger games imagine #hunger games imagine #hunger games smut #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #thg fanfiction #smut #coriolanus snow x reader smut

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craisinsensation1029 · 2 months

Text

Much Better

Suguru Geto

fem reader, smut, established relationship, vaginal sex, choking, geto uses u as stress relief, gojo being gojo

1.2k

originally wrote this lil thing for a friend--I know nothing about playing games LOL

MDNI

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Geto watches as Gojo snipes him again in the beginning of the match, irritation painted all over his face. It’s the tenth time in a row he’s done this, and for everything that is holy and true Geto just doesn’t understand why. Gojo’s maniacal giggle sounds through Geto’s headset, but he’s in no laughing mood.

“Man, what the fuck,” he grits into his mic, doing what he can to salvage the rest of the match, but it’s futile. He’s ranked last, again. “Run it back, and don’t do that shit again.” He straightens his back, preparing for the next match with his fingers on the controller ready to make a hasty move if needed.

Curse Gojo and his affinity for excellence in anything he does. Of course he doesn’t listen to Geto, and of course he’s ranked last again. After the bothersome work week this is supposed to help him unwind. He hasn’t played with Gojo for nearly two weeks, and this is what he comes back to.

“We can play one more time,” Gojo says in a playful voice. Too bad Geto is already tearing the headset off his head, slinging it across the room. Luckily it lands on the plush comforter instead of smashing to the floor, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Fucking bullshit,” he grumbles, turning off the television and running a hand through his hair. There isn’t a reason for his blood pressure to be through the roof with a clenched jaw and knitted brow, but damn. What does a man have to do to relax?

“What’s bullshit?” you question, walking into your shared bedroom, cocking your head to the side.

“Nothing,” he answers, voice doing everything he can contain what he fears is rage boiling under his skin.

“Work?” Clearly, it’s something. The stress of his job isn’t a secret to you. “You should take a few days off, Sugu.”

“It’s fine,” he answers quickly, desperate to move on from the topic. “I just need to lay down for a bit.”

“You sure?” Putting your purse down you take a step closer to him, noticing how tense every part of his body is. Your eyes float over the the discarded headset on the bed before turning your gaze back to him. “Don’t tell me that dumb game has you all upset.”

“It’s not dumb,” he defends immediately. “It would be fun if Satoru wasn’t such an ass.”

The only thing you can do is roll your eyes and put your hand on the side of his face. “It’s a game.”

His hand easily encircles your wrist, pulling it off of his face. “He’s a cheater. It’s annoying.”

“He’s a cheater, it’s annoying,” you mock with a laugh, plopping down on the bed.

He looks over at you, carefree expression with a playful glint in your eyes. He closes the distance in two steps, placing one hand on your thigh and letting the other lightly close around your throat. Immediately your heart begins to race, thighs already clenching.

“Wanna know what else is annoying?” he says against your lips, hand moving to the apex of your thighs that you willingly open. He can only chuckle at how eager you are, the warmth from your core making his own skin prickle.

“I don--ah,” you whimper. Maybe if you knew you were coming home to an annoyed Suguru, you would have worn something with a bit more layers. The cute little sundress you wore to run some errands earlier is nothing more than a piece of velcro that he can tear open, every ounce of your desire putty in his hands. His thumb presses against your clit harshly, making it hard to even think.

“Hm, baby?” he taunts, applying more pressure to your clit, watching the way you squirm, cock starting to harden in his pants. Now this, this is a game he won’t lose. His thumb doesn’t leave your clit, remainder of his palm pressing against your heat, feeling your little hole already quivering. “You don’t know, do you?” His hand keeps applying pressure against your clothed cunt, grip on your neck tightening. “Don’t know what it’s like to be so fucking annoyed.”

The sun peeking through the windows heats up your skin as you throw your head back, moan after moan escaping your lips as you tightly grip the sheets. It’s good, so good, and Geto fears his cock is going to punch a hole through his sweats if he doesn’t relieve himself. “Shit, see what you do to me?” In the toss up between the hand around your neck and the one pressing against your core, he relieves the pressure on your neck to pull down the waistband of his sweats and underwear, hard, leaky cock slapping against his abdomen.

“Fuck,” he hisses. In the blink of an eye his body is on top of yours, hand back on your neck applying the right amount of pressure, arousal slicking between your thighs. “Since you don’t know what it’s like, you’re gonna help me, yeah?” You already feel the thick head of his cock against your clothed cunt, pressing against your heat that’s aching to be filled. “Don’t need a few days off when you’re here, what do you say?”

He doesn’t even give you a chance to answer before his cock is nudging the crotch of your panties aside and he’s bottoming out in your tight heat, walls immediately closing around his cock, sucking him in. “Oh fuck baby,” he moans, pressing his hips closer to yours if that’s even possible. “Tight fucking pussy all for me.” His hips retract until just the tip of his cock is sitting inside you, and it’s still a breath laboring pressing with that little bit of him inside you. He thrusts forward, plunging into your heat once more. “I guess this is better than that dumb game.”

He’s relentless, setting a brutal pace as he thrusts and withdraws his hips, relishing in the feeling of your tight pussy hugging his cock, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. “Isn’t this annoying baby?” Sweat begins to slick your forehead as you whine, at the mercy of each aggressive propelling of his hips forward. “Not being able to speak while I fuck the shit out of your little pussy.”

It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to even string words together to respond to him when his perfectly curved cock is drilling against your sweet spot. All you do in response is wrap your legs around his midsection, sinking your head into his neck as he continues pumping into your heat with reckless abandon.

“Oh, you like that shit,” he chuckles, feeling your walls fluttering around him at the same time his abs clench and his balls tighten. “Fuck baby, gonna come so deep in your little pussy, gonna fill her right up.” Another harsh thrust forward, making your head spin and stars form in the far off corners of your vision. “Fuck, fuck.”

You cry out, back arching up into his body and toes curling as your walls clamp down around his cock. At the same time he groans, rope after rope of his cum painting your insides white.

“Hah-fuck,” he pants. “I feel better now.”

#getou suguru x reader #suguru geto smut #geto smut #geto x reader #suguru x reader #suguru x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #geto x you #geto x y/n #geto suguru #suguru geto x reader #suguru smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader #ebs writes

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nexusnyx · 1 year

Text

oh, to be alone with you

Joel Miller x OC!Reader [8.9k] SUMMARY: Never in his wildest thoughts did Joel think he'd end up having a life, after all. His mind had sort of stopped at thirty-six, then geared back into reality, twenty years later when he gained a second chance. Now... this seemed like a third. Joel saw the feelings in your eyes, and he took a chance, hoping to be choosing right for everybody this time.

— A/n 📝This was a commission made by the lovely and (very patient) Grace, and I hope they enjoy the most out of everyone ;) Reblogs and comments make all the difference. — Warnings⚠️ mature content—explicit depictions of sex, so minors DNI. | 🏷️ age gap, slow burn, mentions of suicidal thoughts, angst, mutual pining, resolved sexual tension, insecure!Joel, protective!Reader, unprotected sex, dirty talking, soft!Dom!Joel, praising, edging, cum play, uhm. filth? lol. you're welcome.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤmasterlist | read on ao3

In the three years he knew you, Joel never heard you sound like this.

"Don't you ever say that again. Don't you ever talk that kind of bullshit in my presence, Joel."

There was bass to your voice when you threatened him. Fire in your cheeks. A glint so bright and wide washing in the shore of your eyes that it clicked for him. Joel realized what he'd been ignoring for the past three years — a time he spent dancing around the dark hunger he carved in his bones for you — he saw, for the first time as clear as water, that you meant those smiles. The sweetness. The honey stick way your hand touched his skin, sometimes, and the traces it left behind.

As you defended him from his own words, Joel saw he was not only old, but also goddamn stupid.

The first thing was set in stone. The second, on the other hand, he could try to change.

He meets her in Jacksonville, after fucking everything up with Ellie.

They had just arrived, both of them. Drenched in regret, numerous traumatizing events all muddled together, as that thick air of uncertainty surrounded their relationship. Joel thanked his brother and Maria for welcoming them back. Ellie spoke so little the first day that even Maria, someone who barely knew her, tried prying information out of her.

But it'd been quickly forgotten. One moment, Ellie and Joel were in a nameless hospital surrounded by fireflies, and a month later, they were settled into a nice house in the commune.

As if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

And there, in Jacksonville, there's you.

One of the only two doctors in town, the other being your very own old man.

All he remembered from the day he met you was your smile. Those beautiful cheeks painted cherry red, the wrinkles in the corner of your eyes, and how round and big they seemed to him as you said, "Hi. It's nice to meet you, Joel. 'm Grace."

You were. Joel had said something back. Ran away from there as soon as he could, but he played that smile every hour for the next three days before he caved in and came back to see you again.

Little did Joel know how much of a grace you'd become.

You were the only person who knew about Ellie.

Being the one who tattooed her on the second week after she arrived, Joel and Ellie decided together that at least one of the only two doctors should know about her condition, and so she told you.

Whatever Joel had expected from you, your reaction was as further from it as it could be. Nonchalance, and a sad grin. A placating nod as you told him, "you can wait here, I'll examine Ellie thoroughly and then we'll get started on the tattoo; I'll call you inside then, 'kay?"

All the compliments you offered towards the design — something Ellie drew herself — made you rise in her list of favorite people, speedily.

There was also openness. Ellie looked at you as you poked the needles in her skin with calculating eyes and Joel saw in them — if eyes could touch, she'd be reaching out for you. Hands spread open and fingers clutching around nothing. Ellie wanted to trust.

It was only a few more weeks before she confided in you and then walked up to her and Joel's place to confront him.

Demanding the truth.

The truth she knew he'd kept from her since she woke up in the car, probably.

"There was no cure."

Ellie stopped trusting him.

Joel died a little bit on the inside, but... she's alive.

He'd do it all over again.

You found him sitting on the edge of the lake with a guitar on his feet and his body frozen with dread, thinking about how hard Ellie had cried.

When you asked him, "Can I sit?", Joel thought it'd be another one of those times when you two sat close to one another in perfect silence. It happened a few times during movie nights or shared dinners in the commune's barn. Joel soaked up your presence, but that time, you had more. "You know... if one day you ever wanna hear my thoughts, professional thoughts on this whole 'cure' matter, I'd be happy to share them."

Joel had looked up at you, even though that hurt. So beautiful. "'m not sure I ever wanna think about it too hard."

You nodded. Scooted a little closer to him. "That's alright too. I just wanted to — put it out there. So you know I have thoughts about it. I told her that, too, but she gave me kinda the same reply."

"Did she?"

"Yeah, Joel. She did." No one did a sad grin quite like you. The way it reached through your eyes and touched him. "You two are so... similar."

"But we ain't." Joel knew they were different. He knew what Ellie would've chosen. "I think... I wished too hard we were."

The laughter was unexpected. "Joel."

"Yeah?"

"You do realize I know what you did, right?"

If a pin dropped a thousand miles away, at that moment, Joel would hear. With a deaf right ear or not, he would. I know what you did. Was that possible? How would you know and still have been this kind to him these weeks? Still have chosen to sit by his side, to make Tommy bug him about getting his check-ups, to be sitting next to him?

You nodded at his gawking eyes and jaw-slacked mouth. "Yeah. I'm quite good at putting two and two together."

"I... Grace — what I did—" he saw flashes of it. The white noise still echoed in him. "There's no way to know that and still be able to look me in the eye. It's why she hates me now. I — I was selfish. I took away her purpose just because I'm an old fucker who didn't wanna—"

"I would've done the same." It stopped him. The words clamped his mouth shut. "I don't have any children, but I love the only parent I have, and I would've done the same for him. He would do the exact same thing for me. Don't think he wouldn't. I know he looks like the sweetest old man ever, but he'd rip apart an entire hospital to get to me too. Go ask him if you don't believe me — but believe this: If I had a child, I wouldn't let them make this 'grand sacrifice', not even if I thought it'd work. Which is not the case here."

Joel had nothing to say to all of that.

He swallowed the knot tying his vocal cords together and looked ahead, trying to process the perspective from which you saw the situation.

Sitting in silence with you brought him peace, and that day, it deterred him from the plan that was coming together — the seed of maybe if you poisoned yourself slowly over the years you could finish the job this time.

Joel asked for your father's location in the commune, then walked with you when the sun set to eat dinner.

Ellie still hated him, and she probably would continue to for a long time, but Joel no longer felt like an anchor sinking to the bottom of the ocean with no end in sight for his fall.

I would've done the same. The words pulled him back. Made him see blue once more.

Validation saved his life. Your approval became a pillar.

He'd continue to seek it for the next years to come.

The Earth finished a whole new cycle around the Sun, and Joel started to build a life again in the meantime.

He worked patrols and went back to carpentry.

He befriended your father, who loved calling him to have dinner or smoke a pipe with him on his porch. Your father was a sweet-looking man who hid very crazy, funny, and dark bits inside of him.

"I see where she gets it from," Joel commented.

It pulled boisterous laughter from him. "Yeah, she's a feisty one."

Joel snorted. It came out in smokes. "Feisty? Ellie's feisty. I was on patrol last month when the raiders tried transpassing. I've seen your daughter use a scalpel in ways I still have fuckin' nightmares about."

More laughter was followed by, "I taught her well."

"You sure fuckin' did." Joel laughed too. Not because it was funny, but because the memory kind of terrified him. Thrilled him. He shook his head and gave the pipe back. "Was she always like that?"

"Was Ellie always like this?"

Joel chuckled. "Fair enough." Even though Ellie was now a teenager, and Joel had only known her for two years, he answered. "I think she has, yeah. A lil' badass. A lil' feisty and weird. And funny."

"God — she is funny."

"I didn't think so at first."

"She needed to work on her delivery," your father laughed like there was no tomorrow. No apocalypse. "I like seeing her and Grace together. I think she's waking up that motherly desire in her, ya know? I always wanted to see her be a mom before I give my big adios."

"If she hears ya she's gonna smack you again."

"Eh! She's always hitting folks. Her violent little heart can't stop anyone from reaching the pearly gates."

"Morice, I've heard enough stories to know you ain't seeing any pearls."

There had been silence, and then unstoppable, loud laughter from both of them.

It was the memory Joel thought about the most after he passed away.

When you came to his house with a whiskey bottle in hand and the angriest look Joel had ever seen on your stunning features, he knew without a word being said.

He sat with you in silence as you had done for him so many other times. You cried, chopped wood until your clothes were soaked in sweat, and drank with Joel until the bottle was empty.

It had been the first time you asked for something more.

When you caved into the tears late at night, Joel saw you pacing from left to right and had no clue what to do, what to offer, but you spared him of choosing. "Can I — can you hug me?"

He complied in the same second.

The request was quieter than the wind, but he could pick out your voice from a crowd.

Joel wrapped his arms around you and held you tight.

That opened up new doors — pearly gates. A year of small touches on the forearm and close proximity at every given opportunity made Joel aware of how much he craved your presence. Those little flames were nothing compared to this—a hug, and Joel's mind and body were a forest on fire.

You clung to him, rubbed your face on his chest, and refused to let go. You accepted every caress in your hair, and almost fell asleep on his shoulder.

After the hug, any excuse was a good one.

You touched him every time you saw him — even if just a little nudge on the shoulder or a finger brushing the back of his hand.

Joel started leaving tobacco and herbs on top of Morice's resting place, and continued their conversations even if he never heard the replies.

"I'll take care of 'er. Be by her side, y'know? I know she doesn't need it, but... You and her were the reason I found some happiness in here, so... It's only fair."

Somewhere along the way, you'd convinced Joel to play on Tommy's barbecues which happened every month for some of his friends.

Music connected weird parts of him together.

The strings of his guitar were one of the only guarantees he had of making Ellie smile, for starters. When she asked for the lessons a while after stopping all communication with Joel, he had simply nodded a meek, "Yeah," too stunned to add anything else; too grateful to even dare think about it.

Your request came the very first time Joel attended one of the famous Millers Sunday, and it was the reason why Joel went from feeling like a stranger in a strange town to himself again.

Tommy clapped him on the back. You, and your smile from across the yard with the fireplace burning in between, and Joel felt almost like a person.

So he sang. Played the strings even if his joints ached around the edges, played until they no longer did and his body grew used to the motions again, played every month to come just to see the smile creep on your face and you mouthing along the lines of the songs you knew.

One day, he asked why didn't you join Ellie's lessons.

"She's gettin' real good at it." He was proud of it. Joel almost preened talking of it, matter-of-factly, missing the way your eyes softened. "You like music. You like it and miss it, which not many people do. I don't even know why I ain't never thought of it — 'm sorry about that, darlin'. Were you ever interested? In learning?"

With his eyes back on you, Joel swallowed a little thickly at how gentle your smile looked. "Joel — have you ever seen me on The Porch's dance floor? Do I look like I have any rhythm?"

"Sure you do."

Your laughter. "No, I don't!" You slapped his arm, hiding your laughter in your arms afterward, and Joel was used to it. Being hit, being poked, being used as a pillow. "Stop lying to me."

"I ain't lyin'." He was. It made him smile to see you laugh that hard.

"You're full of shit, that's what you are."

"Is that your medical diagnosis?"

The giggles that were subduing came back, and Joel knew the second glass of wine had caught up to your head. "You've been spending too much time with Miss Williams."

That made him laugh. Joel did so with his head thrown back because not even three days ago he had a screaming 16-year-old screaming at him about 'manipulation of the goddamn perspective' and if that wasn't your lingo through and through. "That's rich! Oh, that's rich as fuck comin' from you."

"How so?!"

"I reckon Ellie Missy Williams's been doin' just fine with your tutoring. Don't think I've missed you and her gigglin' in the room every now and then."

You roll your eyes, smiling so wide that your tinted cheeks look carved into stone. "Fine. I'm a terrible influence. Her attitude got nothing to do with her grumpy ass 'father-figure' who taught her how to be a goddamn menace to society."

"I can hear the air quotes even when you don't them with your finger, darlin'," Joel accused, trying to suppress his smile and school his face into a threatening, menacing look.

He's hit with the memory of when you first mocked him for it.

"Don't call me her father. I ain't her father."

"Good fucking gods, you two are so difficult! Fine. As her "father figure", you need to say something. Is that better, Joel? Did the semantics change help you?"

Now, you have the same side smirk.

"You didn't say I was wrong." Your voice dropped to a whisper.

It pulled his body closer. Like gravity was in your sound waves. "I didn't."

You rested your chin on your hand. "So... we're both a bad influence."

"Seems that way," he found himself whispering too. Joel kept his eyes on your cheeks. On your lashes and your eyes, even if they pierced through him.

"Considering she's in perfect health, handles herself just fine, and is trying her best to keep the good people of this town safe... I think that's not a bad job. The whole picture, y'know?"

Joel nods and his lips tug in a smile — not because of your sweet spoken words, but because it's funny to see it. Your mind switching to seriousness so fast.

"I do love music, though," you pout, looking up at him. He recalls how the bickering started this time around, and chuckles at your late confession. "I like watching you guys better than any idea of me playing. Or singing." With a full-body shudder, you add. "That is not where my talents lie."

"Could be," he insisted, just for the sake of that—

—your smile. "Not even you have that patience, Miller."

Miller. He had to look away every time you spoke it that way. "You're right. The brat burned away the last savings I had of that."

He heard you chuckling, and then he felt it. The nuzzling of your nose on his shoulder. "Nah. You were trying to sweet talk her just last week."

"She needs a new horse," he argued with thin air over the memory you bring up. He also scoots closer to the couch so you can rest your head on him when you're done with your cat-like behavior and end up with your whole face pressed on his shoulders, your breath tingling his neck. "And you could help me with convincing her, couldn't ya?"

"I'm not gonna meddle in your Miller-Williams business," you scoffed as if the mere thought was ridiculous.

As if these two years and a half hadn't been about you and him and her and everything orbiting around that.

Joel scoffed back. "Darlin', if you think you ain't mingled in our business, I'm gonna have to be the bearer of bad news here..."

"More tangled."

"It's just a horse, Grace."

"She lost her first pet, a horse, in a traumatic even, Joel."

Fuck him, he loved doing this with you. He sipped the last remnants of alcohol from his glass hoping it'd dull the smell of your hair invading his senses. Or maybe he liked when it amplified it. Who knew. Who gave a fuck. "Fine."

"Fine."

"She can keep usin' the stables' horses every time we gotta go out." Joel was never above playing dirty. Certainly not with you. "The ones Rick tames. The ones that sense how volatile, strong, angry she can be..."

The way you tensed was twice more obvious with your whole body pressed on his side. "God, I fucking hate you sometimes."

Joel laughed at the empty curse. "'m just sayin'."

"You know exactly what you're doing."

"Do I?"

"You do and it's annoying and fine." You sighed deeply. "I'll get into yet another awkward, intense conversation with the volatile teenager about the importance of facing traumas. It'll go great."

"Better you who knows what the fuck you're talkin' about than me."

"She just stopped giving me the cold shoulder." It's a whine. You're whining at Joel about his daughter who still lives in a constant fluctuation between loveshatesloveshates with him was giving you the cold shoulder.

"It takes her two weeks to get over her lil' fights with you."

"Hmm." It was nice when you gave in. There were few times Joel could get through your stubbornness — something you and Ellie had engraved in your souls — and it felt like a win every time. "I'll talk to her."

Joel's hand moved on its own accord. From his lap to your hair, resting slowly on your head.

He squeezed a few times, and felt you nudging towards the touch. Leaning into it.

"Thanks, darlin'."

There was a heartbeat before you answered.

"'Course, Joel."

While the looks were easy to ignore, the whispers were not.

Words carried by the wind clung to his skin like the very smell of sweat after some years of running non-stop.

They spoke about him.

About Ellie.

You.

All three, mushed together, sometimes all in one go, sometimes two by two, but always you three.

Joel knew what they thought of him and you — of your time spent together.

They thought of him as inappropriate. You had always been the 'dark sheep' of the commune. The reason why people sometimes still remembered how grim and ugly it was out there. They spoke of you as ruthless, frowned upon your methods, but Joel smell their bullshit and saw beyond their condescension.

It was easy to speak with their bellies full.

With their houses safe. God, it boiled his blood to even think about it — these people sometimes slept with their doors opened because the security around the wooden gates was so great and efficient, but failed to remember or willingly forgot that all triage was created by your now deceased father and you.

It was your 'ruthless methods' that kept the creeps away.

Who screened people who seemed otherwise harmless but sought to do sordid, unspeakable things inside safe havens they'd have no problem burning to the ground.

Sure, he'd cleaned his way through a hospital to stop the murder of one single child, but at least Joel had a head on his shoulders.

Some people out there lacked even that.

As much as he wished for judgment to come only from the strangers he grew to know as neighbors and comrades — something you, personally, loved teasing him and Tommy of being — but of close people.

Maria, he could handle it. It was when Tommy spoke up that it stung.

"Don't you think it's... weird? Hangin' out with her so much? I mean—I heard from Dieter that he wanted to ask her out, but somehow when he goes to ask she's always talkin' to you." Tommy looked like he meant well with it. Those eyes never lied to him, and Joel saw the concern there. "I just don't want you to feel left out or abandoned in case she does start seein' someone, that's all."

That's all.

As if he hadn't opened a dent in Joel's mind.

A 'in case she does start seein' someone' sized dent.

It was the only time Joel gave a damn about words being spoken of him—or to him, he should say, considering it was meant as advice.

It was the first and last time.

In three years Joel never thought of you or anything he felt as inappropriate. Maybe he even should.

There were certainly dreams.

Desire was there, too. Alive and burning. Tall and solid, with the fires high enough for it to be a volcano.

But he swallowed it down.

He knew you were not for him.

He knew you were too bright. Knew he had nothing to offer but his company, some music every now and then, and everything inside of him, if you asked.

Still—he never did anything.

Even in the times when it felt like the bickering and teasing might be called flirting. In the times when you bit your lip after staring at him a heartbeat or two too long, or when you made his chest, shoulders, his neck your personal comforter, making yourself at home.

He bit his tongue during those times.

Told himself there was such a thing as projecting, and that just because you knew him, knew all of him, it didn't mean your kindness and acceptance equaled all that he felt for you.

All of the fuckin' ocean of things he so painfully, obviously felt for you.

Listening to Tommy worked until it didn't.

Until you showed up at his doorstep late at night, pissed off and fuming.

"Where the fuck were you?" Without even waiting for a reply, you stepped inside the house, pushing past him. "And speaking of being places, where have you been? 'Cause blowing me off only works the first four or five times. I know where you live, and in case it wasn't crystal clear to you, I know when you're lying to me."

So you pretended to believe his shitty lies. Joel closed the door with a sigh and wondered if Ellie was already listening from upstairs.

He imagined telling you to lower your voice was a certain ticket to meeting your father earlier than his due time.

"I'm sorry."

"That doesn't answer where you've been." Your arms crossed over your chest. "Y'know, it's called Miller Sunday and ever since you moved here, that means two for one. Tell me why I endured Maria's friends the whole fucking night, hm?"

"Uh — 'cause they like you?"

"Joel."

"I know, I know." He chuckled under his breath, raising both hands up in surrender. "My bad." He nodded towards the kitchen trying to work out how to knit an excuse on the spot, and then remembered—I know when you're lying to me. "I've been... stuck in my head."

There was a pause. "Oh. Ew." That made him laugh again. "Well, alright. That happens sometimes. Care to share why you're acting as if isolation's gonna help with that?"

"Damn, I don't know, woman. 'Cause I'm old and stupid? 'Cause I listen to Tommy every now and then even though that's a shitty idea sometimes?"

"Don't call yourself stupid in my presence, it's fucking offensive." The damn heat behind your words almost made him work up a sweat. "What does Tommy have to do with this?"

"Nothin'." Joel hid his face while opening the fridge, but he knew your silence well. He picked up the water jug, and placed it on the counter behind him.

"Miller, look at me."

Goddamn it.

He turned around slowly.

You were looking right through him. Searching all over his face for something you found within two seconds.

Then, you stepped closer until you were only a few inches away, looking up at him with enough certainty in your gaze to make him feel smaller despite the inches he had on you.

"I know damn well who I wanna spend my fucking time with." It was like a caress to the face. Joel felt it like your fingertips, which had traced the lines in his eyes and face until he fell asleep a few times by now. "Never insult me again by thinking you, or Tommy, or anyone for that matter can know that better than me."

An adult. Who knows who she is. Who's walked her path.

It went unsaid.

Joel nodded along since there was nothing to do but agree.

"If you don't wanna spend time with me for you own reasons, then... so be it. Tell me about them, or don't, but—never do this again. Your brother's known me for a little longer than you, but he doesn't know me as well as you do. I expected this from Tommy."

But not from him.

"It ain't gonna happen again." Joel said it and you both could hear how he meant it.

Slowly, a smile crept on your face. "Good."

"You're smiling?" he asked, dumbfounded.

The smile widened. "I'm... a little happy right now."

"Because... I ain't gonna be a stu—sorry, a silly little old man any more?"

There was a giggle you tried suppressing and failed at. "No."

"'Cause you're gonna use this against me for the next fortnight to get me to do whatever you want even though I'm nearly a sixty-year-old man?"

A roll of your eyes put a smile on his face as well. "You're more in shape at sixty than a lot of our twenty-year-olds here and that act doesn't work with me, darling. No—I'm happy 'cause I'm surprised. It works on you too."

"What works on me?"

"My mean glance." The answer took him by surprise, and yet, all you seemed was even more gleeful at his wide-eyed expression. "Didn't know I could scare Joel Miller."

"You're gigglin' 'cause you just found out I'm scared of ya?"

"Exactly."

"Darlin' I thought you saw me as a smart one. Who in their right mind ain't scared of you?"

"Damn right." You slapped his shoulder, and it seemed to ease some of the tension he carried these days he tried creating distance between you both. "Now — since we established the rights and wrongs. You wanna hear all the gossip about today?"

Joel had picked up the jug of water, but he could switch to the cans of beer.

"Lay it on me."

The thing is — never in his wildest thoughts did Joel think he'd end up having a life, after all.

Who was he to be one of the few lucky bastards who got one at the end of everything? What had he done to ever dare dream he deserved it?

Peace, a good life, building things again... that was reserved for the good ones.

Joel was not one of the good ones.

His mind had sort of stopped at thirty-six, then geared back into reality, twenty years later when he gained a second chance.

All the things he did in between those instances counted for a whole lot.

It's why he ignored it until he couldn't anymore.

That was why Joel saw only his own feelings screaming and reaching so loud, grasping like grabby fingers towards you, and blinded himself to the way all those gazes you sent back were you giving him a white flag.

Joel saw what he had the heart and mind to handle at the moment, he liked to think.

Now... this seemed like a third.

This seemed like a confession.

And it all had happened so fast.

One minute, Joel was saying goodnight to Ellie. She was leaving to go to her friend Dina's house, and you were there with your glass of wine in hand while your other browsed through the new books he picked up at the library lying on his shelves.

He had been talking about Martha — to him, it was a funny story he wanted to get out of his system since it happened, and the one and only person he wanted to tell it to was you.

He was even laughing as he started it, but his rhythm faltered when he first caught the look on your face. It made him lose his train of thought. It fucking blindsided him.

Was it jealousy?

He stuttered. It was ridiculous to him — talking about the nice woman who worked at the restaurant who flustered herself trying to talk to Joel. Flirt with him.

He'd never seen that look on your face.

Could it be—no. It had to be something else. "...told her that she isn't actually, uhm... biological. What's wrong? Did I say something wrong? Was I shit-talking myself again and didn't notice?"

If there was a thing that put a frown on your face, it was when he did that.

"No." Joel became alert out of nowhere because this tone was absent from his mental register of all your different voice tones.

"Oh. I thought I did." He laughed, albeit awkwardly. "I just—I thought it was funny, that's all. Didn't even think it was possible for someone to blush still 'cause of old me. It was funny, couldn't believe why she was so flustered.

"Why not? That wasn't the reason for my face but now it fucking is." How could Joel ever demand that Ellie cursed less when this was his household? He pinned that one for later. "You're a handsome guy. Intimidating. Don't laugh at her because you give off those... vibes."

Handsome? Intimidating? Joel's mind started reeling, and so he laughed. "Vibes? What fuckin' vibes? I'm old, Grace. What does she got to be intimidated about other than the side of me she doesn't even fuckin' know?"

"I don't know!" your voice rose to match his own, and that's when Joel noticed how his pitch rose as he argued with you. Bickering or fighting, you two could end up at each other's throats within a second, and then be hugging in the next. "Maybe because she sees you from an outsider's lens? Maybe she sees what you can't since you're so busy always thinking about everything you do wrong and lose the ability to look past that?"

"All I do is get shit wrong! You better than anyone knows that." God, was he happy Ellie had left. Joel sighed, rubbed his palms all over his face and tried breathing deep to steady his voice. "I've got nothin' to offer anyone and I don't even know how we got here from a funny lil' story I was—"

That's when it happens.

You interrupt him.

Deadly, direct, and loud, you cut over his words.

"Don't you ever say that again. Don't you ever talk that kind of bullshit in my presence, Joel."

"Why not?! It's the truth."

"No, it fucking isn't! It's the cruel part of you that judges you based only on the wrongdoing and paints it as your whole personality and I'm not gonna fucking have it! It's not the truth. It's not! Not to me." When you stopped, the whole house seemed to follow suit and quiet down with you. Then—"You don't accept me seeing only the worst in me. Why would I let you do the same? I won't."

There was bass to your voice when you threatened him.

Fire in your cheeks. A glint so bright and wide washing in the shore of your eyes that it clicked for him.

Joel realized what he'd been ignoring for the past three years — a time he spent dancing around the dark hunger he carved in his bones for you — he saw, for the first time as clear as water, that you meant those smiles. The sweetness. The honey stick way your hand touched his skin, sometimes, and the traces it left behind.

It silenced him immediately.

As you defended him from his own words, Joel saw he was not only old, but also goddamn stupid.

The silence must have stretched for too long because as it becomes a physical blanket draping over both of your shoulders, your posture changes.

Becomes erratic.

Looking from side to side, you sigh. "Y'know what? I should go. We're both hot-headed idiots and I don't wanna—"

"Sit down."

For the first time ever, you obeyed him.

It took you a second—you froze at the command but stopped your movements to remove your jacket from the chair's back and sat back down in slow movements, your eyes lingering on his all the time.

Was it real?

"Gimme a second here." Joel needed more than that. Goddamn it—Joel would need the rest of his life to accommodate to this feeling. Thing bubble of pure, raw energy swirling inside of him and growing each second, all because— "You were."

You were jealous. Of him.

Your eyes never looked so vulnerable. So earnest, and terrified. "Of course I was." It comes out like you silly old man.

Joel tries to work his vocal cords. They might've been knitted together. "Why?"

Instead of raging over him again, this time, your gaze sees the real question he's asking.

Joel never believed in an air you could touch until he stood in this very room.

He can taste the back of his tongue. He sees your frown softening, disappearing.

"Because you care, Joel." The simpler answer. He waits, because he sees in your steady, careful breathing that there's more you want to say. This tone he recognizes. This is 'I'm collecting myself bit by bit' Grace, and he waits, as always. "Because... you either lost your eyesight or just blinded yourself to... you." It's nighttime and the only light in the kitchen comes from his yellowish bulb, but it's enough to see the tint on your cheeks. "Because you're—this package. Of everything real. Everything resilient, and clever, and... Miller. Fuckin' — southern charm. Stupid fuckin' smile."

It amps. It darkens. Your cheeks, your eyes. And once you seem, it seems a crack is opened in your dam, and the inevitable water comes to fall.

"I dreamt about it before." Joel is stuck in place, listening to you. "Your smile. The way you laugh, too. And — you do this thing, where you're a complete delight to people you care about. That's what Ellie means when she says you make it so hard to stay away from you, just so you know."

"You two talk about me?" it comes out choked.

You nod. "'Course we fuckin' do."

"Goddamn it."

"Yeah." Your laughter sounds as breathless as he feels. "Because of that. And more."

He nods back, thinking — okay.

Okay.

Joel might take a lifetime to feel worthy of your feelings, but if he has them — "I didn't think I stood any chance."

The confession lays on the table for a moment and when you pick it up, Joel can see it — your eyes widen, surprise evident on your face.

"You really didn't know," you whisper.

He blinks away the sudden sting and glint in his eyes, laughing at himself. "I really didn't know." He registers you knew about your own feelings, but you have no idea of his. It registers that you both have been suffering in silence, overshadowed by the brightness of your own feelings to see beyond them. "I don't think I could've handled it if I knew it before," he confesses.

"Wow." You sigh deeply, sucking all the air you can into your lungs. "I can't believe I owe that little shit fifty bucks. I don't even have money."

"You bet on this?"

The look you throw him is enough of an answer.

Then, another question pops up — and yeah. That's why the air is palpable. It's like walking through a spider's nest.

The threads might be thinner than hair, but the feeling sticks out. It sticks with you. If Joel's had a chance all this time, if all your feelings were kept safely tucked i

He only has one question to make. "Is it too late?"

Your eyes snap back to him. "Too late for what?"

"To make a move." Joel might've been an idiot, but he's keen on fixing it. "Because — in case it wasn't clear, my thoughts are all yours." From the look on your face, it was not something you knew. The glint in your eyes tells him it might be something you hoped for or dreamed about, but it's his words that set it into stone. "My time's yours. I ain't as good as you with words, but... all I ever wanna be is alone with you. You said it yourself last month. 'm the happiest when I'm with you and El. Now... you know why."

For someone who knew him so little, you always seemed to know what kept Joel tethered to the moment.

As you listened to his words, your eyes shined, reflecting the light. Joel wanted to say more things, but he decided to keep them for later. A moment when there was less of his soul seeming to pour out through his pores.

You get up from your chair, and in two steps, you're standing in front of him.

Turning sideways, you sit on his lap.

Joel feels his hands shake as they come to rest on your hips, and yours come up to his face.

There's nothing left for you to say, or ask. Joel closes his eyes in surrender. Opening his mouth was a leap — perhaps the height was what created that bubble; that huge thing inside of him that only expanded the closer you got.

Joel never felt this before.

He knew those were your lips pressing against his. Knew it was your hair tickling his face and your fingers threading through his thick hair, but he felt submerged.

Not drowning — just deep, way deep in water.

You pulled back after a second. The kiss was so soft, and yet, Joel felt you like an ocean wave.

He opened his eyes to the sight of you licking your lips, and that snapped him; something in your tongue reached deep within him, going further than he thought possible, and ignited another something in him.

Desire.

Not the need for release, or momentary rushes, but—

the real deal.

One of Joel's hands came up abruptly, taking hold of your neck, and he breathed in a slow breath before closing the gap between your lips again.

This time, he invited himself in.

Joel licked your lips open. He pulled you closer until you were pressed against his chest, and kissed you for all the years he lacked the will to kiss someone.

It was a feast.

The more he gave, the more you took. The sounds that started to come out of you only made Joel hungrier, and the more he heard it, the more he craved it.

He could already see the cycle of addiction forming in his brain.

Your tongue swirled with his slowly, in a lazy, filthy kiss. With his hands making a mess of your hair or grabbing you by the neck and chin, he guided your face to where he wanted.

When a particular breathy whine was pulled out of you, Joel's fingers tightened around you. The kiss became desperate, needy, a pouring of bottled emotions.

A joined deep dive, where no oxygen was needed.

Fuck—Joel needed to breathe. He pulled back because his lungs screamed that at him, and he laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that. His heart was beating as fast as it could, and his ears were ringing, he thought, and you were resting your forehead on his with your puffs of breath tickling his face.

He could feel you smiling with how close you stayed to his lips.

Joel really was alive, no matter how hard he fought it.

And now, somehow, he was here.

"What?" you whispered. Breathless.

That, he wanted to answer. Joel panted, and noticed you were breathing heavily too.

"'m never been in such a hurry my whole damn life." Joel pulled you back by the nape for one more kiss just to show you he meant it, and you moaned on his lips.

It occurred to him that might die by your hands, metaphorical or not.

You were in him.

"You." His time was yours, and so were his thoughts, and now, Joel thought he was, too. In a way. "Sittin' here on my lap, like it's nothin'."

"It's everything."

"Goddamn it, woman—"are you trying to kill me, he wants to say.

It gets buried in your lips.

Joel wants to devour you right there on the table. It's a place for eating, and he'd butter you up only to eat you piece by piece until half of his face was drenched.

At the same time, Joel's hands were shaking.

He kissed you so deep, and yet so slow because he wants this forever.

He couldn't keep everything inside him. Joel knew all he could do for now was kiss you because anything more might pull him apart by the seams.

When you start kissing his neck, his eyes snap open, and he forces himself to capture your attention. "Darlin'." It comes out raspy and low, pulling another precious sound from you. Joel exhales shakily. "Grace, hey."

That gets you. Your face comes back in his field of vision, and he's distracted by the reality facing him.

Red cheeks and lips, which are also puffy. Swollen.

He did that.

The glazy glint in your eyes and the wildness of your hair.

He did that, too.

"What?" you ask. Breathless voice — all him.

It hits him right there—the new stream making connections in the depths of his mind. Mine. A river of mineminemine.

"I hate to break this short, but — El's comin' back soon, I think."

"Oh!" You nod to yourself. "Right. And — you wanna wait? To tell her, and stuff?"

Joel laughs. He leans his head to kiss those pretty, puffy lips. He murmurs the answer right against them. "Nah. 'm gossiping to her as soon as she's through that door and 'm gettin' my money share of that bet you mentioned." Your gasp makes the smile stay on his face. "Yeahhh. But — I'm takin' you on a date tomorrow. Old school style. I'll plan it and everythin'. I know you well enough to not mess this up, I think."

He's messed up enough in his life. Maybe the universe could grant him after trying so damn hard to repair all the things he'd broken; a chance.

"I'll be ready, Miller."

He kisses you again. "Good. I'll pick you up at sundow."

"Is this you kicking me out of your house?"

He rolls his eyes at the sarcastic question and kisses the cocky grin off your face because he now can. He kisses it away real good, until his own toes are squirming in his boots and Joel can categorize the strength you like to have your hair being pulled by, how much you enjoy the nibbles he's unable to keep from stealing of your lips, and he's mapped the outlines of your upper body.

When he needs the stupid oxygen again, Joel pulls back but stays close.

"You're gonna help me make dinner?" he asks, low and sweet.

You hum. "Yeah."

"Thank you." Thank you, he kisses the thought on your lips. Thank you so much. "'m gonna be doin' this a lot now that I know I can."

"Oh, you're gonna kill me."

Joel's smirk comes back. "Y'know what? I was thinkin' the same thing."

Dinner is made with music playing on the radio for the first time in a while. Joel almost pinches himself when Ellie gets home with a, "Woah, what the fuck?! It smells amazing in here."

It hurts, how good it feels.

Joel never thought that feeling would come back.

According to Ellie Williams, Joel becomes "unbearable, really," and he would take offense to it had she not followed it with, "but... it's nice to see this side of you. And — I like her. I love Grace, actually. You know that. She's given me a lot to think about. Plus—she makes you reeeeal talkative, and we had a nice talk last night. Good on you."

Good on you.

Joel smiles for the rest of the day.

Tommy takes a total of one day and one scolding from you — which Joel fucking misses because of a shift of all things, and honestly, he'll never stop asking for your story of that day — and there's that.

Millers Sunday has a couple of tense first tries, but after a couple of months, people get used to the shift.

It's not that different from before.

You two were already seen side by side more often than not. Now, the difference was that Joel's arm could be found around your chair sometimes, or your hand rested on his neck, or you two shared a little wink.

A little flirtatious remark.

Ellie 'hated' it. "It's gross. You two are gross."

She said it laughing, though. Joel smiled every time he heard it.

They grew used to it, and Joel thanked the power of the peace you brought him, because anything they disliked about it became white noise to him.

All his insecurities were abandoned on the first date night he has with you.

Joel gets the house all for himself.

He plans the hours carefully because he meant what he said. He picks you up at sunset and takes you for a walk on the lake to enjoy the night sight and weather while it lasts. After, he takes you home to eat dinner, then pulls out one of your favorite board games to entertain the night and give both the time to work through the wine.

He liked to see your glee winning.

Joel was shitty at most of these, but it was worth the frustration of being a sore loser in your hands.

You soothed his bickering protests by crawling to him.

Not sliding, or scooting over — you crawled like a cat, and stole all his focus in one movement.

Joel did to you what he meant to do on that table.

First, right there on the floor.

Even though he wished you two went to the bedroom, it was impossible to untangle from under you when you kissed him until you two were panting for each other again. All that energy sizzling in your veins, pumping with dreams and wine, and Joel just thought fuck it.

There was a fluffy carpet and the duvet he'd spread so you two could sit with the game and play comfortably, and that's all he needed.

He had you on your back with your legs wrapped around his neck, lying with his stomach on the floor. Kneading the pad of his thumbs on the inside of your legs. Kissing all the parts of you he imagined. Joel stripped you from your clothes, and kept his eyes fixed on you as he searched for the right ways to unwind you.

He opened you up with his tongue, slowly, and deliberately.

Nothing was enough when it came to you.

Joel accepted right there — legs locked on his shoulders and your feet digging heels in his back —, right then — his tongue thrusting in and out of you until his jaw ached —, that he was fine knowing it'd be an endless search.

Seeking his fill of you.

He eats up the way your lips loosen when his hands are on you. "Joel, why d'you have clothes on? Take 'em off, take it off." He appreciated how you lost your eloquence. How eager you were for him.

"It's ok, 'm here, darlin."

"I know, want it closer." He loved how you took it. What you wanted from him, you just took it, and he prayed it would always be that way. "Want you in me," you whisper on his lips.

That's when he finds the strength to get up. He picks you up and resists the urge to throw you over his shoulder, taking you to the bedroom with all of his clothes still on and yours abandoned in various places of the living room.

Time sort of... folds, with you and a bedroom.

Joel finds that out on night one, and it keeps on being true.

The way all your walls are down there drives him towards insanity, and later, you peppering kisses all over the skin closest to you, the skin your mouth can find, it brings him back.

Joel gets undressed slowly. "Get on the bed." He falters a little when you obey him again, and it clicks for him. Joel exhales, throwing his shirt off somewhere. "Touch yourself while I do this."

Your eyes widen for a second, but again...

You smile first. Then, slowly, your knees pull apart and your hand reaches between your legs, where your pussy opens up in a glistening sight, and Joel has only the mind to finish his task.

It's hard not to worship something that makes his mouth water.

He does that until you're shaking, legs trembling on his shoulders and begging for him to come up—"get here, please."

It's the 'please' that gets him.

Joel goes in seek of more of them. Always more of them.

He discovers you like it when he alternates between extremes. Really slow, or a hard, or a fast, or a deep pace. Joel spends as long as he can take testing all the ways you wrapped around him can feel like and all the angles that make your jaw fall slack open.

Something about fucking you face to face, though — Joel gets to see the scrunch of your nose and your eyes rolling back when he praises you for doing so, so well. "Taking me so well. Look at that — look at it, baby, c'mon." The loud and unabashed moan you let out makes him roll his eyes, thrusting deep into you. "Keep on looking."

"Joel."

"Hmhm. What — is it — hm, baby?"

"'m gonna cum again," you whine, getting louder, and he gets more desperate. "Oh, god," you cry out.

"'s fine. That's what — I want. Give it to me"

"It's so good. Please—harder, Joel. Like you want to fuck me."

You enjoy doing it to him, Joel thinks. Breaking him so you can put it back together, or maybe it's just how you make him whine that gets to your head.

It gets louder — everything gets louder. The sounds, the bubble of feelings reading to burst and be reborn again, only bigger, how fucking wet you get for me.

"C'mon, darlin'. Wanna feel you soakin' me with your cum."

Joel sees why you enjoy it, too.

He smiles, and ascends at seeing the sweet feelings of release washing you from head to toe, and the transcendent look in your eyes when you open them and pull him down for a kiss. You came so hard he lost himself in your orgasm, mixing with his own and he cums a little more at the realization, burying himself deeper in the mess you two have made.

Your whining and panting in can only be felt, so he switches your face to his left side. "Deaf, baby."

You giggle at him. "I didn't say anything."

"I know. Just wanna hear your lil' noises." Joel kisses your neck, and pulls out slowly despite your whiny protests. His fingers come down to between your legs and he should feel self-conscious about the filthy mess he makes there, but when he looks up at your face you're watching him with a look he knows.

I'm starving for you.

Joel seals his lips on yours.

He's never leaving this place. This home he's built where he gets you, and a second chance, and the monthly Sundays with music and you by his side whispering indecent jokes in his ears, and the protective circle you create around him and Ellie ate any minor possibility of outsiders.

Joel's not missing this chance for anything.

🏷 @sakuralikestars — @mostardentily — @thegreat-annamaria — @leiticia — @polyglot-noodle — @casssiopeia — @levylovegood — @simply-sams-things — @lavenderhhze — @gracie7209 — @waywardwolfbonklight — @shadytalething — @yesimwriting — @celestialstar111 — @averysblog — @pedrostories — @fleursirvart — @sirtommyholland — @capbrie — @hawsx3 — @superflymaterial — @ashleyforeverareject — @girlofchaos — @queerponcho — @am-3-thyst — @nyotamalfoy — @my-tearsricochet — @ponyboys-sunsets — @peqchsoup hope you all enjoy it!

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bruciemilf · 1 year

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I headcanon that Bruce, specifically Battinson, cries real easily.

Not only when he's sad; It's actually then when he doesn't cry at all. He cries when he's angry, when he's overstimulated, when he's dissapointed, when scolded and feels like he just let someone down.

Everyone in his life, friends, enemies, and something grey, know this about him. It never bleeds into the Batman, thought.

But it's a well known, universal fact, that every Gothamite knows as divine truth: Bruce Wayne is a crybaby.

Naturally, He cries when happy and proud, too.

Dick learns that when he's 10, and brings back a huge canvas he borrowed (stole) from art class.

The assignment was to illustrate what made them happy. He picked Bruce.

Imagine his surprise when his foster father bursts into tears, gives him a big wet kiss on the cheek, and dashes to his cave, " DON'T LOOK AT ME!"

"...Does he do that a lot?"

Alfred, who didn't even bat an eye, " Only all the time."

Jason learns that when he's 12, holding his favorite copy of Pride and Prejudice, which is DOG EARED. This is a hardback cover, damn it!

" B! How could you! Don't you know better? Are you gonna paint over the Mona Lisa, too?!Seriously,--"

Abruptly, he stops at the first drops of water. Bruce is avoiding his eyes, broad shoulders slouched down, hands fidgeting by his sides. Expression pinched and pained. "...Forgive me."

"Okay," Why does HIS voice sound wrecked and brittle? " I'm gonna go in the time-out corner. And I won't eat any sweets tonight."

" But you love sweets... "

"No sweets! Don't make me. I'll go to sleep with no TV either."

But what really gets to people? Bruce cries when he's embarassed.

"I gotta say, B, " Clark humming, seemingly ignorant to a rather concerning wound. A faint kryptonite nausea still persists, but nothing he can't avoid. " You really saved my behind out there. Good job."

It's obvious Bruce has a doctor's hands; His hands glide stitches confidently, without nervousness, without pause. Healing. That's what Bruce was, at his core.

Still, his heart beats wildly. "...I'm glad you're okay."

Clark, for one, Is delighted. "Are those emotions? Positive ones? Are we having a moment?"

" I did an adequate job. It was nothing special."

" Oh, that's bullshit. Come on, you were amazing! Did you see the guy's face when you blocked the bullet with your batarang? Breathtaking."

"Superman. Enough."

" No, -- listen. 20 guys get their hands on kryptonite and knock me out in 10 minutes. You had them beat in FIVE. Bruce, you were wonderful, --"

He stops immediately when a velvet voice cracks, " Clark,"

He worries that maybe he pushed too much. Forced his way instead of being welcomed. An apology is hot and ready on his lips.

But.

But that cowl only hides so much. That soft, dusty red flushes down to Bruce's chest. Pink skin glows red, shiny with tears, and skilled hands shake.

Clark's heart roars. He's so, so fond of this man.

" Oh, Bruce. Oh, baby."

He can't stop smiling as he listens to Bruce whining in his neck.

#YOUR HONOR. HE IS SO. MEOW MEOW #bruce wayne #battinson #dick grayson #jason todd #batdad #dc #dcu #clark kent #superbat #text #text post #batman #writing #writing prompt #btw only bc some ppl asked me if they could use some of my ideas -- everything is open!! id love to be tagged :D

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atarathegreat · 5 months

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Scary Wife Privileges Tokyo Revengers

Featuring: Chifuyu Matsuno, Mitsuya Takashi, Hakkai Shiba

You were getting tired of it, hearing Chifuyu complain about Takemichi and how the man runs things. "He'll come back, I know he will, but it's just aggravating right now."

When he talked about his boss he made little sense. You never understood his ramblings about "any day now." and "It's been twelve years." Some days it was too much and you started an argument with Chifuyu, an argument where he constantly refused to tell you anything about what he meant. It was pissing you off. Majorly. You wanted Chifuyu to be happy, but when he came home exhausted and angry every night, you didn't feel that he was happy.

His friends greeted you as you walked through the big building, smiles and waves from both sides as you walked to your husband's office. Chifuyu had been in a particularly bad mood the whole week and you hadn't made it any better by causing fights when he came home. Remorse was one of the many emotions you were feeling, topped with a cute little bow to compound everything and stamp it in like concrete.

"Fuyu," You spoke softly, a way you hadn't spoken to him in months, "do you have time?"

It was in his eyes, the fact that something had already happened was painted into the dark circles under his lashes. It made your heart lurch as he smiled sadly at you. "Always have time for you, baby." Chifuyu held a hand out to pull you in as you approached, "As long as you didn't come here to fight, in that case, I'm in a meeting." His half hearted joke made you sigh, "Already, today?"

His chest heaved with a sigh, "Trashed his own office. Don't worry, he wasn't mad at me this time."

There was no time for a response as the very man exploded into your husband's office behind you. He was on edge, clearly, but you didn't care about what he had to say. Months of anger from seeing your husband drink until he fell asleep with his face buried in your chest just poured out.

"Shut up. No one cares about whatever bullshit you're about to spout. Is this how you treat all of your workers?" You snapped, hands on your hips as you chastised him, "You're the exact definition of an asshole and so help you if my husband comes home angry again."

Takemichi looked caught off guard, a stark contrast to the man you'd not only met at your wedding, but the man in the stories Chifuyu brought home. He stumbled over his words, but you continued to chew into him as Chifuyu hugged around your waist and smiled into your shirt.

Mitsuya was used to the nitpicking his clients did, often smiling and agreeing, even if he didn't. He wasn't the type to retaliate because of a bad mood, especially since it was going to be something the other person wore and he would never have to look at it again.

And yet he kept having to send you silent glares and pointed looks to keep you from speaking up as you watched him work.

"And maybe if there was more detail in the train-"

"Do you know how long he's spent on this ugly garbage?" You spoke clearly, your nose in a book so you couldn't see Mitsuya glaring at you, "All the detail on the sleeves took two months anyways. And that's not including the beading along the end. Can't you appreciate that?"

The client stared at you, open mouthed and shocked. But you kept on, "To ask for more detail when he's already fixing the fabric to your measurements is... Stupid."

Mitsuya sighed, "Apologies for her."

"Don't apologize for me." When did you get off the couch? "How about you let him finish this piece so he can come home to his family at a decent time, yeah? His daughters are tired of going to sleep without Daddy tucking them in."

The club was loud. Too loud. You cursed under your breath at your husband for bringing you along with him. It wasn't your vibe, the whores and half naked bartenders that walked around while rich, old men played card games. Your dress, the one Hakkai told you to wear so you would fit in while still being modest, was swaying around and scratching at your ankles. People were staring at you as you walked through with your heels in hand. It wasn't your fault, the shoes were hurting your feet and Hakkai had disappeared almost an hour ago. You would've already headed home if you knew Hakkai wouldn't throw a fit.

"Black Dragon trash." You hissed under your breath when you finally saw him. He was laughing with his guys, seemingly ignoring the woman massaging his shoulders. Hakkai zoned in on your hips as you straddled his lap, your chest pressing into his face as you got in the woman's face, "Hands off, unless you want to give hand jobs with stumps for the rest of your life."

The fear you instilled in the woman was attractive to Hakkai, and his men noticed as well. It wouldn't have been the first time you'd left them with raging hard ons, and Hakkai sent a glare at all of them.

"Go rub up on someone else's husband, or so help me god the only use that pretty little mouth will have is sucking food through a straw."

#anime #manga #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #fanfiction #tokyo revengers x reader #Chifuyu matsuno #chifuyu matsuno x reader #mitsuya takashi #mitsuya takashi x reader #hakkai shiba #hakkai shiba x reader #tokyo rev x reader

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kiwisbell · 5 days

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helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood.

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth.

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will.

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do.

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver.

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones.

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain.

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love.

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring.

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him.

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother.

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath.

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out.

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job.

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet.

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above.

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep.

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed.

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says.

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear.

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow.

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition.

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time.

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world.

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge.

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does.

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind.

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger.

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing.

Don't hurt me again.

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly.

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black.

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before.

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told.

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again.

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention.

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers.

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep.

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly.

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging.

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down.

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop.

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs.

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear.

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to.

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back.

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans.

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin.

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply.

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole.

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks.

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter.

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines.

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again.

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you.

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel.

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly.

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.”

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful.

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day.

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…”

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth.

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning.

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs.

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve.

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there. “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.”

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him.

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply.

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor.

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm.

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his.

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded.

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental.

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.”

Silent, he waits for more.

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose.

It's raining.

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover.

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall.

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun.

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be.

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man.

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing.

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now.

Joel steps out of the car.

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest.

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger.

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left.

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt.

“Joel,” greets Cabrera.

“Manuel.”

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep.

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning.

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals.

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious.

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade.

But the song of death does not call to him now.

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle.

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did.

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now.

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel.

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest.

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket.

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave.

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut.

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now.

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call.

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat.

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home.

So he does.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #john wick au

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