#and it held it for another 41 years | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

prettyboykatsuki · 1 year

Text

fuck your inhibition. | k. bakugou

♢ tags ; very big age gaps (19 years), questionable ethics, ex deliquent / runaway reader (22), fighting / violence, brief mentions of living on the streets, retired pro-hero bakugou (41), emotionally charged sex, afab + masc!reader, top!reader, bottom bakugou, reader is really rough around the edges, backstory for reader, arguing, oral (both receiving),rimming (m!recieving), strap-ons (not a dom thing. no particular power dynamics), prone-bone, dirty talk, size difference (reader is smaller but no specifics), happy endings sort of.

no explicitly gendered terms for reader. usage of words like clit / cunt for readers body parts. reader is implied bisexual.

(also while this fic is certainly intended to be read as masc., it can just as easily be read as completely gn.)

♢ wc ; 10.2k (two days. this is so alarming)

♢ a/n ; happy birthday to my favorite guy. sorry in advance. this fic is so disgustingly self-indulgent. str8 self-inserty ngl. i simply dont want to look at it djskfgdf. this fic is pretty tame tho age gap aside. been a while since ive written for him. title is from "lemme know" by vince staples

♢ synopsis ; who knew that the boudoir pictures you've been getting off too your whole life would look so much better in person?

You’re not convinced there’s any way to get used to getting your lights knocked out.

At this point, your fighting prowess is good enough that you can dodge swings from even heavy handed opponents. Just agile enough to bob and weave. Your reflexes are good too, from years of getting into with cops or otherwise. So getting absolutely dusted in a single, swift motion is not a frequent occurrence.

That’s why you are sorely caught off guard when it happens to you in the back of an alleyway, tucked into a corner of Osaka—a long ways from home.

You were fucked from the minute you stepped foot off the train; you knew that instinctively. You haven’t been back in years and it’s not like you’re here for leisure. And sure, you took the job knowing there was some possibility you’d run into some old foes but shit. They couldn’t’ve waited till the week was over?

3 days in and your life as a runaway comes back to bite you in the ass. Worse, they catch in front of the very storefront you were working up the nerve to visit at the end of the week. If that old man catches you 1. making a ruckus in front of his cherished bakery and 2. fighting like those “worthless punks” that he openly detests, he’s definitely gonna be on your ass.

It’s amidst conflict, you decide to take the beating and wait it out. Hopefully, whatever higher power is looking over you will let you get out without busting your lip.

But fuck, this last hit is leaving you worse for wear. You blink your eyes open and you’re still surrounded by him and his bunch of goons. What was this dudes name again…? Aka…Aka-something, you think. Without warning, you get another punch, a clean left-hook - this time to your side. You cough at the sensation.

Ah, life is so unfair to you.

He grabs you by the front of your collar, dragging you upwards until you’re nose to nose. This fuckers breath is hot. Something warm slips down your nose, a rivulet of blood over your lips. You grunt.

“I should’ve beat the shit out of you the first time.”

You blink slowly as you regain your vision and sense. Despite many transgressions and altercations, your time in Osaka as a fugitive is notable. This bunch of fiends are a somewhat half-assed motorbike gang. It’s an old story. You stole and ruined not one, not two, but four of their bikes total. In your defense you were a young kid scrounging for change - hotwiring and deconstructing for parts was always pretty profitable. And stealing flashy bikes was a hell of a lot easier than scratching up your knees in the scrap yard.

Ah, there was that other thing too. Why you’re pretty sure this guy has held such a grudge against you for god knows how long. Irritable with a bad sense of self-preservation, you give up on behaving well.

“Yeah? No need to sulk now, right?” You grin, hands practically itching to throw him onto the ground. A familiar sense of adrenaline burns in your stomach. You should just hit him, but you don’t - instead opting to aim where you know it’s gonna piss him off most “How’s your little sister by the way?”

Red flashes in his eyes, nose puffed like a bull. Despite your self-satisfaction, you close your eyes and pray to god he doesn’t actually kill you. There’s still some ass you have to tap before you die and it’d be a real shame to die only inches away. You cover your face when his fist winds up. Riling him up was probably a bad move.

Before you get your lights punched out forreal, an angel comes to rescue you.

“Oi, you fuckin’ punks—go take this shit somewhere else or I’m gonna singe every last goddamn hair on your head.”

You smile, almost drunk on the adrenaline. An angel, indeed. A cursing, blonde, abrasive angel.

“Oh, shit—we gotta get outta here. That dude Dynamight doesn’t fuck around”

Before you know it, said group of miscreants disperses like a swarm of flies. You find yourself stumbling back against a bunch of crates, back hitting them and sliding down, snagging in your work clothes. The leader says something about “not being finished with you yet,” but you don’t catch it with how your ears are ringing in your skull.

You rub your eyes and groan, seeing double. When you open them again, your favorite blonde old man is standing in front of you. Arms crossed over his chest, sporting that signature glare you’re so fond of.

Your head is throbbing. Fuck it hurts.

You only manage one sentence before promptly blacking out.

“Did I die and go to heaven?”

—

You wake up in a familiar bed.

A bed you spent a lot of time resting in when you were out at on the streets here, something like four years ago now. The memories of the time aren’t entirely pleasant - being a homeless runaway was pretty shit. But meeting your life long hero (and getting your rocks off in his bed) are quite fond regardless. You’re surrounded by nice, white linen sheets that you’re pretty sure cost more than you make in a month. He’s not really much of a flashy character despite his career, but he does have an eye for the finer things.

You haven’t been back here in a while. Since moving to a different prefecture, you haven’t had any good reason to come see him. This week was a good excuse for just that. Didn’t exactly plan on it happening like this, but you can’t really win 'em all. You’d consider being back here a win on your part regardless.

The fact that you’re here instead of molding in the pouring rain means that he dragged you up there by himself. A fact you try not to put too much stock into, because he’s still a pro even if he’s retired. What makes it hard not to feel giddy about it is the fact you’re all cleaned up. Bandaged wounds and all, he even took off your shoes. Jeez, he’s gonna kill you one of these days acting so cute.

You turn to lay on your back, reaching your hand to the ceiling and making a fist. Your knuckles are still pretty bruised up but it’s clear he took some time to check over them. You drop your hand down, squeezing a fist over your chest and sighing. You roll over again.

“Still giving me so many mixed signals.” You say, half in jest, trying not to be too affected by it “Ah, fuck, this is bad. Gonna end up doing something weird just like old times.”

Before you commit another act of degeneracy in the bed of your long time crush and childhood hero, you sit up with your legs over the edge. He took your pants off too, a pair of boxers hung low on your hips. Your back is fucking killing you.

You stand to your feet, scratching the back of your neck as you turn to examine yourself in the mirror. You pull your tank up over your side, a bruise the size of a melon developing on you. It goes from just under your chest all the way down to above your waist. You press your finger to it and wince at the sensation of pain, dull but throbbing so deep in your nerves you can’t help but feel it.

You examine the rest of you, turning to either side. Work tomorrow is gonna fucking blow, but considering you don’t have any broken ribs - you think it’s not the worst it could be. No stitches either, so a win overall. If the rest of the week passed by silently that’d be perfect.

You look around the room for your things. They’re in a neat chair in the corner of the room. Bakugou’s cat is over there too, asleep on your uniform. You can hear something faint from downstairs, the sound of a T.V. playing. You should drop down there since you’re awake but you’re reluctant. You wonder if he’ll chase you out since you’re up. If he still has as much of a soft spot for you as he used to, it couldn’t hurt to test your luck.

You open up the bedroom door and shut it quietly before padding down stairs.

You end up finding him where you’d expect him. He’s in the kitchen with an apron on, a fitted gray shirt with a piping bag in hand.

He looks older every time you see him. His hair isn’t all gray yet but the platinum is starting to turn brilliant white. There’s lines in his face that weren’t always there, even with the scars and fine wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. He’s still as jacked as he used to be, but it’s softened up. Mostly it’s his personality, you find, to be mellow. Only someone with patience could take up such a tedious hobby after an entire life out in the field - killing baddies and chasing thugs and whatever other shit hero’s do.

It’s kind of ridiculous that he’s piping delicate little designs onto some pastries, but unfortunately for you it only adds to his charm. You lean against the wall coming into the kitchen, in the frame. Half-dressed with your lips quirked up in a coy smile.

“Whatcha makin’ old man?”

“Don’t break my concentration you noisy brat,” He says straightforwardly “Sit down and shut up.”

“So cranky,” You muse, but ultimately comply, sitting at a chair on the kitchen island. Looks like he’s on his last round of whatever he’s making.

You get by on staring at him. It’s pretty typical for you even now. Sitting here in front of him doesn’t feel as awkward as you expected, which is worth something. When he’s finally finished, he puts the piping bag on the counter and wipes his forehead with the back of his arm.

“Permission to speak, sarge?” You ask, sarcastically. He frowns at you.

“Not granted.”

“Cold as ever huh,” You say, leaning your elbow on the counter - palm on your cheek “Thought distance was supposed to make the heart grow fonder?”

“That only counts if there’s fondness in the first place.” He says with ease. This time you scoff at him, but he cuts you off before you get a chance to reply “You wake up with any pain?”

“Worry about yourself, you old bastard,” You say impudently. You see the corners of his lips twitch as he stares at you “‘m fine. Got a nasty bruise on my side but my ribs aren’t broken. Work tomorrow is gonna suck.”

“That why you’re back here?”

“For about a week, yeah.”

“Confidential?”

You shake your head and lean back.

“Nah. Bodyguarding some rich dude’s kid. Birthday tomorrow. Spent the first two days being a lousy maid but the pay is good so I can’t complain.”

“Shit. The party is tomorrow? I have an order for tomorrow.”

“Guess you’re not senile yet, old man.”

“Fuck off,” Bakugou says, not bothering to hide to his expression “How old’s the kid?

“A little younger than me I’d guess. 19 or so.”

“Isn’t this a good opportunity to get laid?” He suggests like he’s purposefully trying to irritate you. He already knows how you feel. Why he insists on pretending is beyond you but it never fucking fails to piss you off.

You shoot him a glare.

“Nevermind. You’re definitely senile. Might wanna try some puzzle games to keep your shit in tact before you start peeing in public and buying ten pairs of the same pants.”

“You’re still just as mouthy as I remember.”

“Learned from the best.”

A comfortable silence settles as a weird feeling overtakes you. Fuck, you’re still pining your youth away after all this time. Maybe getting laid would fix some of your issues, but no one is gonna hold a candle to having the real thing. You rub your temple in preemptive apprehension. Bakugou starts working on cleaning up the kitchen, and you resign yourself to thinking about what you’re gonna do.

It catches you off-guard when he talks to you first.

“Earlier,” He says, opening up the fridge to rearrange it “Why weren’t you fighting back?”

You don’t know whether you want to laugh or cry hearing him ask. You don’t feel like softening the blow with your usual shit, so you give it to him straight.

“It doesn’t suit a tactical genius to play dumb, old man.”

He stiffens, then sighs.

“Still hung up on that, huh.”

Oh now you’re gonna get pissed.

“Don’t.” You warn, low and indifferent. He sighs, sliding a tray into the fridge and “Don’t piss me off, alright?”

“Hey. You shitty punk. When are you gonna get it through your thick skull I’m doing this for your fucking sake? Stop—”

“Next time, just leave me in the rain.” You seethe, venom in your voice, making you numb and agitated. He stops, breath hitching “I don’t give a shit if you’re a retired hero. I’m serious. Leave me out in the alley next time if you’re gonna pull the mentor act again..”

Man this sucks.

Not like you were expecting some heart warming love story out of a guy like him but still. You didn’t think he wouldn’t budge at all. You can feel yourself getting angry just thinking about it. It might’ve been better not to come. Mentor or not, his whole dismissal never fails to annoy you to your core. You knew that before the week started he might be like this. Maybe if shit went your way - you could’ve had a regular reunion. But now, he just had to see you getting beat up on purpose and he just had to fucking ask about it.

Seriously, where’s his decorum? Prick.

“Kid.”

“Don’t—I needa get outta here. I shouldn’tve—fuck, this blows.”

You stand to your feet before you have a chance to look back. You feel kind of pathetic running away again but it’s still the preferable option to having this fight a second time. It’s something you’re just too sensitive about to deal with head on. Getting rejected twice by the guy you’ve been in love with since you were nineteen is bound to fuck you up abs you don’t have it in you not to drink yourself into a fit.

So you’re practically running up the stairs, but you can hear him calling behind you. You go into the bedroom to get your things and Bakugou follows you into it predictably, shutting the door. You turn around to him, annoyed.

“Get outta my way.”

“No. Not while you’re all pissy. Gonna get yourself hit by a car.”

“What’d I just say about cooling it with the mentor act, man?”

“It’s not a fuckin’—it’s not an act.” He says, with a sigh that almost makes you feel bad, “I haven’t seen you in two years.”

“Two years is nothing. Old age is making you soft,” You scoff, arms crossed over your chest “But I don’t need your sympathy. My feelings haven’t changed.”

“Kid.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, alright? Cleaned my act up, got a job and a license and a place. Haven’t slept in a cell in two years. Been off the streets that whole time just like you told me to do. The least you could do is take me seriously.”

“I didn’t want you to do that shit for me. I wanted you to do it for you.”

“Too bad,” You reply back almost immediately, pinching the bridge of your nose “Save your lecture for the next injured bird you raise up and leave me out of it.”

“I’m trying to put you on the right path, you ungrateful little jackass. Don’t act like—“

“Spare me the goddamn lecture.”

There’s a quiet silence befalls the both of you. Shit is going nowhere fast and you both know it, Bakugou as much as you do. Memories of your last argument come back to you almost instantly.

After you turned eighteen, you were run out of the orphanage you’d spent part of your adolescence at. It’s a pretty regular sob story and you’re quite the sad sap. A dead mom in Mustafu and an absent father. You had a strong quirk, and hell maybe if you grew up different - you could’ve been a hero.

Shit didn’t work out that way, so at 11 you were thrown to the wolves. It’s not a fun time to look back on and you figure there’s no use thinking about the past. You did whatever you had to to survive which mostly meant being in and out of orphanages and running away whenever the next worthless schmuck tried to take advantage of you. You always got away by the skin of your teeth, and made money doing whatever you could. If it put food on the table, you’d have probably done it at least once.

It’s something of a cliche, but Dynamight was your idol. You liked that he wasn’t like other heroes. He was crass and hardcore and liked to talk shit. He was cool. You spent a lot of time hanging around T.V. stores watching him through the glass, watching interviews on your first hand-me-down phone. Even though he didn’t really have the tragic backstory, you always thought he was courageous and honest.

A celebrity crush and idol combined, you stole more of his pin-up magazines than you’re entirely comfortable with. A lot of them you still own, shoved into the back of your closet.

Once you’d turned 18, your life of petty crime had brought you all the way down to Osaka. It was also the worst year of your life. Social agencies seem to get off on tossing kids into the streets as soon as they can and with a criminal record like yours, there wasn’t a whole lot you could do.

You spent the first 6 months knee deep in all sorts of shit. That’s when you ran into that biker gang for the first time. You hung around bars and slept with strangers for a place to sleep. A lot of bad shit happened and it wasn’t getting any easier.

It was a cold, rainy day when you met Dynamight for the first time. The worst day of your life, more accurately. You got mugged and lost your job all in the same few hours and you were pretty sure god himself was spitting at your face.

But it wasn’t all bad. Cheesy as it sounds, meeting your hero was worth the trouble.

He was different off camera. That was the first thing you thought when you talked to him. He had a softer way of speaking and he was weirdly perceptive. He didn’t talk much, either - at least not at first. You spent a lot of time in comfortable silence. The first time, you didn’t do much more than share a meal. He asked you about your life. He gave you money for a hotel too. The only thing you could think to do was ask when you could see him again.

He was 36 at the time. Hadn’t retired yet, either.

That was the beginning of your long relationship. To this day, you don’t know why he decided to involve himself with you. It’s a mystery you’ve yet to get answers for and maybe you never will. Sure he was a hero, but you’re sure he’s seen a lot worse. Why take pity on you in particular? Whenever you ask him about it, he usually just scoffs. Sometimes he’ll tell you that you reminded him of someone. Who that person could be is lost on you even now.

It was a gradual relationship. You were young and persistent, but he never turned you away either. Sure he’d been a good influence, but stopping a life of crime wasn’t easy. You got arrested for some months after meeting. Bakugou took you in when you were 19 and homeless - let you stay with him. He retired at 37, opening up a bakery in Osaka. The place you’re staying in now is just over it. The same one you spent two years of your life falling in love with the old bastard.

It was hard not too. You’d admired him for a long time, and he managed to supercede your low expectations. It wasn’t the first time you fell in love but it was definitely the strongest sensation. You tried to ignore it for a while but that didn’t work out for shit either.

You confessed to him on your 20th birthday. Made a whole big deal with flowers and candles and shit. And again - it’s not like you were expecting romance out of the motherfucker. A flat-out rejection would’ve sufficed.

But…that wasn’t what you got either.

The whole reason for your fight wasn’t just because he didn’t have feelings for you. He made it a whole big fucking deal trying to tell you about your feelings. That you needed to get your shit together and grow up and that it was a phase that you’d grow out of. That he “really cares about you, kid” and that he’s just trying to do what was right by you as an adult.

(“You’ve got no idea what the fuck I’m like either. Been through some tough shit and you latched onto me, alright? So don’t go wastin’ your time.”)

You don’t really give a fuck about how old he is or about his status. None of it matters to you in the slightest. What was pissing you off all that time was him not taking you seriously after everything you’d been through together. Trying to tell you would fucking grow out of it and that it was a waste. You got into an argument after that, and like you’ve been doing your whole life - you ran away. Back to Shizuoka where you started to get your life together.

Hit the books and studied your ass off, graduating late from a night school and then picking up a vocational school to fall back on. Some old connections got you a job in security and you bounced from place to place in the meanwhile. You even got your license and bought a beat-up cruiser that you fix-up when you have the chance.

You grew up so to speak. You came back here trying to prove that. Being dismissed so fucking quickly makes you feel rage beyond reason so you’re trying to step back. Seriously, two fucking years and nothing. Not even a pity “I’m proud of you.”

“Just admit it,” You sneer, inching closer to him “It’s not about any of that shit, is it?”

He widens his eyes as you stalk towards him.

“The fuck are you—“

“Don’t play stupid. You feel guilty, right? Feel all wound up cause you know it’s not nothing. This isn’t nothing”

This time he goes silent. Fucking bullseye.

“You thought I forgot? How you kissed me all tipsy? Thought I didn’t notice you looking?”

Oh it feels good to let it all out. He shrinks, this time unable to say anything. You both know it’s true.

“Look—“ He puts hands on your shoulders as you back him into the wall “You’re too fucking young for all this. And about me, you don’t know—”

You lean into him, face inches apart. You already know what he’s gonna tell you, almost word for word. Trying to maintain some innocence you hardly have anything left of.

“You sure? I heard you through those walls plenty of times. You take dick like a champ.”

“Shut the hell up. This is for your own good, we can’t do this.”

You can hardly believe he’s still being like this.

“I used to know you were home. When I brought people over,” You whisper low against his skin. His eyes widen “You heard me too, I’m sure. So, be honest Mr. Dynamight, you think I can’t give you what you want or are you too afraid to find out?”

“You’re such a fucking punk.” He grits out. Still not denying your words.

“That’s right,” You muse, words heated and heavy “I’m a worthless street punk trying to fuck the old man upstairs ‘cause I don’t know any better.”

It’s not the first time you’ve kissed Bakugou in your life. The first time was when you came over to his place tipsy. In front of all the other pro-heros you had admired so much. It’s different this time. Not only are you both shockingly sober, there’s an aggression in it that wouldn’t be there before. No matter how begrudging he acts, he’s still kissing you back just as hard as you’d expect him too. His lips are softer than you thought they’d be, arms wrapped around your neck. Fuck he’s still so huge. How much does he work out to still be this jacked?

You can’t even imagine how that’s gonna look when you finally get to fuck him. Shit, just thinking about it sends electricity through your spine. You groan a little into his mouth, your hands tucked on his nape and tugging at the fine hairs. You push your incisors into his lower lip and tug, pulling away just slightly to intake how fucking flushed he is.

He looks like a pornstar,

You pull away, hand cupping his jaw and forcing his mouth open. You’re gonna lose it if you stare too long.

“You’re so fucking sexy.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” He mumbles. You laugh lightly at him.

“Your cocky attitude is pretty sexy too,” You hum, amused. You kiss him one more time, hands reaching for the thickest part of his waist. He’s built like a trunk, but his reactions are almost girlish. The contrast is making you twitch.

“Can’t say the same for you.” He spits. Your grin splits your face as you pull away from him, teeth nipping at his jaw. You can feel the scruff of his skin, unshaved as you let your tongue travel over it.

“Aw, what? You don’t think I’m sexy.” You nudge a knee between his legs feeling the half-hard outline of his cock. You shudder “You sure about that?”

“What the hell are they feeding brats like you?”

“Liquor and cigarettes.”

“Since when do you smoke?”

“Helps me relax after work,” You whisper against the shell of his ear, teeth tugging at the lobe before “I get pretty stressed out. Sure you know something about that.”

“Hngh, fuck. Fuck you.”

“Do you even know how? Not like that thing gets much use, huh?”

You reach down to cup his cock through his jeans, hard against the palm of your hand. He pushes his hips up slightly, sharpened glare. He pants.

“You sound, shit, so fucking sure.”

“I am sure. I’m looking to fuck you, not the other way around. Not sure how that’s gonna work since I don’t got my stuff on me.”

You’re not sure what you’re expecting him to say. This whole thing is feeling like a fever dream you can’t wake up out of. Maybe he’ll give you a suggestion on what else to do.. But instead of that, a blush crawls onto his face. It leaves you floored. He looks away from you.

“...Your shits still where you left it.”

It takes you a second to register what he means. When you do, you can feel your brows hit your fucking hairline. There’s no way he’s saying what you think he is.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Shut the fuck up. I thought you’d come to pick it back up but you never did, and I went to go move it into some boxes. I didn’t have any reason to toss it.”

A thought crosses into your mind.

“Hey. Old man. Where is it?”

He stares at you. You grasp onto him firmer, making him gasp. You can feel how heavy his cock is in your hands, rubbing it through the cloth of his sweats. You whisper harsh into his ears.

“If I open your goddamn drawer right now, tell me, am I gonna find my old strap in it? Clean and getting use? You been fucking yourself with the thing I used to lay dick with?”

When he doesn’t answer, pure glee ignites in you. He can’t answer, apparently. But his face is a harsh, permanent red now and his cock is painfully hard. You want to rail him into the fucking floor just for that. You wouldn’t make up some shit like that in your wildest dreams, so the fact that he’s not denying it makes your insides feel like they’re melting. You rub yourself against him, feeling how slick and hard your clit is just thinking about it.

“Go lay down.”

“Are you telling me what to do?”

You grab his ass as hard as you can before landing a hit on it that makes him nearly topple over. Even though he’s bigger than you in more ways than one, he reacts like that. His anger only lasts so long before it morphs into want.

“Of course I am. And you’re gonna listen.”

“What makes you so sure about that, huh? You think you can satisfy me?”

“You think you’re gonna intimidate me into backing down? After knowing you fuck your tight little ass to the thought of me? Fat chance.”

“I didn’t say anything like that.”

You laugh “You implied it. Now go lay down. Where’s your lube?”

He frowns at you.

“In the same drawer.”

You give him a knowing grin to which he shoves your face away. Ultimately though he listens to you, lying and making himself comfortable in the sheet as you grab whatevers in his little sex drawer. He wasn’t kidding about the strap, the lube seated next to it. You grab both quickly and join him, hovering over him.

You opt not to talk, slowing your pace to appreciate the view. You think he’s says something. Asks about what you’re doing and why - but you tune the words out as you run your hands over the curves of his body. He’s a wall of fucking muscle, his arms especially with a torso just tight enough for you to grab. The fabric of his shirt doesn’t leave much for imagination, but you’re still overwhelmed as you pull it up over his waist, his chest, his arms. The fabric comes loose and it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You’ve got plenty of porn mags in your back pocket and even more boudoir shoots from him that you’ve stared at for hours.

But seeing it in person is completely different. You can see the rise and fall of his chest - the raised skin of a scar and plenty of over scratches and wounds. Fuck, he is so sexy and you are so drunk on lust you almost feel sick.

“Somethin’ catch your eye?”

His voice draws you out of the trance you're in, a lazy smirk spread on his face. You laugh.

“I get why you’re such a show-off,” This time you lean forward to kiss him - a hand wrapped around his throat, spare going to grab his chest. His tits are soft, they look like hard muscle and sinew but the fat is squished in your palms to perfectly for that“Fuck.”

“You’re acting like a horny teenager.” He says flatly.

“Been thinking about fucking you that long, so I guess so.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why’re you so shocked?” You make work kissing down his neck slowly, down his chest, one tweaking his nipple while your mouth makes work on the other one He swears above you, another wave of heat pulsing in your body “Don’t you hear shit like that all the time?”

“Shit that feels—I didn’t think you were, hngh—serious.”

“Obviously not. I still have all your slutty ass photos in my apartment somewhere.”

He pants. Makes the prettiest fucking sounds for you as you grope and squeeze and touch his body. You bite, hard, into his tits leaving a red mark of teeth that makes him shudder. You need to do it all over again.

“Haah, fuck. What the fuck?”

“You’re way sexier in person if that’s worth anything,” You groan, a shudder passing through you “Like way sexier.”

He looks like he wants to say something to you but the words die in his mouth. You laugh as you peer over him. His reactions are fucking adorable. Face is hot with a flush, watery eyes. Pretty. As much he’s rugged and strong and downright handsome, he is annoyingly fucking pretty. Having him underneath you is making all the power go to your head. Nothing feels more appealing to you right now than the idea of wrecking him completely.

You kiss down his body until you’re at his waist, taking his pants off unceremoniously. You have half a mind to rip them but you’re sure they’re expensive. He lifts his legs for you anyways, leaving a tight pair of boxers that leave nothing for the imagination at all.

“What the fuck,” You mumble, getting face to face with it. You pull the boxers off slowly, kissing his hip as you do. His cock pops out slowly as you pull it down. What an asshole. His dick is impossibly big too. A tuft of well trimmed blonde hairs sit neat at the base and the tip is a harsh red. There’s a little drop of pre-cum dribbling down the shaft that makes your brain feel fuzzy. It’s veiny too, tight balls sitting net at the base.

Another shiver wracks through you, as you reach your hand out to touch it tentatively. He groans sharply. You stick your tongue out, licking up from base to tip. He tastes of salt and skin, but it isn’t bad. You let your tongue lick at the slit, elated looking at him squirm underneath you.

“Nice dick.” You say back plainly. He snorts.

“Fuck off.”

‘’m serious,” You add, letting your eyes lid to look more serious “I don’t blow just anyone.”

You open your mouth wide, pulling lips over teeth as you ease the tip slowly. It’s hot. Hard as steel and intrusive against your tongue, you can feel it throb. Pulsing relentlessly, you lower yourself onto it slowly - taking as much in as you can. It’s difficult and messy, tongue out to cover as much as you can. You suction your mouth slowly, hollowing your cheeks. There’s something that feels so good about having him in your mouth, something even better about watching the faces of pleasure he makes above you.

You hum in appreciation and the vibrations prove to be too much as he nearly thrusts his dick into your throat. You brace yourself for it happening again - setting an even pace. He looks good like that, drowned in pleasure and unsure of what to do with himself. You wonder if it’s been a while since he’s acting so fucking cute about it. You assume as much.

What he said before, you wonder if he was picturing it. If he felt guilty about it. The idea of him jerking off in shame over the thought of his dick in your mouth makes your spine tingle. You cup his balls in your hand, squeezing gently as you get into a steady rhythm. You feel him above you trying to hold it all in, the muscles in his abdomen tightening each time you manage to get down further. It’s hard to breathe, the back of your throat feels narrow. Your skin is on fire.

“Fuck, fuck—where’d you learn how to—fuck!”

You feel him getting ready to cum, so you pull off swiftly. A delicious, needy whine comes out of his throat that leaves you mesmerized.

“What the hell?” He mumbles, heaving. You laugh.

“Hey,” You hum, lifting his hips until you can see his hole - pink and twitching “Every had someone eat your ass?”

“Are you offering?”

“Yeah.” You say back, kissing the insides of his thighs, gripping the muscle “I wanna know if it feels good for you.”

For whatever reason, this statement in particular makes his skin tinge pink. You hold back a laugh internally.

“So fucking weird.”

“Is that a no?”

“Do whatever you want.”

You chuckle at that. You sink your teeth into him again, this time working on the build up. His muscles give tension to your incessant biting, hard bone against muscle as you mark up his thick thighs. His ass is nice like you’d expect, tight and muscular. You work your way towards his hole slowly, thumb circling the tight ring of muscle first to gauge his reaction. He shudders, making you hold back a laugh.

“Kinda sensitive,” You say amused. You can feel him glaring without having to look “You can’t cum without it now, right?”

You’re mostly saying it in jest but the prolonged silence leaves you at a loss for words. Your eyes snap up at him, watching him huff and puff in embarrassment. Heat rolls through your body.

“It’s not like I fucking can’t ever, alright?”

“You’re too cute for your own good.”

“Don’t fucking call me cute you shitty little brat.”

“But you’re acting kinda adorable, old man,” You say slyly. You stick your tongue out, licking a long stripe against him. He shakes “Blushing up a fucking storm. Been a while?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, so it’s just ‘cause it’s me then?”

He looks like a fucking cherry. You laugh.

“To think you were so against it. How’d you hide your expressions that long? Did it help you to masturbate to the thought of me fucking you?”

“Would you shut up?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

Before he can scold you any more, you let your tongue slip against the exposed rim. The reaction is tentative at first, slow licks trying to gauge if this is something he’s even into. You do it again and again, burying yourself deep. He makes a noise that you recognize to be a muffled moan. You groan in appreciation, repeating the action - letting yourself dip into the tightness of it. You can feel the muscles of his body go taut as you grip him - hands over the tops of his thighs. The action is more shameless the longer you let yourself indulge.

You’ll have to fuck him open anyways before you actually get on top. You think doing this much will make everything easier. Mostly you’re doing it because you like seeing him embarrassed. The gap in appearance vs expression never gets old. Seeing like this repeatedly proves to be novel and fuck knows if he’s gonna let you do it again any time soon. You’re more than determined to squeeze out every last ounce of his pride.

You want to see everything.

And frankly, pleasuring him like this is driving you all kinds of crazy. Not like you’ve ever been a selfish lover. Always aiming to please or whatever. But he’s got such a raw fucking sex appeal looking the way he does it’s making you drip. You’re pretty damn sure you’ve soaked through everything you have on and you’re not sure how much longer you’re gonna make it without touching yourself.

It’s all material you’re committing to memory, either way. If anyone saw him like this, you’re pretty sure they’d fall head over heels just like you. It’s hard not to give him everything he’s ever wanted Not to want to fuck him within an inch of his life, just to see his big muscular frame curl in on itself. He’d look so good all messed up, all knotted with pleasure.

You can feel it again this time, another wave of desire that makes his cock twitch. You wrap your finger around the shaft, holding it around his balls so he doesn’t cum without asking you. He lets out a noise of disapproval that you ignore, pulling your mouth away. Pre-cum dribbles out of tip. You use your finger to swipe it up and lick it.

He looks scandalized.

“Not bad. You eat clean huh.”

“You’re going to kill me someday.”

“You’re too young and too healthy to die.”

He makes a face of disapproval at you. You toss him the lube before grabbing the strap.

“Think you can work yourself open for me tough guy? Normally, I’d do it myself. Edge you out nice and slow, get you all soft. But I’m dying to fuck you already and I wanna make you cum on my cock.”

He looks at you exasperated.

“Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“Casual sex and porn mags. You don’t like it?”

“It makes you sound your age.”

“Want me a little more suave? Tell you that I’m gonna make love to you?”

He snorts. You take off your boxers and sit up on your knees as Bakugou opens the lube in his hands. You watch him idly, mostly focusing on wiggling yourself in the harness and making sure it’s comfortable enough to fuck in.

He takes a deep breath, and you watch him reach between his legs. How it’s difficult since he’s so muscular. You almost want to help him, but instead you get between his legs again. Stood on your knees with a heavy bit of silicone weighing you down. You connect the tip to his, watching him push a finger in slowly.

“Not if you say it like that.”

“Having trouble there?”

“You piece of shit.”

“A worthless punk or something. C’mon, just say it. Ask me to finger your ass so I can fuck you. Or you want me to say something more delicate?”

“Fuck, c’mon just, help me already.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“....Please, you worthless asshole.”

You grin, grabbing the lube from the bed and squeezing it into your fingers. You laugh, leaning over him.

“Got some manners left in you after everything, huh?”

You pull him down towards him by the waist, pulling his legs up. You kiss the inside of his knees, nudging his legs apart as you position your hands, warming the lube between your fingers. He’s surprised by your strength, but you don’t do anything but grin.

“Keep your legs up for me, yeah?”

He scoffs but doesn’t go against your will. He looks good waiting for you like that, so you don’t take too much time trying to split him open. His hands are thicker than yours, so your first finger slides in like it’s nothing. He’s soft and hot on the inside, and the way he accommodates you lets you know this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

It doesn’t irritate you as much as you think it should. Maybe you’re a little screwed up to think it’s sexy but the idea of him getting fucked at any point is turn on. Once you’re down to the knuckle and you can pump in and out of him easily, you use a second finger to stretch him further. There’s more resistance so you slow, feeling up against his walls for the place you know it’ll feel good.

You know you find it because his whole body tightens up in front of you. His eyes shoot open and he’s all breathy and fucked out. You relish in it.

“Right there?”

He must be feeling good with how little he’s combating you.

“Y-yeah.”

You lean forward to plant a kiss on him again but this time it’s tender. He must feel really good because he wraps his arms around your neck to keep you there. You moan in surprise and when you pull back he looks hazed out of his mind.

“Didn’t know you could make a face like that.” You say, amused. He frowns at you.

“I’m not happy about it either.”

A laugh falls out of you and you catch the faintest whisper of a smile on his lips that has you kissing the corners of his mouth. He catches himself before he leans into it too easily, but you notice before he can shy away.

“Looks like I’m making your heart flutter. Forget the ethics for a little and let me.”

“I should toss you out of a fucking window.”

“You’re not gonna though.”

This he doesn’t reply to. You slip a third finger while he’s distracted and he gasps. This time he’s almost stretched completely. You give him a minute to breathe, swallowing up the little sounds he makes with a hearty grin. It’s so fucking good just doing this. Incredible. Way better than you could’ve ever imagined.

“I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you,” You say, bemused. He’s delirious enough to laugh.

“The stamina of youths scares the hell outta me.”

“I don’t wanna hear it from a retired pro.”

This time he grins. You find yourself pleased with the development.

He’s stretched now, and restless. You pull your hand away and rub the remaining slick onto the tip of your cock, giving him a look.

“Do you know how you want me?”

“It’s your fantasy fuck,” He says, semi-sarcastically “Do whatever you want.”

You laugh, tapping his ass lightly.

“Turn over and stick your ass up a little.”

“Don’t wanna see my face?”

“Wanna see how you swallow my cock up like it’s nothing, more like.”

He curses under his breath. You feel accomplished. He turns over just like you’ve asked him too and fuck the sight of him is way too much. You can’t get over it. He’s big and strong and trembling with desire and it’s driving your sex-drive as high as it can possibly go. You move so your knees are on either side of his thighs. Leaning forward, you lick up from the small of his spine all the way up his shoulder, before sinking your teeth in the junction in between.

He groans underneath you, and your hands make themself present around his hips. Most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen in your life. The fucking arch and the scars and the ruggedness of all of it.

“You’re damn gorgeous.” You say, with utter and sincere appreciation “It’s driving me fucking crazy.”

“Save your smooth talk.”

“I’m bein’ serious,” You say, pulling his ass apart with your palms “Like. Woah.”

He snorts “Real poetic.”

“I barely graduated school, asshat.”

In the midst of your bantering, you let the tip of your cock slip into him slowly. It steals the words of reply out of his mouth in an instant. You can feel him melt underneath you. At the intrusion, at the feeling. At every single sensation. You feel the phantom of it in your spine. Like there’s fireworks in all your nerve-endings, just watching how his ass looks around it. Just the tip with no movement, no adjusting.

He’s silent, shuddering - holding onto a pillow. A bead of sweat rolls down his spine. He has little dimples in his back. You groan.

“Shit. Look at you.”

The praise seems to make him keen. He’s always been one to like the attention. You roll your hips, fucking another inch into him agonizingly slow. He moans like he’s deflating, breathing ragged and voice raw. You rock back and forth until there’s no longer anything to resist, then push in and in and in.

Once you bottom out with his ass against your pelvis and your hips on the back of his thighs, you lean forward and press your weight on top of him. You think he’s expecting something else, because he seems surprised. But you let yourself weigh upon him, then with a heavy grunt - cup his jaw and tilt his head to kiss him.

“You like that?”

“Shut up.”

“C’mon. Be honest. You look like you like it. Ears turning so red.”

He groans.

“In your fucking dreams.”

“Still not gonna budge huh?” You say. anchoring yourself at his sides with a deep sigh “So stubborn.”

When you feel stable enough to move, you don’t hesitate to fuck him with all of the expertise you have. You give it to him in just the right way, measure up to where he needs you but don’t give in quite enough. It’s a strenuous affair but you keep it at. A steady pace that’s hard and deep but not good enough to make him cum. Something to leave him on the edge, you fuck him just like that. The sound of skin hitting skin and short, broken moans echo in the room.

You focus on taking him like that, making sure each and every thrust is precise and calculated until he gets where you want him to be. You can practically feel when it’s starting to really get to him. When he can no longer hold himself up, so resigns to smushing his face against the pillow and going limp. You lean up, moving so you can pull his hips back with you - hovering off the bed on his knees instead of laying on his stomach.

This time you reach deeper. His whining gets louder, more in tune with everything. You laugh as you reach around him, hands gripping at the base of his cock. It takes patience to unravel him like this, matching your hands to your movements until everything is in a slow, steady synchronization. Fast but not fast enough. Hard, but not hard enough. Close but not close enough.

He lets out a heady groan that reverberates in his chest, opening his mouth finally.

“C-c’mon. Just. C’mon.”

“Aw what?” You say, rolling your hips up against him, where you know he wants you most “What is it, hm? Did you want something?”

“Fuck. Just. Fuck me already.”

“I am fucking you, though?”

“You know what I mean!”

“Oh, you want me to fuck you harder? Make you cum? I thought you didn’t like it.”

He groans, dropping against the pillows again.

“I didn’t say that. C’mon just. Please.”

His voice is hoarse when he asks. You laugh against his shoulders, listening to his requests. Giving it to him how he needs it. Harder and a little deeper, you can feel it now. How you knock into the place inside him that leaves him trembling and shaking. You can read his cues now, when he starts getting close. But of course it’s not gonna be that easy.

You keep the pace stand, putting your hand on the tip of his cock. You rub your thumb over the slit and hold it there. He sucks in a breath, whining a little.

“Wanna cum so bad?” You offer, mouth twisted in a feral grin “Tell me you love me.”

This knocks the wind out of him.

“What?”

“Say you love me with all your heart and I’ll let you cum.”

“You’ve got to be fucking with me.”

You fuck into him hard right where he needs you. He moans.

“Nah. My fantasy fuck, remember? Right now, we’re playing love birds.’ Like’ works too, I guess. If you’re too scared,” You half-way mock, starting a pace now that borders cruel “Now say it nice and sweet and I’ll let you cum.”

“You’re such a—agh, fuck,” He shudders against the bedsheets, repeating himself as you pound him. It’s easy to piston your hips. He’s so sensitive to begin with that it doesn’t take much “You’re insane.”

“C’mon, old man. Confess your feelings to me like we’re sweethearts.”

“In your dr—oh, shit.”

“What was’at? Did you wanna say something?”

You can practically feel him turn it over in his head. You’re mostly doing it to mess with him. Punishment for all of his beating around the bush and bullshitting. Getting to fuck him has been more than enough.

So you’re not expecting him to stop you. To turn over flat on his back and lay with his legs spread and wrap his arms around your waist and stare at you through hazy, flushed eyes. This time you’re really looking at him. At the lines on his face and the scruff and an expression torn with time and desire and lust. Your heart nearly falls out of your fucking ass when he wraps his arms around your neck, palming your nape and pushing your foreheads together.

When you’re nose to nose, he looks very serious all of a sudden. You swallow something in your throat, unsure of what else to do.

“Gonna say this one fucking time, only. So listen up cause I’m not gonna repeat myself.”

He’s got to be fucking with you.

“Love you..I love you or whatever. But that doesn’t mean—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you put your hands up under his knees and fuck him for all you’ve got. Half-way as revenge for the shitty confession and half-way because if you think too long about what he’s saying you’re pretty sure you’re going to collapse.

He sounds good under you, as you fist his cock and laugh in absolute fucking delight. You stare at him hard. At his fucked out expression. You’re gonna cuss him out as soon as this shit is over, you swear. What an asshole.

“O-oh, oh fuck, I’m gonna, g-gonna cum.”

You goad him cause you aren’t sure what else you should do at this point.

“Yeah? Gonna cum on my cock? Show it to me. Let me see what you look like.”

The words are enough to push him over the edge. He gets unraveled right before your eyes, his whole body pulled like a bow before losing all the tension. You can feel his cock twitching hotly in your palms. Thick strings of white covering your fingers as you fuck him through it. He sounds so perfect like that, so fucking good for you. You can feel your whole body ready to give out just watching.

When Bakugou finally finishes, he releases you from his grip. You pull out only seconds after, staring at his flushed state in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Were you serious?” You ask, because it’s the only thing you can think to ask. He sighs, tired.

“Yeah.”

Where the hell is this dudes class?

“Fuck.”

He laughs, laid down before poking his head back up to stare at you.

“You didn’t cum yet.” It’s more of a statement than a question. You shake your head.

“Not yet. I can take care of it.”

He clicks his teeth.

“No way. Come ‘ere.”

You undo the harness of your strap before crawling over to where he’s laid. You end up standing on your knees. He props himself up on his elbows, and you look down at him absolutely mesmerized. He crinkles his nose at you.

“That fucking lovesick look on your face is gross.”

“Been like this for four years.”

He flushes.

You stand in front of him, bare on your knees. He reaches forward, brushing the hair over the hood of your clit gently.

“You’re so wet.” He murmurs. You laugh.

“Yeah, no shit.” You say, too tired to do much arguing “Lemme borrow your mouth,”

He snorts “Got it.”

You fist your hands into his hair and tug, bringing his open mouth to your clit with a sigh. Your cunts sort from being pushed into and neglected. Even the barest brush of his mouth is making you shiver. Bakugou must know a little something about this, because he latches onto you without thinking twice. The sudden added pressure has heat building your stomach at the speed of light. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so on edge in such a short period of time.

Plus looking down at him while you hump against his face is enthralling.

“You’d make a cute little wife, old man,” You say thoughtfully, dull pleasure aching as you tuf his hair at the root “You can cook, clean, bake and you know how to use your mouth fucking perfectly.”

He gives you a look of exasperation, but the warmth down his neck tells you he likes it. You laugh, throwing your head back. The visible sight of arousal flowing down his chin and making his face messy is making you more horny than you know what to do with. You don’t have the energy to cum more than once but you’re sure when you wake you you’re gonna be horny all over again.

You try not to think too hard about it as you feel the knot in your stomach grow tighter before unraveling all at once. Your insides are hotter than lava, the entire lower half convulsing as the strength in your thighs and legs gets lost gradually. Bakugou sucks until you’re nearly overstimulated, and you have to pull him away before it really gets to be too much for you.

“You taste good.” He says thoughtfully. You laugh.

“Got plenty more if you want it.”

“We should clean up.”

“You’re not kicking me out?”

“I’m not a villain, damn it.”

“You feel like one for that loser ass confession, but I’ll let it slide. I need a fucking nap though. Getting my ass kicked and having incredible sex in the same day is exhausting.”

He laughs as you lay down besides him, sitting up. Even in your half exhausted state, you catch the feeling of his lips on your forehead.

“Get some rest you brat.”

You wake up in a familiar bed.

If the sore feeling of laying pipe wasn’t in your hips, you’re pretty damn sure you just woke up out of a dream. What the fuck just happened to you? Your back and body is sore, but you’re clean like you’ve been wiped down. You’re stark naked though.

The idea that he could give you a wipe but not dress you makes you laugh. When you sit up, all of your clothes are sitting still on a chair. There’s some new clothes on top of them though, his clothes. You stand to your feet, your back cracking as loud as possible as you examine the wounds. You have some hickies now (when the hell did he leave those) and when you turn there’s some scratches on your back. You feel self-satisfaction as you get dressed. You should hit the showers when you feel less lethargic.

When you’ve reconciled with the fact you didn’t just conjure up what happened a few hours ago, you trek back into the living room. You find Bakugou where you expect him, bent over the stove making dinner. You lean on the frame of the door with a grin before walking over to him.

You don’t hesitate in sliding your hands on his waist under his tank top. Better, he doesn’t react like you’ve shot him dead. A laugh blooms in your chest.

“Morning grandpa.”

“You fucking—if you don’t sit down.”

You snort, but sit yourself down at the counter like you did a few hours ago.

“Whatcha making for dinner.”

“Grilled fish and rice. There’s sides.”

“Sounds healthy.”

His ears turn red.

‘“You have work tomorrow but you need to recover.”

You couldn’t smile more if you fucking tried.

“We gonna talk about what just happened,” You ask, pouring yourself a glass of water as you sit down. You take a long sip “Or are you gonna pretend to keep washing rice?”

He sighs, putting down the dry rice and the cup to measure. He almost looks furious, but he’s too cute for it to mean anything to you. You grin.

“Hey. Fucking. Look. Alright. You’re way too fucking young. I’m old enough to be your father a-and you only just barely got your life together, so yes I told you whatever I told you. But no fucking funny business until you’re at least 25 and your brain is developed more than a peanut.”

You nod..

“Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda a coward old man?” You say thoughtfully. He looks pissed again but it’s too funny for you to care “What’s funny business? Sex? Cause if it is, I’ve got bad news.”

“We just. We have to be careful.”

“So I can kiss, hug, fuck you in private but keep it outta the press?”

He stares at you, scratching his neck. “Yeah. Basically.”

You give him a thumbs up, grabbing a snack off the tray on his table. Chips, the fancy kind. They’re good.

“Got it. Can I stay over? I don’t feel like driving down to my hotel this late.”

“....You’re not pissed?”

You laugh.

“Are you kidding? I wasn’t mad the first time cause you rejected me, I was mad cause you were acting all fucking ethical and holier-than-thou. I figured it was gonna be something like that anyway. And I’m not much of a romantic, so dates and shit are whatever to me,”

“Forreal?”

“Yeah. Having sex and staying over to hang out for a while is cool. It was your fat head worrying about it, not mine. Did Mr. Deku managed to talk you out of your crisis while I was asleep?”

He gives you a look. Bullseye again.

“You two keep in touch?”

“He’s a good dude and he buys me a meal when I’m short on change. Jealous?”

He turns away from you before answering. His ears are burning. You feel your heart squeeze.

What shit taste you’ve got being head over heels for this old bastard, you wonder.

“Just shut up and eat your chips.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say.”

#bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #bnha x reader #bnha smut #writing tag #age gap cw #the craziest part of this is me reading this back and thinking. oh man. i could make this so much longer #im tainted beyond repair #the fact this is ONLY 10k is quite literally a miracle

652 notes · View notes

justagalwhowrites · 15 days

Text

What was lost...

Joel can't seem to shake you, even when he knows you're dead and gone. A canon Lavender one shot set in between chapters 8 and 9, a few months before Joel and Tommy arrive in Boston.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader from Lavender

Length: 2.3k

Warnings: Angst. This is pure angst, I'm sorry. Imagined canon-typical violence. Mention of sex. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only.

A/N: I got this idea from an anonymous ask when I wrote about wanting to write Joel with a dead reader and they suggested writing Joel when he thought Doc was dead. SHE IS NOT REALLY DEAD, OK? Joel thinks she's dead. She's not dead. Doc is fine. She's in Boston calling QZs looking for Joel, working at the school and the clinic, and being codependent with Andrew. It's OK. I promise.

July 2008

I’ll always love you, Joel. Til the day I die.

Joel woke with a start.

It was still dark, the moon full and high, and for half a glorious second, he thought it was you asleep against him. That the two of you were camping with Sarah and you would sense him in your sleep and reach back to put a hand at his waist and tug him closer.

He asked you once if you knew you did that, that when he woke and sat up in the night that you would reach for him until you found him and pull him back to you where he belonged, always with a little satisfied sigh. As though him being close was all you needed in the world, even when you were unconscious.

You’d laughed when he asked, tucking your chin like you wanted to hide from it.

“God, I’m sorry!” You said as you caught your breath. “I had no idea I did that! I promise, I won’t hunt you down in my sleep if you pull away from me…”

Joel had laughed a little, too.

“Don’t apologize,” he’d said. “Like it when you keep me in line.”

“Good,” you smiled, teasing and sitting up a little straighter. “You’d better.”

But it wasn’t you, of course. It hadn’t been you for five years. Five years to the goddamn day.

Joel wished he’d lose track of the fucking date but he couldn’t seem to. Every time he seemed to get close, they’d have to do something like coordinate a raid on a FEDRA caravan and he’d be set back on track, his brain always keeping count.

He wanted to forget his birthday the most. If there was any mercy left in the world, he’d have never seen another one after 36 but here he was, closing in on 41 and still marking time.

He wished he could forget Sarah’s birthday, too. And yours.

But, strangely, July 18 was the second hardest day for him. It was the last day the three of you were together. The last time he’d heard your voice right beside him, the last time he’d held you, the last time he had nuzzled into your hair and your skin and breathed in the lavender scent of you.

The body next to him didn’t smell like lavender. She didn’t fit against his body like you did, either. She didn’t sound like you or taste like you or feel like you. But she was close and warm and wanted him and he’d given in. He almost always did. Because what they offered wasn’t sex, not really. It was a chance to forget, for a moment. If she looked like you, it was a chance to pretend, too.

This one didn’t look much like you, though. He’d closed his eyes during because it didn’t seem to matter that you’d been dead for years, it still felt wrong to be with anyone besides you. It didn’t make much difference. She didn’t feel like you. He’d pulled out and finished with his hand, thinking about how you felt that day five years ago in the water.

“Everything OK?” The woman beside him sounded groggy.

He couldn’t remember her name.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Just takin’ over the watch. Go back to sleep.”

She just shrugged and settled on the ground again as Joel worked his way through the woods, finding Tommy walking the perimeter of where they’d stopped for the night.

“You got another two hours to sleep,” Tommy said, frowning in the moonlight.

“I’m awake,” Joel said. “May as well take over.”

Tommy gave him a look for a moment before he sighed.

“S’long as you’re OK,” he said, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “Should be good for a while, just did a sweep.”

Joel just gave him a nod and Tommy made his way back to camp as Joel settled into a notch in some roots, his back resting against the trunk of a tree.

“She’s not me, you know.”

Your voice was so close beside him it would have made him jump if it were any other sound. But it was you.

He was used to this by now, the way you haunted him on days like this.

He wasn’t sure why you’d hung on in ways Sarah hadn’t. Maybe because he knew what happened to her, knew where her body had gone cold.

He’d spent so much time trying to drown out that memory - to shove it away, suffocate it, anything to keep it from taking over - that he thought he might have pushed all of her aside with it. He didn’t hear her voice as often anymore, didn’t picture her there next to him either.

You were another story. His mind seemed to enjoy torturing him when it came to you. He’d pictured your death so many times now, the imagined memory of it finding him in his sleep on so many nights.

Tonight had been one of those nights. This time, you’d died at the hands of a man like him. You had your backpack on, the one Joel had told you to pack, and you were walking where he’d told you to go. He could see you so clearly, your hair in braids with ribbons on the ends and your cheeks with smears of dirt like you sometimes got when camping. You’d tried to beg for your pack because Joel had told you it was important and then you tried to beg for your life because he’d told you that was important, too.

It hadn’t worked.

You’d been in the man’s grip, his knife at your throat and your eyes found Joel’s and you said the same thing to him you always did before you died at the hands of whatever monster he’d left you to suffer:

I’ll always love you, Joel. Til the day I die.

“Don’t expect her to be you,” Joel said quietly, refusing to look at the ghost beside him. He didn’t need to. He knew what you’d look like, down to the jeans you were wearing and how many buttons were done up on your shirt. You always came to him in the form you’d been in the last time he’d seen you, when you waved to him as you passed through airport security on your way back to New York five years ago today.

“I wonder why you’re always let down then,” you sounded almost smug. It didn’t sound right on your voice. You were so rarely smug. He’d made you mean in death.

“Does it matter?” He asked.

“I guess not,” you said. “Just thought you’d have found something better to do by now. It’s been five years, Joel.”

He turned to look at you then. You were sitting close enough to him that, if you were real, he would feel the heat of you there.

But there was no warmth to be found in a ghost.

“Know how long it’s been,” he said gruffly.

“Well, you probably deserve to torture yourself a little,” you sighed, no longer looking at him and out at the forest instead. “It’s your fault I died the way I did, you know.”

That’s how he knew it was all in his head. You’d never say that to him.

Even if it was true.

“I know.”

He sat in silence for a few minutes, refusing to look at you, speak to you even though he sometimes wondered if falling into his delusions would be the best he could hope for in this life. Nothing else would measure up to you. He knew that. He would, for the rest of his life, regret not being beside you when the world ended. He would, for the rest of his life, compare every woman he ever met to you. He would, for the rest of his life, wish for something he could never have because he’d done nothing but fucking fail the only people in the world who mattered. Now, you were both out of reach.

“I miss you, you know,” you said eventually, quietly. “I missed you when I died, too.”

Joel didn’t say anything. He just clenched his jaw.

“I was alone,” you said. “I was scared. You know how I got panic attacks, imagine how bad it would have been then…”

“Stop.”

“How I would have looked for you…”

“Stop it.”

“How I would have been worried about you, even as they killed me I would have been worrying for you…”

“SHUT UP!”

He yelled it, finally looking at you again. But you weren’t what he expected. At least, not in how you were looking at him.

So often when he pictured you now, when you spoke to him like this - when he was sleep deprived but couldn’t rest and was in desperate need of some kind of solace - there was an almost vicious look on your face. He didn’t think he’d ever seen you look like that when you were alive, it was an expression entirely of his mind’s invention. You had never been cruel or even really aggressive in life but he couldn’t think of you without it. It hurt too much to see you kind.

But you looked earnest and sad now, so like the real you, like he was worthy of your pity for the first time in five years. It was like his heart beat for the first time since he’d held his daughter’s body.

“You never even looked for me, Joel,” you said softly. “I could have made it, you know.”

He shook his head.

“Don’t say that. Don’t put that thought in me, don’t…”

“I could have. You can’t know, not really. Why did you give up on me? Why didn’t you come find me? Save me?”

“How would you have lived?” He asked, meaning to sound angry but he couldn’t. “How would you have fucking made it through that? What was I supposed to find? What was I supposed to save?”

You just shrugged.

“If you really think I’m gone, why didn’t you join me? Join her?”

He looked straight ahead.

“I tried.”

“You flinched.”

He hung his head, clenched his jaw. Yes, he’d failed at that, too.

“Is this really how you’re going to spend your life, Joel?” You sounded like you. He could almost feel the gentle brush of your fingers on his neck. He still knew your touch so well, he still compared every woman he ever felt to that touch. “Hurting people and killing people and suffering yourself? Do you think this is what I would want for you?”

He looked to the side, as far from you as he could without leaving you.

“You could try something else,” you said after a moment.

He looked back to you again. You were still so beautiful. Even dead, you were beautiful.

“Try what?” He asked. “What other fuckin’ options do I have?”

“You could go to a QZ,” you shrugged. “Try to be a person again. Have a life.”

He scoffed.

“What’s the point?”

“What’s the point of any of it?” You asked. “You flinched, Joel. There must be a reason for it. Do you really think you’re going to find it out here, like this? Become yourself again, become the man I loved so much that I begged him to stay, even when he told me I wasn’t worth staying for. I know you can.”

Joel thought for a moment.

What if you were right? What if there was still some kind of meaning to this fucked up world he was trapped in? It didn’t seem possible, not really. But you were impossible, too. You’d been impossible before the world ended and yet you’d existed. You had existed and you had chosen him.

“You loved me once,” you said softly.

“I still love you,” he said. “Always will.”

“Then try. For me. OK?”

You were looking at him, so full of hope and love that he couldn’t say no. He could never say no, not to you.

He took a deep breath.

“OK.”

You smiled and you were beautiful, still so beautiful.

“Thank you,” you said before you took a deep breath and turned your face toward the full moon like you were basking in the sun. “I think it’s time for me to go. But I’ll see you soon.”

He huffed, cynical, looking in front of again.

“Sure you’ll be back when I’m too tired to think straight,” he said.

“I’m sure I will,” he heard the smile in your voice. “But who knows? Maybe you won’t need me anymore, not once you find yourself again.”

He looked at you, frowning.

“What…”

“Take care of yourself for me,” you leaned in so close, close enough that, if you were real, he would feel the brush of your lips on his and smell the lavender of your shampoo. “I’ll always love you, Joel. Til the day I die.”

You were gone before he had a chance to respond, nothing but air and silence, the echo of a ghost in your wake.

He sighed and leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to think. Maybe a QZ wasn’t a terrible idea. They’d heard some halfway decent things about Boston lately. If they started heading that way now, they could be there before the snow flies.

And Boston, at least, was a new city. A place he’d never been, where there were no ghosts to haunt him. It was a good a place as any to try to become a person again. It was a good a place as any to try to move past you.

Joel settled in to his watch, deciding to talk to Tommy in the morning. He’d be on board. He always was, when Joel made up his mind.

And who knows, maybe he would find something in Boston worth flinching for.

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #lavender #joel miller x oc #angst #lavenderversary

102 notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 1 day

Photo

Britannicus

Britannicus (41-55 CE) was the second child and only son born to the Roman emperor Claudius (r. 41-54 CE) and Valeria Messalina (c. 20-48 CE). Seen as a threat by Claudius' fourth wife, Agrippina the Younger (15-59 CE), and her son, the future Nero (r. 54-68 CE), Britannicus was poisoned the night before his 14th birthday.

Early Childhood

Born on 12 February 41 CE, he was originally named Tiberius Claudius Caesar Germanicus; the name Britannicus was added after his father's invasion of Britain. In his The Twelve Caesars, the ancient historian Suetonius (69 to 130/140 CE) wrote, "Claudius would often pick little Britannicus up and show him to the troops or to the audience at the games either seated on his lap or held at arm's length" (197) Claudius had a son by his first wife Urgulanilla, but the boy died accidentally before coming of age, and Britannicus became the obvious choice to assume the purple upon the emperor's death. However, this would soon change when Claudius married his niece Agrippina the Younger (15-59 CE). The emperor's new wife brought with her a hidden agenda; she had high aspirations for her son, the future emperor Nero (r. 54-68 CE).

Agrippina the Younger was the daughter of Emperor Tiberius' (r. 14-37 CE) nephew Germanicus (15 BCE to 19 CE) and Agrippina the Elder (14 BCE to 33 CE), making her the great-granddaughter of Augustus (r. 27 BCE to 14 CE). Her marriage to Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus produced one son Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, the future Nero (b. 37 CE). Gnaeus, who died when Nero was three, was extremely violent and was described by his contemporaries as "a despicable character." Two years after Domitius' birth, Agrippina was exiled by her brother Caligula (r. 37-41 CE). After Caligula's assassination in 41 CE, one of Claudius' first acts was to recall her. Her strong ties to the Julio-Claudians would pose a serious challenge to young Britannicus' position as the emperor's heir and, unfortunately for Britannicus, the highly aggressive Agrippina would stop at nothing until little Domitius upended his position. According to Matthew Dennison in his The Twelve Caesars, Agrippina "was not distracted by bodily appetites; arrogance and an undistracting focus steadied her performance." (156)

In 40 CE Domitius' father died of dropsy. Upon her return to Rome from exile, the widowed Agrippina married Gaius Passienus Crispus, who had recently divorced Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus' sister Domitia. The marriage ended before 47 CE, possibly due to poisoning. Agrippina inherited his vast wealth, making her extremely rich. Widowed twice, she set her sights on husband number three: her uncle Claudius. Claudius showed little interest in obtaining another wife; there was still strong competition for the old emperor: Aelia Paetina (his second wife) and Lollia Paulina (Caligula's third wife). Lollia would later be exiled on the orders of Agrippina where a suicide would soon follow. However, Claudius' financial secretary Marcus Pallas favored Agrippina, and on 1 January 49 CE, she became Claudius' fourth wife.

Having married the emperor, her next objective was to secure the adoption of her son, and on 28 February 50 CE, Lucius Domitius became Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus Caesar. Suetonius wrote, "In his last years, Claudius made it pretty plain that he repented of having married Agrippina and adopted Nero" (204). Realizing, the possible danger posed by Nero and his mother, Claudius told his son repeatedly "to grow up quickly." With the adoption of Nero secured, Agrippina turned her attention to the one serious obstacle to her son becoming the emperor: Britannicus.

#History #AgrippinatheYounger #Britannicus #Claudius #WHE #[#]

24 notes · View notes

pitconfirmbutton · 1 year

Text

what's in a last name | mick schumacher

pairing: mick schumacher x oc (maria senna)

was the schumacher-senna fight going to be as competitive the second time around?

word count: 4.5k words warnings: death of loved ones, motorsport accidents, anxiety

not super happy with this one but wanted to get it out for y'all. most likely will be a part 2 :)

Ayrton Senna. Champion of 3 World Driver’s titles. Winner of 41 F1 Grand Prix. Holder of 65 pole positions. Driver for Toleman Motorsport, Lotus, McLaren and Renault. Father of one.

That one being Maria Senna. That’s me. I was born in São Paulo, Brazil on the 1st of May 1999. 5 years to the day after my father had died going into Tamburello at the Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari circuit in Italy.

I know what you’re thinking, that math doesn’t make sense. You’d be correct. My mother, Adriane Galisteu and my father had decided to try for children in 1994 and were unsuccessful. Ayrton wanted to be a dad more than anything in the world and as such they organised for IVF, a sample being taken from both of them. The crash happened and my mother swore she would never have kids, unable to face the pain of seeing even a tiny bit of Ayrton in someone else, wishing to never be reminded of the loss of him.

Life went on and my mother decided that she wanted to instead honour Ayrton’s legacy and as such the samples were used and 8 months and 24 days later, I was born. Maria Clara Senna da Silva. However, for most of my life, I went by Maria Clara Galisteu, hiding in plain sight. I had grown up hearing about my father’s talents and achievements, watching all his races on television. My cousin, Bruno would watch with me, placing me in a laundry basket and giving me a plate to steer with, copying his onboard footage.

My mother disapproved vehemently, not wishing to watch another loved one enter motorsport and succumb to the same demise as Ayrton. She knew she could not stop me from wanting to honour my father and my love for what he did. As such I began karting at the age of 6, Bruno taking me to his old karting track in between his British Formula 3 season. I adored it and picked it up quickly, feeling my happiest with a radiator to my left and an engine to my right. No one in Brazil compared to my talent, except for my close friend and “teammate” Felipe Drugovich. I say teammate lightly, his father helping me as a mechanic at karting races when Bruno was away.

Felipe and I got along like a house on fire, making our way to Europe together, both of us competing in Italian Formula 4 for the 2016 and 2017 seasons. It was here that I met some of my greatest friends; Marcus Armstrong, Juan Manuel Correa, Enzo Fittipaldi and Olli Caldwell.

It was also here that I met my biggest enemy, Mick Schumacher. I will be honest, but only because I’m telling you, I probably wouldn’t have hated him if it wasn’t for his last name. I was aware of my father’s battles with Michael, and this meant that I immediately held a grudge. I still remember him coming over to shake my hand, his bright red Prema hoodie making him impossible to miss. “Hey, it’s so nice to meet you, I’m Mick.” His hand suspended between us. “I know who you are,” was all I said, turning on my heels and walking back into the Van Amersfoort Racing trailer. “Spoilt brat” was all Mick whispered under his breath as I turned. I hadn’t told anyone who my father was and as such, I had no leg to stand on as to why I was angry at him. Chatting to Juan Manuel one day he had asked about Mick. “Why do you hate him so much?” I pushed my pasta around the bowl a bit. “I don’t hate him, he’s just so up himself.” “Wait, are we talking about the same person?” “Oh yeah, I forgot, it’s probably in your contract to protect the Prema golden boy.” “Give him a chance, Maria.” “No thanks.”

I was meticulous, always the first driver to the track and the last one to leave. I would go over data for hours, spend time with my engineers and walk the track as much as I needed. I was a winner and I was a winner because I put in more work than anyone else. Although in 2016, I placed second, the first loser to my number one rival, Mick Schumacher. But in 2017, I won.

2018 brought on a move to the FIA Formula 3 Championship, staying with Van Amersfoort Racing. I kept my friends and I kept my discipline. The way I held myself, trained, practised and raced brought the attention of a few driver academies. Nothing would have prepared me for the email I received halfway through 2018, the header filled with papaya orange and the footer containing the speedy kiwi. “I am taking us home, dad.”

2018 involved me coming second… again, to Mick Schumacher… again. I was beyond annoyed but I was able to move up to Formula 2 for 2019, moving to Prema of all places, alongside Mick himself. I was peeved but I knew the car was fast and I knew I could ignore him like I had the last 3 years. He was not going to ruin this for me now. With my McLaren backing, I had a real shot to get to Formula 1, I needed these super license points and I was ready to do anything to get them.

“Do you ever have fun?” Mick had said as he entered our driver’s trailer, watching me highlight my data and analyse a different graph on my iPad. “It is fun, you’d find it fun too if you won more.” I quipped back. He scoffed and sat down next to me at the table. I slid my notes and data up into a pile and put it in my bag, turning to look at him, arms crossed and an unamused expression on my face. “Can I help you, Schumacher?” I straightened my back, making myself seem scarier than I was. “Yeah, you can actually! I want to know why you hate me so much! You are friends with everyone, except me. Why?” He looked exasperated, flailing his hands around in a way that I had never seen before from the usually composed and cool-headed German. “You are just so entitled, Mick! Using your last name to get you wherever you need to go! Showing it off to the world like it is something to be so smug about. You know some of us had to work to get here, right? On merit and hard work!” I had stood up, knocking my chair to the ground, pointing down at him. He stood to match me. “How dare you, Maria! I can’t help that I am my father’s son and I cannot help that I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to make it to where I am. But you know what, I would give it all up, in a single second, if it meant that I got to talk to my dad one more time. If I got to hear him say he loved me one more time. So yeah, I have the most powerful last name in Formula 1 history, but I wear it like a fucking badge of honour because every day I go out on track, I can only hope to be half the driver that he was. That is something that you will never understand.” He was breathing heavily, piercing me with his blue eyes. “You’re not the only one with a father who is no longer here, Mick” and with that I stormed out of the trailer, ready to run the track 2 more times to purge my brain of the conversation.

I won that weekend, at the Hungaroring. A place my father had taken 3 wins in Formula 1. I smiled up at him on that podium, hoping that I was making him proud. I turned to my right, briefly looking at Mick, wondering if he thought the same thing every time he was on a podium too. I wondered if he was thinking about his dad’s four wins here in Hungary. I shook my head slightly, fighting to free the thought of how similar we were. I didn’t want us to be, but there was no denying it.

Five. That was the number. The number of wins that my father had taken here at Spa-Francorchamps. I was hoping to have my first. I knew Mick was too.

“Red flag, red flag, red flag!” My heart sunk. I had watched the two cars collide in my mirrors. The bright pink car turning to scattered pieces in less than a second. Being around motorsport for my whole life, I knew, I could tell. It was not good. And for the first time in my racing career, I realised that I couldn’t breathe. I’d never felt like this before. “Oh my god” was all my lungs could push out down the radio as I headed back to the pits.

“Everything ok, Maria? Do you have a puncture? You are traveling quite slow but we can’t see anything here on the data.” I couldn’t answer, I could barely breathe and I felt like my world was going to collapse. The 1st of May 1995 had come flooding back to my mind, but this time, instead of my father, it was my friend, a good friend at that. In that moment, as I sat in my car, finally back in the pits, I experienced the grief of my father’s death 24 years ago. An event I never had to mourn until now.

I was suffocating and suddenly my suit was too tight, my harness felt like vines trying to pull me to hell and my helmet felt like it was trying to kill me, compressing my head. I was clawing at my neck, unable to find my zipper or my helmet strap with my gloves on but when I tried to remove them, my fingers didn’t move. I told them to and they didn’t. I realised in that moment that I had been screaming, the sound so muffled by my helmet and the roar of engines, the blast of sirens and the chatter of people. But then my neck didn’t feel as constricted and when I lulled my head, I was staring back at Mick. He flipped my visor up, the breeze stinging my tear stained face. “Let’s get you out of here, ok?” And with that, my harness was undone and I was lifted from my car. My legs gave way and my sobs were so much louder now, Mick propping me up as he rushed me through the garage to our trailer.

I didn’t stop crying once, I was babbling nonsense as Mick lifted me to sit on a workbench in our trailer. “Can you take your helmet off?” He had asked, looking straight into my eyes, watching the tears flow. I shook my head, no, I couldn’t, I couldn’t even think right now. It took me about 13 more restricted breaths before I realised that my vision was becoming blurred and I could no longer distinguish Mick’s freckles from his complexion. He turned to wave someone over but it didn’t matter, I was out.

My eyes fluttered open, squinting from the harsh light that shone from the trailer roof. I moved my limbs slightly, feeling the hard massage bed beneath me. Turning to my left, I saw Mick. He hadn’t seen me wake yet but as I looked closer, I began to notice just how badly he was doing. He had his head in his hands, his shoulders moving occasionally, soft sobs echoing through the room. He was now back in his Prema hoodie and tracksuit pants, I had clearly been out for a while. “Mick.” I was surprised that my voice was even audible. He looked up and my heart broke and for the first time, I saw a scared boy. He no longer towered over me, he crumpled where he sat and his usually rosy cheeks looked pale and tear-stained. “Hey” was all I got from him. I stood up to sit next to him, transferring my weight from the bed to the bench that I had been propped up on not so long ago.

“Was it Anthoine?” I couldn’t look at Mick, if I did, I would break all over again. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. I am sorry Maria, I know you guys were close.” I nodded, looking down at my lap. “What.. what happened to you on that in lap?” He finally faced me. I knew he would have asked, I was always so fierce and composed, my breaking down was unheard of. I tossed my options up in my head but when I turned to look at Mick, I knew then that he could have asked anything of me and I would have. His eyes were watery but kind, not how I remembered them to be before that, always so beady and harsh. His hand rested on mine, softly to test the waters but then his fingers curled encasing my hand in his. I had to tell him. It was only fair. I knew he would keep my secret, if only because he knew my pain.

“My dad.” I was scared to say more than that but I knew it wasn’t enough to explain the situation. He surveyed my face, picking up on my need for him to continue the conversation. “It reminds you of your father’s passing?” He spoke timidly, without his confident facade, weary of upsetting me and ruining our first proper chance at friendship. I nodded in confirmation of his question. “He was a racer? He drove cars too?” Again I nodded, willing myself to finally speak any words. He smiled at my nod, resonating with the bond that children have with their father’s legacies. “Was he in NASCAR or Indy? Rally?” I could tell that Mick was racking his brain trying to place my surname. It was obvious that he knew all the F1 drivers and none of them shared my last name. “No. F1.” The way his head flicked towards me, trying to catch my eye to see if I was joking. I wasn’t. He was racking his brain for a question to ask, to confirm it. He wasn’t stupid, here was a Brazilian girl in front of him, the same age and there was only one possibility.

“Imola?” He leaned back, waiting for my reaction. I nodded. He didn’t react, just turned to look straight ahead, processing the information. “But, how could you be my age if-“ “IVF, yeah” I knew he would ask. He nodded again, seeing that it added up. “Does anyone know?” He turned to me again, his eyes softening. “No, no one, well except Bruno and my mother obviously. Not even Felipe does.” I sighed, it felt almost refreshing to be able to get this off of my chest and tell someone.

“I think in that car hearing the red flag called, that was the first time I properly grieved my father’s death. It had always seemed too far away and impossible but it happened again. I have never felt sadness like I have now.”

We sat together in silence until the team came and got us. It was only when Bruno, who had been acting as my manager during this time, gave me a weird look and I realised that Mick and I had been holding hands, finding comfort in one another as we processed the events of the day and the revelation I had dropped. Bruno’s look quickly softened when he realised just how upset I was, my eyes still watery and my skin pale. I thought at that moment, that I had hit rock bottom, that nothing would ever feel as painful as how my heart felt right there. But I think we both know that I wouldn’t be saying that if it was the case. Life has a way of kicking us when we are down and it kicked me hard.

Mick had messaged me throughout that week and over the next few races we had grown closer. Not friends just yet but we were amicable and I always felt his watchful eye on me. During interviews, training, conferences and racing I felt for the first time like I had someone ready to catch me if I fell. I showed my vulnerable side and through that, I had gained a confidante. He hadn’t told a soul of my secret and I was grateful. I suspected it was because he understood my desire to stay invisible, to be able to have the opportunity to rise through the ranks myself, a privilege, I realised, he never got. I had reflected on my comments towards him and had apologised, he knew now that I was merely projecting but I still felt bad.

The last race of the season was at Yas Marina, both F2 and F1 ending the 2019 season here. I was expected to win but I was only leading Mick in the championship by 7 points. It was close. I wanted to win and I hated all of the remarks from broadcasters and even my team of, ‘you can win the championship if he comes second and you get at least third, fourth or fifth’. I know they were trying to show me how possible it was, how I was right there, to win the championship in my rookie season and to be the first woman to win an F2 championship. I knew it settled my nerves, my engineer going over it all with me so that radio messages during the race made sense when comparing my results to Mick but I just wanted to be first. It was in my nature and no one would stop me.

As I walked through the paddock, my headphones in, the sound of rock pouring into my ears, I knew that I belonged here, stopping into the Mercedes garage, I quickly said hello to Lewis, who had been an avid support of mine, both on talent and my battle to overcome my diversity. He gave me a hug and a good luck and I was on my way again. As I walked the paddock, I became more and more aware of the eyes on me, engineers stopped what they were doing to point and whisper, broadcasters looking at me too. I was confused, obviously I was well known, I was leading the F2 championship currently but there had never been a reception like this, especially from the F1 teams who were always too busy (or too important) to care. I started my way back to the Prema motorhome, the stares starting to freak me out.

One second I was walking past a short alleyway between trailers and the next I was leaning against one, my shoulders being held and my eyes looking straight at Mick, his eyes filled with worry. The more I looked over him, the more I realised how dishevelled he looked, hair messy, face glowing with sweat and breathing heavily. “Mick, get off me. What is going on?” I stood up, straightening my hair with my hand. “I swear it wasn’t me. I would never do that to you. I promise. I’m so sorry and we will figure this out together. I’m by your side.” He muttered out, his ramblings so foreign compared to his usual composed and calm speech. “What are you talking about?” I hadn’t a clue what was going on. “Oh god. You haven’t heard yet, have you?” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, tapping through an app before passing it to me.

“I’m so sorry, Maria. I needed to find you before anyone else did and let you know” His eyes were wide and his brows furrowed, pleading with me to believe him. My first instinct was to be mad at him, be so furious that I kicked and screamed and threw punches but I just knew it wasn’t him. If my teammate was anyone else, I wouldn’t have believed them but we had lived such similar lives, I knew he couldn’t betray me like that. “I believe you, Mick.” His shoulder tension dropping at my affirmation of his innocence. “What do I do now?” I was genuinely clueless. I had always had a plan in life, everything following as I had planned, but now… I had nothing. “Let’s go back to the garage and see what we can do next, Rene can handle this.”

My hands had never been as sweating as they were sitting in that conference room. I looked around the circular table, Rene, Mick, Bruno and then myself, that was it. “It’s true, Rene. I should have told you and I understand if you are mad but I really was just trying to make it on my own. I didn’t want to wear my father’s name like a label.” He nodded and smiled. “I know, Maria, I know. What do you want to come from this?” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand, giving me a sympathetic thin-lipped smile. He was like a father to me and what I imagined it would be like to have Ayrton around still, he was always pushing me, always wanting me to do more, but he was so proud of my achievements and wanted the best for me. “I don’t want to say anything until after the race. Please.” He nodded. “No media until after the race, you decide then what your answer to everyone’s question is. Same for you, Mick, no media.” He smiled and then let it drop, remembering that him being excused from media was because my identity was being leaked. It made me smile a little if nothing else. “Also, I have spoken to a few people around the team and apparently one of the mechanics leaked this to the press. He overheard you both talking after Spa and wanted to make some money off of this. I am truly sorry, Maria. He was been let go of immediately and if you would like, we can pursue legal action.” All I could do was nod, what was done, was done. But it was race time and I needed to focus.

In true Mick fashion, I had gotten a fist bump and a smile and good luck before the race. The Prema garage was tense but excited. No one knew what was about to happen but they were keen to find out, much like we were too. I won’t get into the final race, if you are reading this, then you probably know the results and if you don’t, have a look on F1TV, it wasn’t a bad race, although I may be pretty biased. All I can say is that, as I jumped from my car, parked behind the sign with a one printed on it, I was on top of the world. I wasn’t thinking about my father, about my team, about my mother back in Brazil… I was actually thinking about the person driving the car that pulled up behind number two. Who sprung out of their car like there was a fire and who picked me up and twirled me around like I weighed nothing. Up on the podium, as the Brazilian national anthem played, I looked to my right and wondered if Mick had the same thought as me, the next generation of Senna and Schumacher, the future greats battling it out on track.

“Yes.”

“Sorry Maria, what do you mean?”

“I know what you were about to ask me, yes.”

“We were trying to do the math before an-”

“IVF. Any other questions?”

“Is it true that you like the second-generation Schumacher more than your father liked the first?”

Looking over my shoulder, Mick was graciously completing interviews and my heart swelled. I wasn’t dumb. I had known all along that my projection of my own fatherly situation and my supposed hatred of him was to mask how I really felt. That the first day we ever met, when he came over, Italy coloured hoodie on and introduced himself, it had been love at first sight. Nothing had changed and looking at him now, chatting away with pride after just narrowly coming second in the championship, my heart felt the same love.

“He wishes.”

The next season, 2020, Mick had won the F2 championship and I was spending my time as the McLaren reserve driver, beside Carlos Sainz and Lando Norris, soaking in every detail I could and trying to honour my father’s legacy as much as possible. 2021 involved Mick in Alfa Romeo with Valtteri Bottas and myself now in the second seat at McLaren with Lando Norris.

4 years with our teams, blood, sweat and tears both on and off track. A few pole positions and a few race wins, a few crashes and a few too many DNF’s (although if you ask me, 1 is too many). Our love grew and was tested daily but I knew that nothing was ever going to change how I felt about Mick. He was the smell of pine amongst the ice of Swiss mountains, he was the reflection the sun made on the sand underneath the shallow ocean water and he was the soft crackle that a fireplace made. He was my comfort and my support through everything. We were private but never secretive and I knew that if he asked me to give up racing, I would in a heartbeat but he never would, it wasn’t in his nature.

I looked up from my laptop, a soft knock rousing me from my work. “Are you writing right now? On your wedding day, oh my goodness, Maria, no!” Lily was standing there in her bridesmaid dress, hair curled and makeup on. “You need to get your dress on, Lewis, you were meant to be keeping her on track.” She gestured to the man lounging on a desk chair, who sprung into action at realising the time. “Shit, Maria, you need to get ready!” Lily rolled her eyes. “We are all ready to go, so dress on and let’s get you married, hey?” I nodded and slipped into my dress, Lewis helping when I called for him to do the zip for me. With my shoes on, I was ready to marry the love of my life. “He would be so proud of you, prodígio. I just know it.” I smiled back at him as we waited in the entrance room of one of the Schumacher ranch barns. Having converted the whole property for our wedding. White flowers adorned the area, small candles in jars and a line of luxury cars, it was us to a tee.

As I met Mick at the end of the aisle, I had to tilt my head back, stopping the tears that brimmed. “You look utterly breathtaking, Liebling.” He was in awe and I felt more beautiful than I ever had. “You don’t look so bad too.” “Wait, is it going to be Schumacher-Senna or Senna-Schumacher?” He furrowed his brows together, wanting to make sure his vows were correct, I chuckled. “Take a guess, Mick. The Senna name won a championship first.” We giggled with each other before the minister started his speech. All I could do was look into those beautiful blue eyes and know everything would be okay.

#mick schumacher #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher x you #mick schumacher fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic

233 notes · View notes

footprintsinthesxnd · 5 months

Text

The Lark’s Song

Summary: Florence Lark joined the ENSA to do her part for the war effort. On a daily basis she is surrounding by charming young men, so why would David Webster the any different. His blunt personality seems to draw her in but with the world at war, can they make it through? Warnings: not too many warnings for this chapter, some swearing

When Two Hearts Meet

Florence tapped her foot rhythmically against the wooden floorboards of the stage, as the music played out from the band around her. Some light chattering from the men in the front row distracted her, eyes hovering over the man at the end of the row, who seemed too engrossed in his novel to listen to her singing. As the instrumental section came to an end she took a deep breath, drifting across the stage as she began to sing again.

“We'll meet again

Don't know where

Don't know when”

Florence preferred singing to the English troops, they always knew all the words and would sing along with her. It was in those moments that Florence felt that she was doing the most good to help boost their morale. The American troops, however, seemed disinterested. Too many of them were smoking, playing cards and talking, but the one dark-haired soldier at the front bothered her the most, his nose buried in a red, leather bond novel. A few of the officers at the back watched her intently, swaying along to the music, whether it was more out of respect for her or because they didn’t have any other plans for their Saturday evening. As the song came to an end, a pathetic round of applause followed and Florence found herself excusing herself, leaving the band playing Glenn Millers' ‘In The Mood’.

Florence lit the cigarette, bringing it to her red lips and inhaling the nicotine deeply, warmth filling her lungs until she exhaled, watching as the smoke wafted gently into the starry night sky. She wondered if her brother, Tom, was looking up at the same sky right now. Whether he was looking up at the same moon somewhere in Normandy. Her father probably was. He often sat in the small back garden of their terraced house, looking up at the sky for any planes. He had been in the Royal Flying Corps back in The Great War before it had become the RAF. He’d flown a Bristol Type 22 two-seater fighter plane with his best friend, Eddie. Eddie had sadly lost his life when their plane crashed which was the same accident where her father lost his right leg. He had been desperate to sign up again when war was declared in 1939, thinking that if he went to fight it would spare his son but being 41 and only having one leg meant he wouldn’t be accepted, so he’d signed up for the home guard instead. Florence often wondered whether having a uniform again gave her father a sense of purpose. After their mother died 8 years ago he’d been lost but had put all his effort into raising his two children and being the best father he could. This was probably why both Florence and Tom had such a good relationship with their father.

Florence took another long drag of her cigarette when she was interrupted by someone clearing their throat behind her. She spun around quickly, expecting to see a half-cut paratrooper trying to make some kind of advance towards her. She’d had to fight off her fair share of unwanted attention from soldiers before and she wasn’t afraid to sock it to them. Instead, she was met by a rather handsome, kind-faced man. His lips pulled upwards into a friendly smile but as Florence’s eyes drifted over his frame she couldn’t help but roll her eyes when she saw the red leather-bound book held tightly in his right hand.

“Oh, it’s you. Sorry, I don’t do private shows, if you didn’t pay attention the first time that’s your loss.” She turned her back to him, allowing her eyes to settle once again across the rooftops of Aldbourne.

“It’s nothing personal,” he spoke up, moving to stand beside her. Florence could feel the hairs on her arms prickly in his presence and a light blush spread across her cheeks. “I just think once you hear one singer, you’ve heard them all. It’s always the same songs, the same dances. It just doesn’t hold my interest anymore.”

Florence snorted, turning to face the man who decided it was a good idea to insult her entire career.

“So what do you want, some strip tease or something? I’m sorry if the ENSA is too tame for you, Mr…?”

“David. I’m David Kenyon Webster,” he reached his large hand forward to greet her but she just brushed him off. “Well Mr Webster, I’m sorry if it’s too tame for you. Maybe you should try some of the London clubs if you’d rather have that sort of entertainment.”

David Webster looked rather shocked by her outburst but reached out towards her.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.” He looked at her sincerely. “I’m just not like the others I guess.”

“Well, at least you sat through the whole performance. Most of your comrades either left or started playing cards. I think your officers only stayed out of sympathy.”

David nodded slowly, contemplating what to say next. “If it’s any consolation it’s not your singing. Your voice is beautiful but most of us have sat through quite a few performances and since Normandy, I guess we’ve all lost something.”

Florence nodded understanding, “I understand what you mean. My brother Tom was at Dunkirk. The last time I saw him he was so different. He’s lost the spark from his eyes, the light.”

David placed a hand on Florence’s shoulder, looking down at her, his chocolate eyes glistening under the light of the moon, illuminating his pale features in contrast to his full head of brunette hair. His eyes were tired, dark purple shadows enveloped his eyes and his forehead was wrinkled with worry lines. He was handsome. Florence had rarely found any of the soldiers she sang for actually attractive, many of them thought they were good-looking and certainly acted in that way but David was different. He was the kind of man who didn’t realise how handsome he was.

“Thank you, David.”

He smiled brightly at her. “You’re welcome.”

“So, what book was taking up so much of your attention?” Florence asked, reaching out to grasp the small book, prising it from David’s fingers and fingering the pages carefully. David just watched in amusement as her eyes danced over the pages.

“Oh well, that’s not what I was expecting. I didn’t realise Paratroopers read classic,” she mused, enjoying the feel of his eyes watching her fondly.

“Well most of us don’t. I’m an exception,” he chided, allowing his shoulders to relax now that he no longer felt as though he was under interrogation. Florence handed the book back to him, “I approve. It’s good to know some of you read more things than Dick Tracey and Flash Gordon.”

Webster scoffed, “Yes. I feel that many of them lack the basic, functional skills to hold an adult conversation.”

“Well you’re right there,” Florence smiled up at Webster and he could feel his cheeks heating up under her gaze once more. “It was a pleasure talking to you Webster but I really must be getting back before the boys start to miss me.” She squeezed passed him and Webster chased himself for staring at her like a fool instead of moving aside.

“I look forward to hearing you sing again,” he called after her and to this she just laughed, not bothering to turn around and Webster watched as his hips swayed rhythmically in her red dress as she disappeared.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Lover Boy Webster. Who’d have thought the infamous Florence ‘I don’t take shit from anyone’ Lark would let the likes of Webster into her panties,” Leibgott’s dulcet tones called from behind him, followed by the sniggers from Luz and Toye.

“Oh give it a rest, Liebgott and Florence’s panties are none of your business,” Webster snapped, his glare harsh as he watched the three men appear from behind the tent.

“Who knew Webster could be so jealous,” Luz gave a low whistle but Webster wasn’t about to wait around to hear what else they had to say. He extinguished the cigarettes he’d just lit, stomping it out under his boot and following the music back into the tent. Florence's voice called to him, wafting like a soft lullaby and pulling him back inside. She was like some sort of mermaid, dragging him down to the deep but also like a songbird singing life into these dark days. Webster wasn’t sure when he’d become so poetic, especially about a woman but he found himself scribbling notes in the back of his notebook, her name flowing from his pen like he’d been writing it his whole life.

Tags: @georgieluz @iceman-kazansky @yeahcurrahhe-e @lieutenant-speirs @blvestxr @dustyjumpwjngs @theflyingfin @jump-wings @kafka-ohdear @kmc1989 @mads-weasley @docroesmorphine @liptonsbabe @lena-basilone @sweetxvanixlla @hesbuckcompton-baby @ronsparky @allthingsimagines @whollyjoly @bucky32557038ww2 @panzershrike-pretz @malarkgirlypop @hanniewinnix @inglourious-imagines @l13bg0tt

#the larks song #david webster x oc #david webster x reader #band of brothers

39 notes · View notes

duckies27 · 1 month

Text

I promised it, now I deliver.

Spoilers for Episode 41 of Grotethe, however the events proceeding this fic are slightly made up because of the cliffhanger given

@demis-alted, as requested

Trigger warning for mentions of infertility and unhealthy family relationships!

The ringing in Ellga's ears didn't seem to stop, dispute them all practically beating their way through the threat. The danger that her own sister called on them. She was currently being held in the library with the Countess and Qwuifly as they kept talking behind her back. She looked around the room, the mess she had caused. The mess Evenna had caused. She silently tore away from the group, locking herself in her room.

"Just separate yourself." The count always said, even if Evenna was to blame. After all these years, it was the only advice she was ever given. It was always her fault, she always felt so alone. If only she hadn't met them. They saved her, they showed her how she deserved to be treated. How could she ever go back?!

Meanwhile, Chip was still shaking out of the charm. It made him sick to his stomach to see how Ellga was treated in this house. Her mother didn't care, her sister was seemingly crazy, and her father was completely gone. Seemingly on trial. He sighed, sitting down on the couch.

Barney sat next to him. "I tried to snap you out faster...this whole place is evil." He pulled out a small ball of yarn and unravelled it as his brow furrowed. "But Ellga isn't. This entire place is cursed and full of danger, but I still care deeply for her. I would protect her with my life." The cleric sighed, his eyes glowing blue. "Maybe she just reminds me of my own family. Maybe it's because her own isn't supportive. I don't know. I just want to get her, and Marnie, and the boys...I want to get them all out of here."

Chip rubbed his temple, eyes on Ellga's locked door. "She seemed so uncomfortable with them. Trying to prove herself to...I don't know." He moved to gently rubbing the base of his horns. Something Carol used to do. Even if it was still raw, still painful, he was coming to terms with it. He needed to focus on Ellga right now. Be the parent in her life she didn't have. "Someone should check on her."

"You should check on her." A voice called from the door. As both men looked up to them, Mathide was standing in the doorway, arms folded and wings puffed out. Not much shook the bird to the point their wings needed preening, but the alarm terrified all of them. "Barney is too emotional with his family, and...I'm not great with this mushy feely stuff. She trusts you, Chip." As they moved closer to the couch, their hands mindlessly ran through the puffed up feathers. JJ (Gee Gee) rested on their shoulder, nuzzled against their neck. They shook as they sat on the couch, squishing Chip slightly. Almost as if saying he should go in another way.

He sighed. "Fine. Fine. I'll go, just expect us to be out of commission for a while." Pressing on his knees, he pushed himself off the couch. His tail swayed a bit as he regained his balance, still dizzy from the spell. Barney put a hand on his back to keep him from fumbling.

"Up you go, up you go." A few small pats sent Chip forward to the locked door. Healing word gave him a few more health points and the shaky confidence to try and be a father.

No matter how hard they tried, they never managed to conceive. Of course, it makes sense because Carol was a hag. She couldn't have a child in the normal sense, no matter how badly they wanted to. No matter how many times they tried. His heart broke every time she told him she wasn't pregnant. It only hurt more knowing they never could have a baby anymore. He gulped back the pain and softly knocked on the door. Even if Ellga wasn't his real daughter, he didn't care. Family was family, even without blood.

Sadly, Ellga wasn't in the space to talk. The knock just got a loud, painful sounding hiss from her. It was between sobs as she held Boris. Evenna wasn't the same, it was clear she wasn't ever really welcome here. The Count loved her, but he was on trial for some reason. Mother had left so long ago she didn't even feel love towards her, and she just wanted to run away from this stupid tower.

Another knock.

She hissed louder, but it strained her throat and caused her to cough pretty loudly. "G-go away! I don't wanna talk!" She curled around herself on the bed, hiccuping weakly. "I-i know you didn't come back for me or Evenna! And i-i-i know you don't really care about me!" She couldn't fight the rage forming in her chest, nor the tears streaming down her face. Oh, how she hated crying.

"Kiddo, I do care about you." A familiar Midwestern accent called out from the hall. "This family may not, but we sure do." His voice cracked a bit as he choked back tears. "Mathide loves you like a little sister, Barney sees you as his own granddaughter and-" he could hold back the tears for much longer as he tried to say the most important part. "You're my kid, Ellga. Even if your blood is horrible to you, I will always give you love and safety and-" Chip weakly sobbed out, leaning against the door. "You deserve to be happy..."

Small footsteps ran over and unlocked the door. Chip took a step back before the door swung open. The two of them stood for a moment, both crying. Hurt in different ways, but almost the only people who could heal each other. Chip dropped to his knees and opened his arms for her, and Ellga quickly ran into them. She still just hugged Boris, as Chip's strong arms gently hugged her and scooped her up.

"i-i-i just wanted everything to be normal, b-b-b-b-but I love you guys more than them, I don't wanna stay, I don't wanna stay!" She hiccuped painfully, shoving her face into his neck.

Chip hushed her, rubbing her back. "I know Kiddo. I know." He headed back to the couch with the rest of their party. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to." He forced himself back into the center of them all. He carefully loosened his grip, eyes soft. "I promise."

She weakly nodded, shifting to give Mathide a tight hug. After getting the squeeze she wanted and a soft hair ruffle, she shifted to hug Barney. He also squeezed her tight, kissing her forehead. Finally, the vampire settled back against Chip's chest. Still crying a bit, but calmer.

"...Chip?"

"Yeah, Ellga?"

"I love you."

Tears pricked at his eyes again, but he just hugged her tighter. "I love you too, Kiddo."

#tales from the stinky dragon #stinky dragon pod #tftsd #ellga von brath #chip haney #barney farney #mathilde confiseuse #mini fic #angst fanfic #hurt/comfort #father daughter duo #bonding #please they're a family #so cute please

20 notes · View notes

sassyfrassboss · 10 months

Note

NYPOST: Meghan Markle ‘feels’ Kate Middleton ‘got away with’ mistreating her: source

By Samantha Ibrahim

August 2, 2023 9:43am Updated

Tensions between sisters-in-law Meghan Markle and Kate Middleton have been bubbling ever since the former actress married Prince Harry in 2018, according to some loose-lipped royal watchers.

An infamous incident allegedly occurred when the Duchess of Sussex, 41, claimed Middleton, also 41, made her burst into tears just days before her nuptials at St. George’s Chapel.

Five years on, their apparently glacial relationship is still making headlines, and Markle believes that the Duchess of Cambridge and her husband, Prince William, 41, still haven’t taken responsibility for their hostile actions.

“Meghan feels they’ve never been held accountable for the way they treated her when she was part of the royals, have never apologized and have seemingly got away with it,” an unnamed source dished, according to the Mirror.

The star of the suddenly record-setting TV series “Suits” is also allegedly shocked at the lack of criticism of the Prince and Princess of Wales.

Harry and Markle have hyped numerous projects — such as the Invictus Games founder’s memoir “Spare” and the duo’s Netflix documentary series — in which they spoke out against the United Kingdom’s royal family.

Another insider added that Markle was “convinced” the public would be on her side regarding the feud with the Firm.

However, “that hasn’t happened,” according to the self-proclaimed insider.

“This isn’t how she envisioned things would turn out, but Meghan knows the truth and will tell anyone who will listen that Kate had an edge [over] her.”

The Post has reached out to reps for Prince Harry and Markle for comment on the latest accusations.

Meanwhile, the big wedding debacle of ’18 started when Middleton reportedly told Markle there was an issue with her daughter Princess Charlotte’s bridesmaid dress.

This allegedly led to a series of sobs between the two women.

It was first alleged at the time that it was the Los Angeles native who made Middleton cry, however, in a 2021 bombshell interview with Oprah Winfrey, Markle attempted to set the record straight.

She claimed that it was in fact Middleton who made her shed a few tears.

“The reverse happened,” the Tig creator told the media titan, 69, in the joint chat with Harry.

“A few days before the wedding, she was upset about something pertaining to — the issue was correct, about the flower girl dresses and it made me cry and it really hurt my feelings,” she said.

Markle continued: “And I don’t say that to be disparaging to anyone because it was a really hard week of the wedding and she was upset about something. But she owned it and she apologized and she brought me flowers and a note apologizing and she did what I would do if I knew that I hurt someone.”

“I’ve forgiven her,” she added of the aftermath where she buried the hatchet with Middleton.

In “Spare,” Harry also recalled the wedding incident, writing that he found Markle crying on the floor after the University of St. Andrews graduate almost demanded that all of the bridesmaid dresses be remade just a few days before the marriage ceremony.

I am going to answer this point by point so it is long:

Tensions between sisters-in-law Meghan Markle and Kate Middleton have been bubbling ever since the former actress married Prince Harry in 2018, according to some loose-lipped royal watchers.

-No, The Princess of Wales has risen above and done her duty impeccably even when she wanted to deck the b****.

An infamous incident allegedly occurred when the Duchess of Sussex, 41, claimed Middleton, also 41, made her burst into tears just days before her nuptials at St. George’s Chapel.

-Again with Meghan being UNABLE to let things go. She is going to be talking about this on her death bed. She truly felt that because she cried later, on the floor sobbing where only Harry found her, she was the mistreated one.

-The only reason this “feud” is still making headline is because it is the only way for Meghan to get any attention whatsoever and have her name mentioned in the same sentence as “Princess of Wales.” Also, William and Catherine do not have to take any responsibility for their actions when said actions were more than warranted at the time. Meghan was/is a bully and they stood up to her which is why she is angry. She felt she was educating them on how to live their lives and they told her to bugger off which is incomprehensible to her.

-What do they need to apologize for? I believe it was Meghan who bullied Catherine for having “baby brain” and when pointed out to her that was uncalled for and mean, MEGHAN is the one that took offence at having been reprimanded for something SHE DID. She felt it was rude of them to call her out but by God, William and Catherine had better hand over the kings to the kingdom for all of their wrongdoings to Meghan.

The star of the suddenly record-setting TV series “Suits” is also allegedly shocked at the lack of criticism of the Prince and Princess of Wales.

-Oh please…it’s streaming on Netflix and there is literally nothing else to watch right now. Plus I doubt her residuals are anything substantial.

-The one where they didn’t get the Emmy nod…hehehehehe…

Another insider added that Markle was “convinced” the public would be on her side regarding the feud with the Firm.

However, “that hasn’t happened,” according to the self-proclaimed insider.

“This isn’t how she envisioned things would turn out, but Meghan knows the truth and will tell anyone who will listen that Kate had an edge [over] her.”

-No. Meghan was convinced that the BRF would be on her side to begin with, most importantly she wanted William on her side because she wanted him to love/admire her and hate Catherine. When that didn’t happen she turned it as a “me against them” story and in the end she came out the villain instead of the victim. Catherine was ALWAYS going to have an edge over her. Catherine is married to the heir to the throne and will one day be Queen. Just because Meghan thought herself to be better than Catherine didn’t mean others would.

The Post has reached out to reps for Prince Harry and Markle for comment on the latest accusations.

-The will deny or not respond because all of this came from them anyways.

Meanwhile, the big wedding debacle of ’18 started when Middleton reportedly told Markle there was an issue with her daughter Princess Charlotte’s bridesmaid dress.

This allegedly led to a series of sobs between the two women.

It was first alleged at the time that it was the Los Angeles native who made Middleton cry, however, in a 2021 bombshell interview with Oprah Winfrey, Markle attempted to set the record straight.

She claimed that it was in fact Middleton who made her shed a few tears.

“The reverse happened,” the Tig creator told the media titan, 69, in the joint chat with Harry.

“A few days before the wedding, she was upset about something pertaining to — the issue was correct, about the flower girl dresses and it made me cry and it really hurt my feelings,” she said.

“I’ve forgiven her,” she added of the aftermath where she buried the hatchet with Middleton.

-Again she is like a Pit Bull with this story. She will NEVER let it go that people saw her for who she truly is and then didn’t buy her side of the story. She hasn’t and will never forgive Catherine because Catherine was rightfully upset and Meghan was the evil SIL.

-So Givenchy anon claims this is because the dresses were poorly made and Meghan kept changing her mind. This all had nothing to do with Catherine and everything to do with Meghan acting crazy.

69 notes · View notes

lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 1 year

Text

From the Ashes Pt.1

Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader, onesided Jaime Lannister x Lannister!Reader

Warnings: none

Words: 2181

Summary: A year has passed since (y/n) and her brother Jaime fled from King's Landing to the vast and foreign world of Essos.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60

Book Two of Heir of Ash and Fire

Book One of Heir of Ash and Fire

The warm heat that blazed from the sun above the city of Myr hit you hard as you ran through the streets, breathing heavily with burning lungs. Sweat collected at your hairline and ran down your face nearly blinding you.

You had to keep going though.

Around that corner and then another. Leaping over crates and barrels and trying your best not to run into people. They already looked at you as if you were crazy. Surely though they must have seen stranger things than a young lady running around the city with a sword.

One backstreet led you right to a dead end and you internally curse.

A scuffle of a boot behind you alerts you to the man you had been running from. Taking a deep breath you angle your sword.

He charges at you, swinging his sword. You block it but the impact pushes you back against the stone wall. Sword hand trembling, you use all the strength you had acquired to push him back.

“C’mon, little sister.” Jaime grins. He could’ve easily overpowered you. “Utilize what I taught you.”

You willed your sword to slide along his blade as you dodged him, pivoting here and there and blocking each of his attacks. Jaime grinned.

“Good girl.” He praised you and grew even more ferocious with his swings. His feet moving in a dizzying dance as you became his flustered partner. You kept your mind numb though and easily fell into place. That is until Jaime knocked the sword from your hand. You tumble to the ground, still fearful that he might accidentally cut you. Hot dirt and dust kicked up into your face as you panted, trying to catch your breath.

Jaime held out a hand to you. “You did very well this time (y/n). You’re getting better at holding your own. In a fight.”

“Do you think. . .” You suck in air despite it doing very little to relieve your lungs. “Do you think I’ll become as good as you?”

He shrugs and wipes away the dirt from his own face. “There’s always that possibility.”

Ever since making it to Essos the both of you had grown considerably tan from the unrelenting sun that was fixated above.

For you it hadn’t been an easy transition. You felt every bit of the word ‘fugitive’ as you and Jaime had fled to Essos. It was obvious that in Westeros you weren’t safe. Someone had tried to kill you twice and Jaime would be damned if there were to be a third time. The last attempt had unfortunately killed your hand maid Thalina; and as you would find out it was Thalina who instructed Jaime to take you to Volantis if anything were to happen to her. The exact answer of why was still a mystery as even Jaime didn’t know despite having spoken to her.

A year had passed since your time in Westeros. It had just been you and Jaime traveling along the coast of Essos, trying to avoid the land known as Chroyane where the infamous stone men now called their home.

You had learned many things while being in Essos. One of those being that it was difficult for a woman to travel without being harassed, especially one such as yourself who barely spoke Valyrian and looked every bit the part of foreigner.

That’s where the sword in your hand now came into play.

Jaime had been teaching you how to fight with a sword. You couldn’t have asked for a greater teacher than your older brother. In Westeros he was a god among men, even at such a young age. That didn’t change when you landed in Essos. From Braavos all the way to Myr, Jaime still hadn’t lost a fight. There were many men who would try to rob you, even though neither you or your brother possessed anything of wealth. You hadn’t had time to grab anything when Jaime rescued you from the burning Keep.

If anything, you had wished he had been able to rescue Thalina. Neither of you spoke of her much as now her very person seemed to be a mystery. When Rhaella had first brought Thalina into your service, she had seemed a ditzy and clumsy type of girl who had a short term memory of things. A very likeable girl nonetheless. When you were poisoned though, that’s when she seemed to show who she truly was. The story of Azor Ahai and the Long Night, her fluent knowledge of Valyrian. . . The Thalina you had come to know wasn’t actually the real Thalina but someone parading around as a maid. Every night you would think about her. Wonder who it was that killed her for it wasn’t the fire. Jaime had told you that from what he could see, the source that had killed her was a strike to her head. It was a grizzly fact that Jaime had refrained from telling you but you were insistent. You wanted to know what happened that night for you had no clue. You were out like a light thanks to the milk of the poppy you had taken before bed. It was too late for regrets, but you desperately wished that you hadn’t had milk of the poppy. Then maybe Thalina would still be alive.

One thing you didn’t really believe when Jaime told you was that the fire didn’t affect you at all. In fact you were perfectly fine despite the flames roaring around your bed. Your clothes had been partially burned but not your skin. Your skin had remained untouched.

You thought it too weird. How many dreams had you had that involved fire? Never in those dreams had you felt danger from fire. It was instead comforting and soothed your soul, reassuring you that you weren’t alone.

Never telling him of your dreams you had jokingly told him that he was crazy and left it at that.

After your training, you and Jaime return the room you had been staying in for the past couple of nights. It was in a crowded, run down inn, as expected in the lower parts of Myr. Those kinds of places were all that you could afford. They were nothing compared to your home in Casterly Rock or even in King’s Landing. You would make do with what you could afford though. Even though it had been a while ago, Jaime still worried that you were weak from the poison you had ingested last year. He never liked pushing you too hard in your travels. Getting to Volantis quickly wasn’t his first priority; his first priority was your well being and safety. So Jaime would sell his swordsmanship to people who needed it or place bets on who would win in a fight. And of course Jaime always bet on himself and at a high price. You had asked him once what if he were to lose? How would he pay his part of the bet? Jaime would always ruffle your hair at that and with such utter confidence he claimed that he would never lose.

You washed up first while Jaime went out again to earn some more money. Despite being away from home you observed that both of you were rather happy with your new arrangements. There was absolutely no pressure from anyone. No one made you be who you didn’t want to be. Both of you were free to do what you wanted with your life.

The bath water was already becoming diluted with the dirt that had clung onto you. You didn’t care. You sigh and lean yourself against the tub, looking at your small hands. They had roughened and taken on calluses. Blistering and stinging, you never complained when you had first developed them while beginning your sword practice. You took immense pride in them. You had changed so much from the mouse you once were.

Noises from outside actually lulled and relaxed you. There were many times when your mind would become chaotic, loud and full of questions. Why did Thalina want you to go to Volantis? The outside noises helped to drown them out. You had learned to love Essos. It was crazy and wild, so unlike Westeros and you loved it. In Westeros there was so much pressure in being perfect and acting according to your station. Many times you felt like you were suffocating, drowning in your pearls and jewels.

The only other time you had felt such freedom was when you were with Rhaegar. He never made you feel like you had to try and be someone else. Never shamed you if you didn’t act like a regal lady and encouraged you to just be yourself.

A stab in your chest has you viciously shaking your head to rid yourself of thinking about him. Thoughts have him came every so often even though you desperately tried not to think about him. You lean forward, clamping your hands on either side of your skull.

Did he think about you? Was he worried about you?

“No, stop that (y/n). There’s no going back. At least. . . not now.” Jaime hadn’t specified whether or not you would be able to return to Westeros. He hadn’t even said why you needed to go to Volantis. Why not just pick a city in Essos and stay there? Maybe Jaime would want to return to Cersei eventually. You would catch him looking off into the distance with lonely eyes. He had left someone behind too. Even if you did think she was vile, Jaime loved her. Had always loved her since they were children. That and the twin thing that made them connected in a way you would never understand.

“Rhaegar. . .” You whisper, the sound of your wounded voice was crisp in the bathing room. You prayed he was doing okay and that he was safe. * The campaign wasn’t going quite as Rhaegar had imagined. Times like this he missed (y/n). Especially at night when he was too stressed to sleep. He missed waking up next to her, feeling her warmth fill his bed as she had sweet dreams.

Every so often he would feel a deep aching pain in his chest where he thought he would lose himself.

He couldn’t though. He was so close. So close to winning and securing Westeros. But he was tired. Extremely exhausted.

Years ago he had felt such exhaustion while visiting Dragonstone. A young (y/n) would’ve known just the thing to make him laugh and forget about all his worries. His sweet little mouse that loved him so much.

His sweet mouse that burned alive.

His hand clamps down over his mouth as he stifles his cry. He hated thinking about how (y/n) must have died and that he wasn’t there. That was another reason he found it hard to sleep. Nightmares plagued him, endless and constant.

“Your Grace.”

Rhaegar lifts his weary eyes up at an armored Griff. He looked uncertainly at his Silver Prince, knowing from the shadows under his lilac eyes that he was still unable to sleep. “They are ready for you. Aerys’ army awaits on the outskirts of Summerhall. Your troops wait for your command.”

It was then that Rhaegar noticed that his camp had grown deathly quiet. The calm before the storm.

He reaches for his helmet, black as the night with red scales. Red as the blood that would soon be spilt on the battlefield, an ugly red hue that tainted everything it touched. Rhaegar would’ve likened this war to the dance of dragons. But Aerys was no dragon. Maybe decades ago he might have been, but certainly not now. Not even Rhaegar would consider himself a dragon. There were no more Targaryen dragons. Their dynasty had been tarnished too much to think of themselves as so grand.

Staring at it for a moment, Rhaegar contemplates his life leading up to that moment. This isn’t what he would have chosen for himself. He never wanted the life of a king let alone a warrior. Many times when he slept next to (y/n) he would imagine a different life for them. A simple life where he’d be able to live peacefully with her, no concern of warm or political corruption. Only him and (y/n) and their baby. Both were now dead though and what he wanted wasn’t what was best for the kingdom. It wouldn’t be saved by him playing the harp. He had to take up a sword. The Long Night was coming. Maybe not soon, but one day darkness would cover all of Westeros and threaten to swallow it up. When that time came it would need a competent leader which was not his father.

He had to do what was right for Westeros. Even though the two most important people in his world were dead.

Rhaegar covers his wealth of silver hair with his helmet, prepared to shed blood for the good of the realm. Prepared to take down his own father. “Lets go.”

#reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #Game of Thrones fandom #A Song of Ice and Fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #a song of ice and fire fanfic #A Song of Ice and Fire fandom #ASoIaF #asoiaf fandom #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fic

135 notes · View notes

blessedarethebinarybreakers · 1 year

Note

I’m trying to come back to Christianity after deconstructing and your blog has been a great help to me, but I still struggle with the phrase “Jesus died for our sins.” I feel like it places undue responsibility on people who had nothing to do with his death. How is it possible that he died for my sins when I didn’t even exist 2,000 years ago?? Or am I taking the phrase too literally?

Hey there, I feel you! I know of so many people who, especially as young children, were made to feel a lot of guilt over the idea that "Jesus died for your sins." And that's a problem, especially seeing as Jesus came to liberate us from our guilt, and to invite us into full and mutual relationship with him.

While the dominant Christianities that exist in our culture/s right now don't like to acknowledge it, there have always been many different ways of understanding what happened on the cross and how salvation "works." So if this phrasing does harm rather than good for you, there are many other ways to understand salvation!

One that resonates most with me is a view of salvation that doesn't focus solely upon what happened on the cross, but instead takes the entire Incarnation into account. In her book Inspired (which is such a fabulous read, especially for folks working to reconnect with Christianity & scripture), Rachel Held Evans sums this idea up well:

Jesus didn’t just “come to die.” Jesus came to live—to teach, to heal, to tell stories, to protest, to turn over tables, to touch people who weren’t supposed to be touched and eat with people who weren’t supposed to be eaten with, to break bread, to pour wine, to wash feet, to face temptation, to tick off the authorities, to fulfill Scripture, to forgive, to announce the start of a brand-new kingdom, to show us what that kingdom is like, to show us what God is like, to love his enemies to the point of death at their hands, and to beat death by rising from the grave. Jesus did not simply die to save us from our sins; Jesus lived to save us from our sins. His life and teachings show us the way to liberation. But you can’t fit all that on a bumper sticker.

For God so loved the world, They took on human flesh. Jesus's whole life was lived in love for us, for you — all the joys and connections that contained, not just the pain and death.

___

Another thing that I always stress, and that you point out in your ask, is that we have to be careful when we discuss who's responsible for Jesus's death. Otherwise we end up with people blaming Jewish people, or scared little kids, or even God for his death.

Ultimately, it was human beings in a very specific context, and imbued with systemic power, who enabled and carried out his execution: Roman soldiers acting on behalf of the Roman Empire. Jesus died because corrupt human powers cannot stand for the Good News of liberation and abundant life for all peoples. He died in ultimate solidarity with all who are similarly oppressed or executed across history.

___

It's reeeally long so sorry in advance, but if you're interested in an exploration of theologies of the cross, I've got a YouTube video on the topic! If you don't have the time or inclination to watch it all, the parts I most recommend for you are:

(13:01 - 21:54) Delores Williams & Historical Consequence — paying attention to real-world impact; don't use cross to justify suffering

(1:21:41 - 1:27:00) Theologies that look at Jesus' whole life, not just death, starting with Jesus as Moral Influence/Exemplar

1:42:54 - 2:00:00) The Cross as Solidarity — Christ becomes one with all who suffer unjust / systemic violence — on the cross, God knows godforsakeness — good news for oppressors as well as oppressed

If you check out the PowerPoint linked in the video notes, you'll also find links and resources in that :)

Finally, you might want to wander through my #crucifixion tag or #sin tag for more related to your question.

Wishing you well on your journey, anon! May the Spirit of Love guide you into healing and wholeness <3

#new to christianity #<not really but this is good info for folks who are new / reconnecting #theologies of the cross #salvation #jesus died for you #crucifixion #incarnation

90 notes · View notes

outerspacebisexual · 2 years

Note

Heartbeat was a masterpiece loved it really ! Could you do a Robin x femreader with prompt 41 and 50 where maybe they are close friends but naturally act as a couple but reader is very pretty and Robin thinks she likes steve ? thanks love !

Lost in Translation - Robin Buckley

Summary: Robin Buckley had been your co-worker and friend for over a year. Too bad you wanted her as so much more.

Pairing: Robin Buckley x Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and injury

a/n: i am god and thus i’m changing the timeline to suit my own selfish needs. this takes place while working at scoops ahoy and steve knows robin is gay and events happen in this order because i said so

check out my prompt celebration!

Masterlist

If someone had told you a year ago that you would be hopelessly in love with your beautiful, strawberry blonde co-worker who you spent most of your time with?

Yeah, you’d probably believe them.

There was just something about Robin that made your heart do somersaults whenever she looked at you for a split second too long. It was the way that you felt when she held your hand when she was excited or scared, and no matter how much you pretended that it didn’t matter, you heart broke every time she let go. The way she threw her head back when she laughed at something you said, making you wish you could be the one to make her laugh for the rest of your life.

You supposed you could, but not in the way you wanted. Not in the way your heart ached for.

“I don’t get it,” Steve said, restocking the candy on the counter. “You both so clearly like each other.”

“Steve,” you said, placing the last of the cones on the shelf. “You know that I appreciate your well-meaning, but often wrong insights. This just so happens to be one of these times.”

Steve scoffed. “I’m never wrong.”

You raised a brow.

“OK, fine. But I’m not wrong about this.”

You sighed and walked back to the counter, dipping your hand into one of the candy jars. “It doesn’t matter, Steve. I’ve been trying to ask her out for months and every single time, something goes wrong. Plus, she very clearly likes Vickie.”

“Oh, come on. She’s only trying to be into Vickie because she doesn’t think you’ll give her the time of day.”

“Whatever you think, Steve.” You grabbed another piece of candy, but Steve grabbed your hand before you could.

“Stop eating the candy.”

“I can do what I want,” you said, reaching into the jar with your other hand.

Steve grabbed it as well and said, “I’m serious.”

“I actually don’t care.”

“You will when you get fired. And who’s losing out then, huh? You won’t be able to sit around and ogle Robin all day. ‘Oh, Robin, can you help me with this? Oh, Robin, you’re so amazing,’” he teased, his voice rising to imitate yours.

Your face scrunched up in disgust. “I don’t sound like that. And I—”

You were cut off when Robin breezed into the store. “Hey guys, what are you—” She stopped short when she spotted you, staring at the two of you. You quickly realized that Steve still had your hands and you pulled them away fast, heat rising to your cheeks.

Robin looked just as great as she normally did, her oversized jacket practically swallowing her. Your heart did one of those somersaults when you noticed that she had tacked the pin you had gotten her for her birthday to the pocket on the front.

You had brought it for her when the two of you had gone to the market one Sunday morning. She had admired it from afar as you two walked, but you made sure to note the stall, and after a well-timed bathroom break excuse, you circled back and bought it.

It was simple, not much, but she had squealed when you gifted it to her a few weeks ago. You’d had no idea what she would use it for, but now you did, and something in your chest warmed at the sight of it.

“Hey, Robin,” you said.

She glanced between the two of you for another second before shaking her head and saying, “Hey, I was going to ask what you were doing tonight?”

You tried to keep your smile casual. “Uh, I’m not busy. Steve?” You shot him a look that said, You’re busy tonight, but he didn’t catch it.

“Yeah, I’m free.”

You wanted to slam your head through the wall.

“How can you speak all these languages again?” you asked from where you were leaning on the wall, watching her try and decode the Russian transmission that Dustin had brought to Steve.

“I’m just so incredibly amazing,” she replied, writing another letter on the whiteboard.

She wasn’t wrong. You were in awe as she translated an entire message from a language that she didn’t even speak. She was amazing.

“You’re not wrong,” you said, the corners of your mouth turning up when you noticed the slight flush to her cheeks.

It was hot outside, you tried to rationalize. It was the middle of summer, of course she’d be flushed. It didn’t stop the joy that sparked at the thought that you might have caused it.

A sudden bout of confidence rushed through you, and your leg bounced. “What are you doing this weekend?” You tried to stay casual. You were casual. So casual.

She paused, just for a split second. “I don’t think I’m doing anything,” she said, not turning to you.

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. “Cool.”

Now, you thought. Now was the perfect time to ask her. And if she said no, then there were no one there to witness the murder of your heart at point blank range.

You couldn’t take your eyes off her back as you chewed your lip. You were really about to do this.

You could do this.

“Did you want to—”

The doors swung open. “How are we going with the super-secret Russian code?” Steve said as he and Dustin strutted into the room like you hadn’t been just about to ask out the girl of your dreams.

“It’s a transmission, Steve,” Dustin corrected with his usual distain for Steve’s idiocy.

“Oh well, sorry.”

“I can’t believe that you’re still getting it wrong after we were just talking about it. It’s like the lights are on, but there’s nobody home. Seriously, I’m—”

You stopped listening and envisioned a bulldozer crashing straight through the store.

Everything hurt.

Your face, your ribs, your stomach. Everything.

You could feel the warm blood rushing down the side of your face from the split in your eyebrow; courtesy of one of the guard’s rings.

You hadn’t seen Robin or Steve since you and him were carted away from Robin into separate rooms for interrogation.

They had tied you down and tried to beat the answers out of you, but you could only tell them the truth, which apparently wasn’t true.

It wasn’t until a few hard punches to your stomach and ribs and a few choicely places ones to your face that they decided they’d had enough. They practically dragged you out of the room and back to where you’d come from.

You tried to hold your head up and searched for Robin and Steve, finally seeing them as the final door was pushed open.

She was leaning over Steve and shouting at the guards. If you weren’t half out of your mind, you would have been grateful that she looked relatively unharmed.

But when she saw you as you were thrown on the ground beside Steve, she practically jumped onto you.

“Oh my god, Y/N. Are you OK?”

The room was spinning, and you couldn’t seem to work out how to move your mouth.

Her hands ran over your head and the side of your body as she dropped to her knees. She turned you over more to see your face, her breath hitching when she saw the blood.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she screamed at the guards, who didn’t seem to care as they spoke amongst themselves in Russian. She turned back to you. “Hey, can you hear me? I need you to say something, Y/N, please.”

Your brain was pounding in your skull, and your eyelids began to droop closed to try and block out the light.

“No, please. You’re going to be OK,” she told you. “I’m not doing this without you. Please, stay awake for me, baby. Please.”

She was crying, you realized through your haze. You hated when she cried.

You used every bit of strength in your body to open your eyes wider.

“That’s it, stay with me,” she said. But before you could even try and say anything, she was torn away from you. “Hey, let me go.”

You could only watch as she was tied to a chair, kicking at the guards. Then, Steve was dragged over to the other chair that was placed back-to-back with Robin’s. It wasn’t until guards hoisted you up onto another chair at the side of the room that you even realized you were moving. You didn’t even feel the straps that were wound around you until it pulled tight over your ribs and you groaned in pain.

You were trying your best to stay conscious, and that was the only reason you could think of as to why you weren’t in the middle of the room with your two friends. From where you were, you had a clear view of Robin and half of Steve.

That was when the Russians decided to inject the three of you with something that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie.

Nothing happened at first, but as the minutes dragged by—and an unfortunate escape attempt from Robin and Steve—you started to feel giddy. The pain was dulled to a pulsing, and you lifted your head enough to rest it against the wall behind you.

When the Russians came back into the room, you couldn’t help but notice the doctor in his sinister looking apron and white coat.

“Would now be a good time to tell you that I don’t like doctors?” Robin said, eyes not leaving the doctor as he pulled out a bunch of tools that looked like torture devices.

“Let’s try this again, yes?” the commander said. “Who do you work for?”

Steve huffed. “Scoops. Scoops Ahoy.” He and Robin started laughing, and you found yourself starting to giggle. It was little more than air, but it felt like you were laughing just as loud as them.

“How did you find us?”

“Totally by accident,” Steve laughed.

The commander spoke in Russian, and your eyes widened as the doctor picked up a pair of plyers. He moved towards Steve, but the commander cut him off.

“Her,” he said, pointing at you. His eyes went between you and Robin, and a sinking feeling opened up in your gut as he approached you.

The commander’s eyes didn’t leave Robin as the doctor grabbed your hand and began to tug at your fingernail despite you trying your best to wriggle out of the way.

“Wait! Wait!” Robin shouted. “There was a code! We heard a code!”

She visibly relaxed just a fraction as the doctor stepped away from you. You let your head drop forward as you listened to her repeat the code and then her and Steve berate the commander.

You would have been impressed by their composure and confidence if it weren’t for the fact that the three of you were drugged out of your mind.

Then, alarms went off and the pulsing in your head got louder.

And then, Dustin Henderson and Erica Sinclair were bursting through the doors and telling you to run. He undid Robin and Steve first, Erica coming over and untying you. “Hey little Sinclair,” you said. “You know, I think I like you more than your brother right now.”

“Normally, that kind of flattery would be much appreciated, but right now, we have to go,” she said to you, and called for Robin, who immediately started to help you up and through the tunnels to the weird cart-truck thing. The further you got, the steadier you were on your feet.

Whatever this drug was, it was giving you a seriously wicked high.

The time between getting in the elevator and getting to the cinema bathroom was a blur. You vaguely remembered Marty McFly and then drinking a shitload of water until you needed to vomit.

And now, you were curled against the tiled wall after throwing your guts up.

“OK,” Steve said. “We need to know if it’s still in our system. I’ll ask you guys a question.”

You could feel the full effects of your injuries coming back to you, and you tried to stay as still as possible, ignoring Steve and Robin as they started asking dumb questions to each other.

“Hey, Y/N. Are you good?” Robin called from across the bathroom.

“Yeah,” you managed, starting to rub your ribs to try and ease the pain. “I’m good.”

“Do you still feel loopy?”

“I’m not sure.” You weren’t sure of anything other than you would be so fucking sore in the morning.

“Answer the question I just asked.”

“What question?”

She sighed like it was the biggest deal that you hadn’t heard. “Have you ever been in love?”

You froze, stopping your motions as you just stared at the side of the stall, as if you could see all the way through it straight to her.

“Y/N?” Steve called.

You cleared your throat. “Uh, yeah, I have.” You wanted to stop. You wanted to stop your mouth moving, but it was like you had no control over the words spilling from your mouth. “I’ve been in love with the same person for over a year now. I don’t think I realized it was love at first, because we always spend so much time together. We work together and hang out outside of work, too. So, we’re always glued to each other. I’ve tried to get the courage to ask for a date, but something happens every time and I don’t get to.”

There was silence from the other stalls.

“He sounds really special,” Robin said, her voice softer, more dejected.

You swallowed. “Yeah, she is.”

It was like the room became electric as soon as the words left your mouth. There was no way to take them back, not even if you wanted to.

The silence was deafening. Your ears rang as you sat in your confession, trying desperately to keep it together.

But then there was shuffling, and Robin appeared in the doorway of your stall. She was on her knees, holding each side of the door frame to keep herself upright. And she was looking at you like you were a new person.

You didn’t say anything. She just stared at you, until a small smile broke out across her face.

Her eyes softened in a way that you hadn’t seen before as she shuffled closer to you and said, “You love me?”

“Yes,” you breathed as she got even closer.

And then she was kissing you. You froze for a second, but when her hand came up to rest on your face, you shook out of your stupor. Your own hands flew to the sides of her neck, pulling her closer until she was practically in your lap.

She accidentally leaned into your chest and you pulled away, groaning.

“I’m sorry!” she squeaked, leaning back and assessing you.

“It’s fine,” you said, letting out a sigh of relief as the pain subsided again. “I’m fine. Are you fine?”

She nodded. “I’m better than fine.” She trailed her fingers along the side of your head where you knew that the blood had left a stain on your skin. It would most likely need stitches.

“I thought you liked Steve,” she admitted shyly after a long moment of searching your face.

“Steve?” you said incredulously. “Why would I like Steve?” You heard him cough and you cringed. “No offence, Steve.”

“I don’t know! I just thought you did,” she replied, swinging her arms around.

“Robin, I spend every second I can with you because I love you. I’ve been trying to ask you out for months.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For not realizing. I just never thought that you would ever feel the way I did. What kind of best friend am I?”

“One that I am hopelessly in love with.” You brushed her nose with yours as you whispered, “Baby, you’re the one for me.”

“I love you, too,” she said.

You breathed in. “Say it again.”

She grinned. “I love you.”

“Again?”

She kissed you, brushing her thumb over your chin. “I’ll be saying it for the rest of my life.”

#robin buckley x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #robin buckley x you #robin buckley x y/n #robin buckley fanfiction #robin buckley angst #robin buckley fluff #outerspacebisexual

489 notes · View notes