#STOP THE CIGARETTE SMOKE i hope he dies forever and ever and

[absentmoon]

WOOOOO HAPPY 19TH BDAY ^__^!!! so happy for you…UMM…

0__0 how did THAT get there….🏁🏳️‍🌈🎉

um

#did you have to. #☹️. hes tall boooo booooo i hate him booo #STOP THE CIGARETTE SMOKE i hope he dies forever and ever and #stupiddddd. i love spadesy though theyre soooo sweet looking here...you draw her so pink and cutey 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤 #daisy.txt #moot tag #rory/sunny #🍂♠️.august spades (fnv) #🎰.benny #nice things #ugh. MEAN!!!! things.

[sparkle-fiend]

Eddie is six years old, the first time he hears the voice. 

It wakes him with a jolt – sends him tearing through the house, searching under every bed and behind every door for the boy he hears calling his name.

Mama finally stops him. “Sweetheart, what did you lose this time?” (Eddie is always losing things.) She looks impatient, standing with a laundry basket balanced on one cocked hip, curly hair spilling out of the messy bun on top of her head.

“I heard somebody saying my name! I gotta find him, I think he’s hiding.”

Mama’s whole attitude changes, all at once. She sets the laundry aside and drops to her knees in front of him, squeezing his little hands between her own. “Oh baby. That voice means you’ve got a soulmate!”

She smiles bright as the suncatcher hanging in the window, and presses sloppy kisses all over his face until he screams with laughter, squirming to get away. 

“My lucky, special boy!”

Eddie’s never been lucky before. It’s exciting.

———

In school, they learn all about soulmates. About how rare they are. Uncle Wayne is the only other person Eddie knows that has one. 

When he found out about Uncle Wayne’s soulmate, Eddie was so excited – bubbling full of questions, like a bottle of fizzy pop. But whenever he tried to talk about it, his dad got real mad.

“You keep your mouth shut about soulmates,” he said. “Don’t talk about that shit in front of your uncle.”

It’s hard. Eddie starts staying over at Uncle Wayne’s trailer more and more when Mama gets sick. And Eddie’s never been good at following rules; especially when he’s curious about something.

“Uncle Wayne?” Eddie finally asks one day. “Where’s your soulmate? How come I’ve never seen her?” You have met her right? is what Eddie’s really asking. He can’t imagine waiting until he’s as old as Uncle Wayne to find his soulmate.

His uncle goes sort of brittle, tensing up like every joint is made of glass. His lips press together behind his beard, and his denim blue eyes go shiny and wet – like he’s trying not to cry.

If Eddie could take the question back, he would. Suck it right back into his mouth, like the smoke from his uncle’s cigarettes. This is why you gotta listen better baby – that’s what his Mama would probably say.

“My Lorretta died a few years ago. Before you were born.”

Eddie never considered that. In all the movies, soulmates die together. The thought of it leaves a queasy feeling squirming through his stomach.

“I still hear her though,” Uncle Wayne says, with a terribly soft look in his eyes. “Still hear her singing our song.”

“Like a memory?” Eddie whispers.

His uncle shakes his head. “Time don’t matter for soulmates – no more than distance. I can hear her still, across the years.”

Like a ghost, his uncle doesn’t say. A ghost that will haunt him forever. None of the dry textbooks in school ever mentioned that part.

It starts to worry Eddie. As he gets older, his soulmate’s voice starts to get clearer. He always hears the same thing – a desperate, grown-up voice screaming at him to “Run Eddie! RUN!!!” 

It must be from the future. But his soulmate sounds so scared. What could possibly happen, to make his soulmate sound like that?

Eddie starts to listen to music more. Loud, heavy stuff to drown out the frightened voice. 

Late at night, he curls up under the covers and softly sings his Mama’s favorite song – hoping that somewhere, somewhen, his soulmate will hear him.

That it might help, the way it helps Eddie when Mama sings him to sleep.

———

Eddie is twelve years old, the first time he really listens to the voice.

Mama's been dead two years, and his dad keeps pulling riskier and riskier jobs. Tonight, he's decided to try and break into the pawn shop on Fifth street. 

Eddie is the lookout, stationed on the opposite corner with a pistol weighing heavy in the pocket of his coat (just in case, Ed). 

He doesn't want to be here. He tried to argue with his dad. Said, "I've got a test tomorrow. I've got homework and..." and I hate this life. (He doesn't say that part.) I don't want to steal cars or break into buildings or mug people. I don't want to be like you.

His dad just gripped him by the arm hard enough to bruise, and said, "You like to eat, dont'cha? Well, lookouts get to eat. Lazy little shits don't." 

So Eddie is standing on a street corner in the middle of the night, watching his dad furtively attempt to pick the lock on the front door of the pawn shop, when a cop car slows down at the end of the street.

Fear floods his bloodstream so fast it leaves him dizzy. The cop has clearly noticed something. Eddie can see the shadowed figure inside the car reach for his radio. 

Eddie has two choices.

He could pull the pistol out of his pocket and fire a few shots down the street, forcing the cop to take cover long enough for his dad to get away (which is what his dad would expect him to do). Or he could... 

"Run!"

The sudden loud voice, echoing between his ears and behind his eyes and inside his heart, startles him into flinching. 

"Run Eddie, RUN!!!" His body obeys before his brain has a chance to process the words. He's halfway down the street when the siren shrieks to life. 

Later, as he sits in the backseat of the social worker's car on the way to his Uncle Wayne, he can't quite believe he did it. He bailed on his dad - left him to get arrested and go to prison. This is Frank Munson's third strike; he'll go away for life this time. 

I'm such a coward, Eddie thinks numbly. Such a chicken piece of shit. He digs his ragged nails into the soft flesh of his palms, squeezing hard enough to draw blood. 

As if he'd spoken aloud, a soft voice responds, "You're not a coward. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known. Running isn't always a bad thing, okay? Sometimes it's just the smart thing to do."

His soulmate sounds so fierce, so certain. Eddie blinks hard against the hot burn of tears. The smart thing to do.

———

Eddie holds onto those words, like magic talismans. They provide comfort, not just in the immediate days after his dad's arrest, but other times too. Every time he runs away from a bully or a cop or a deal gone bad, Eddie thinks to himself - I'm not a coward. I'm just smart.

It works... until the night he stumbles out of his uncle's trailer, leaving Chrissy Cunningham's broken body on the living room floor. He's so terrified he doesn't have time to think, not until after he's ditched his van and taken shelter in Rick's boathouse. As he leans against the splintered wall and catches his breath, it hits him.

I left her there. What if she was still alive? (She wasn't. She couldn't have been. Not after... not after that.) He grabs fistfuls of hair and tugs until his scalp aches. Wracks his brain trying to figure out what happened, what he could have done to stop it.

He's never felt so ashamed before, not even when his dad was cursing and screaming and calling him a coward through the thick glass of the visitation window. 

His soulmate's words whisper in his ears, "...sometimes it's just the smart thing to do," and Eddie pounds on his skull with his fists to drown the voice out. "Not this time," he snarls. I should have done something. I should have tried to save her. 

He doesn’t feel smart this time. He feels like a cowardly piece of shit.

His soulmate’s voice falls silent. 

Through all the craziness to follow – finding out that monsters are real, running for his life from an angry mob, fighting alongside Steve Harrington in an evil Upside Down version of Hawkins – Eddie doesn’t hear his soulmate again.

Not until he’s staring up at Dustin Henderson, realizing that he can’t run away again. As he hesitates at the bottom of the rope, Dustin calls out nervously, “Eddie, what are you doing?”  

“I’m buying more time,” he says. He ignores Dustin’s screams as he cuts the rope and slides the mattress out of the way – making sure the kid can’t follow him. 

And then he hears his soulmate say, “Wait, wait a second. Eddie?! Is that you?” 

Eddie is twenty years old, the first time he recognizes his soulmates voice.

He pauses at the door of the trailer and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Hey Stevie.”

“Holy shit, it’s you,” Steve whispers in awe.

It’s the first time they’ve been able to speak to each other like this, responding in real-time. Eddie wishes it could have happened in different circumstances.

“I’m so sorry Steve.” 

“Eddie? What are you doing?” Steve sounds alarmed.

Eddie doesn’t answer. He slams his way out of the barricaded trailer and grabs one of the discarded bikes, hoping to lead the swarm of bats away as far as possible. 

He makes it halfway across the trailer park before one of the bats knocks him off the bike. He grunts and rolls, gaining his feet quickly. Chest heaving, charged with adrenalin – Eddie hesitates. He could keep running… or he could stand his ground and fight. 

Maybe Steve can hear the hitch in his breath in that moment, because the other boy seems to have worked out what’s going on, even from miles away. Steve screams, “No!!! Run Eddie, RUN!!!!”

It’s like the night his dad got arrested. Eddie doesn’t even have time to think - his body reacts to that voice and he runs, worn Reeboks slapping the pavement.

(In another world, Eddie would have turned to face the swarm. In another world, Eddie would have died.)

He’s fast. He’s always been fast. He buys himself a few precious moments, before the bats drag him to the ground. They start to rip through his clothes, through his flesh, and he tries to hold back his screams – he doesn’t want Steve to hear this…

Those extra seconds save his life. It’s bad - but not as bad as it could have been. The bats start to drop from the sky, writhing and shrieking; they’re dying, although Eddie has no idea why. Hopefully, it means Steve and the girls were successful. 

He struggles to sit up just as Dustin reaches him, crying and frantic. “Eddie!! Oh my god, are you okay? Jesus, there’s so much blood…” the kid moans. 

“Yeah, yep. I’m good,” Eddie pants through gritted teeth. “Help me up okay?”

Dustin insists on binding the worst of his wounds first, using strips of fabric torn from the ghillie suit. The pain makes Eddie want to scream all over again, but he allows it. It is an awful lot of blood.

They lean against each other and limp back to the trailer, where Dustin knots t-shirts and jeans and flannel shirts into the remnants of their rope until it’s long enough to reach the other side again. 

Eddie manages to haul himself up the rope and through the gate – and that’s where his strength runs out. The pain of landing on the thin mattress knocks him right out.

———

When Eddie wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed. 

Holy shit I’m alive, he thinks. He honestly wasn’t sure he would make it.

He moves gingerly, testing each limb, turning his head against the stinging pull of a bandage along the edge of his jaw.

The room isn’t empty; Eddie apparently has a roommate. He clears his throat and the person in the other bed stirs, turning to look at him. 

It’s Steve.

His soulmate.

Eddie feels a funny little swoop of exhilaration in his stomach. “Hey Stevie.”

Steve’s face goes soft at first, like he’s experiencing the same fizzy warmth that Eddie is feeling. Then he blinks, and his brows draw down into a scowl. “What the hell was that, huh? What happened to ‘I’m no hero’?”

Oops. 

Eddie tries to make light of the situation. “Maybe I wanted to try it out,” he says flippantly. “Not too sure it suits me though. Think I might stick to being a coward from now on – it’s a lot less painful.” 

Steve doesn’t smile. He fixes Eddie with a serious look, hazel eyes blazing in the sallow light of the hospital room. “You listen to me Eddie Munson. You're not a coward. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known. Running isn't always a bad thing, okay? Sometimes it's just the smart thing to do."

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. Those words – once a gift from the future, now an echo of the past. He never should have ignored them. “Maybe you’re right.”

Steve’s mouth is already open to continue the argument. “I…” he stops, clearly caught off-guard, face scrunched in adorable confusion. “Yeah. Yeah, I am right.”

Steve runs a faintly trembling hand through his hair. The angry expression melts into something gentler, almost unbearably soft. “I’m glad you listened to me in the end, at least.”

Eddie shifts his weight, pressing his cheek into the scratchy hospital pillow so he can keep his eyes on Steve. 

He’s so beautiful. Even bloody and bruised, with dirt still smudged along his hairline and dark circles under his eyes – he’s the most beautiful boy Eddie has ever seen. And Eddie almost gave this up – if he’d died in the Upside Down, he would have left Steve alone, with only the echo of Eddie’s voice left to haunt him.

“Yeah,” Eddie says hoarsely, “me too.”

He still feels guilty over Chrissy’s death - he probably always will. But he’s coming to realize that proving himself a hero wouldn’t have been worth the pain his death would have caused.

Eddie’s got a second chance… and he plans to make the most of it.

#steddie #soulmate au #steddie fic #my writing #steve harrington/eddie munson #this is… #I don’t know what this is #a mess maybe #trying to get back into the writing groove

[wildcole]

Numb

Hey! I wrote this and thought I might share.

I am sorry, this is not beta-read, because I do not have one.

Also, English is not my mother tongue, so tell me if I didn’t see some mistakes.

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x reader

TW: mention of bad mental health (nothing too bad), softness, angst, fluff, the squad being a family.

Here goes that thing.

_______________________________________________

Her flat is empty, lifeless, and she feels oddly connected to the feeling. Nothing is the same since the last mission and she wonders when she lost herself, she doesn’t remember when she got this numb.

Y/N knows her body and her mind are still trying to take in the near-death experience and she doesn’t blame herself to take so long to do it: the crash, the screaming, the hospital…

She remembers vividly the shaking of her hands and how it never stopped ever since.

Everyone was so happy in the end, she thought it would go away with the adrenaline but it didn’t, she had trouble sleeping that night, like deep down, her guts were still trying to settle down in her body but kept failing.

So here she is, sitting against her couch, smoking cigarettes, waiting for the time to pass or anything, she doesn’t even know, but the freezing water and the dark in her flat are the only thing soothing her vaguely, so she keeps on sipping on the freezing water, focusing on her breathing, like it could stop the shaking.

She tried to eat but everything keeps coming out shortly after.

She doesn’t sleep. At all. It’s been two days and she’s exhausted but she dreads the sight of her bed, so she passes out repeatedly on the couch, waiting for the next nightmare to drench her in sweat and keep her awake for the next few hours.

Her phone battery died a few hours ago, and she doesn’t want to recharge it, because the charger is in her bedroom, and right now she doesn’t want to confront the fact that her bed is still made, that it looks comfy, and that even in its safety, she won’t be sleeping.

So it died and cut the last contact she had with the outside.

She is not worried about the others, because she doesn’t think about them, because she was trying so hard not to crumble on the carrier that she left with just the shadow of a smile and a few handshakes.

She’s cold, been for a few hours now, but sweat doesn’t stop rolling down her back, on her chest and in her neck. She didn’t take a shower, and she reeks, she can feel it.

It’s not a pretty sight, but she doesn’t wanna leave the seat she has taken in front of the couch, she just hopes that’s everything will be okay soon, because she can feel her mind expanding and getting emptier by the minute, crushing her in emptiness. The more she thinks about it, the less she feels connected to reality, and soon, the last string will break, and she’s afraid she’ll be stuck in this floating state forever. Sweating and shaking.

The TV is lighting up the room, but Y/N doesn’t dare putting on the sound, she prefers looking at the lips of people moving inside the box, instead of being cut open by the words and sounds.

She’s not in bad term with the squadron. They’re all very sympathetic, but they all know each other, pretty well, and she never tried to overcome the feeling that bloomed in her head every time she wasn’t sharing their jokes.

They’re good people, but they’re not hers.

It’s not a problem though. She’s alright on her own, she got this, right?

« Did she respond yet? » Asks Phoenix, and her brows furrowed.

« Nope, she hasn’t even open the text, » speaks Bradley.

The woman sighs and looks by the window.

« I hope she’s okay, it’s a tough one she pulled up there, I would have been terrified. » speaks Payback with a concerned look at Bradley’s phone.

Bradley doesn’t respond, because he hopes he isn’t right, he doesn’t wanna be.

« Did you go to see at her flat? » Says Jake, drying his hair.

« We don’t have her address. »

« It’s in her file. » says the other pilot.

« We can ask Maverick to give it to us? » speaks Bradley, suddenly very hopeful.

« Just go check on her, because I don’t think your girl is that tough. » speaks Jake again.

Bradley doesn’t react on the nickname of Y/N, he would be stupid to pay attention to that when his thoughts have all been for her since they left the carrier.

He has a soft spot for her, doesn’t know why her, and he doesn’t care, he just knows that the pilot is everything he admires, isn’t and wants at the same time, and the clash of all of that, his admiration, respect and attraction, made a pretty intense cocktail in his head. But right now, there is worry, because as much as he likes to think of her like the best human being he knows, fearless and cunning, she’s not that tough.

She’s not that tough.

She can’t be.

It’s a full “she cannot” because there must be something that she fails to do, and Bradley just hope it’s not this one.

So he does call Maverick, who does give the address to him, and ten minutes later, he’s in his car, driving to the complex she lives in.

He struggles a bit to find the door number in between all the similar looking corridors but does manage to knock on what he thinks of as the right one.

Y/N jumps, startled by a knock on her door. It’s usually some people mistaking her door for the one at the end of the corridor, that’s a bit too far to see clearly.

She goes on wobbly legs to peak through the hole, and her whole body seize. It’s Bradshaw.

He’s in front of her door, and she reeks, everything is dark and she stinks tobacco.

Fuck.

She opens the door slightly and slides her face in the crack.

« Hi. » Her voice is hoarse and she looks horrible.

Bradley looks surprised and, at once, his face contorts and Y/N dreads his next words.

« We were worried, you didn’t answer the messages of any of us, did we do something wrong? » He asks so politely that she wants to cry.

No of course not, I’m just stupid and scared, please go away, you don’t want to see me like this as I’m barely keeping my head above the water.

« No, everything is fine. It’s just… my batterie died and, I lost my charger. I just have to look a bit for it, that’s nothing. »

Her smile is shy and her eyes keeps peeping everywhere but in his.

Bradley Bradshaw is not an idiot, his gaze wanders behind her shoulder and his mind stops racing at the second.

He sees the doors closed, the blanket on the floor, the big glass of water full of ice cubes. He knows all of this. Because he went through it too.

« Y/N? » He cuts her rambling and stares right at her eyes.

She feels uncomfortable but manage to hold the eye contact, hoping it would make him go away faster.

« Yeah? »

« I think you’re not doing okay Y/N. »

His words seem to surprise her, snapping her out of her numb state.

« I think, you’re far from fine Y/N. »

He keeps calling her name, softly, patiently, and she can feel her nose burning and the back of her eyes getting hotter and wetter. She swallows hardly, opens her mouth, but no words come out.

Bradley’s heart ache at her distressed eyes and the new shine of tears.

« Did you take a shower? »

Y/N knows there’s no judgment in his questions but her mind stutters at the idea. It’s disgusting.

She shakes her head.

His eyes wander on her naked collar and he see the sheen of sweat.

« Did you eat something? »

His voice is still concerned, but neutral, soft on her ears, and she’s surprised for a second, to realise that his voice is the first thing she heard since she left the carrier, and that she’s has not been cut open by the sound of it.

She just brings her hand to her stomach and shake her head again.

Bradley knows the knot in the stomach, the feeling of being so full that food doesn’t have its place.

« How long it’s been since you last slept? »

This is the last blow she needs to feel the tears roll down her cheek, her eyes flee his gaze and she swallows hardly.

« Two days. »

And Bradley feels his heart cracks a bit more at the strangled voice. Two days since she last slept.

She smells like sweat and exhaustion, her hair are tied in a hair claw, tightly pressed to her head, only a few wet strands escaping its hold, at the base of her neck and on her forehead.

She’s in a cotton pant, some pyjama’s, with a white tank top. She’s barefoot and suddenly, Bradley remembers what Maverick did to him when he was in that state, and he’s sure it’s going to work.

« We’re in a house for two weeks, so we could all be together, because you’re not the only one feeling that way, but being together helps. »

She doesn’t move, Bradley knows she wants to cry, but she doesn’t want to lose control. Not now, she’s not ready.

« So here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to put on some clothes in a bag, you’re going to put on your shoes and we’re going to leave. »

He speaks slowly, to let it sink in her, and Bradley feels a bit underwhelmed by how unresponsive she is. She just nods and leave the door the door open as she heads toward her room.

He can hear fabric being ruffled and he opens the windows. The air is cold outside, the weather is stormy and heavy clouds are weighting on San Diego. The wind is suddenly engulfing itself in the flat and it blows some ash off the ash tray. The smell of tobacco is harsh on his nose but nothing comes to his mind, it’s like his senses are disconnected from his head.

So he opens the windows, one by one, and keep the blinds down so no one can look in the appartement.

He hears her steps on the floor before he sees her, and without a second look, he turns off the TV and brings her to the door.

He holds his hand out for the keys and close the flat.

The walk to his car is silent and Y/N doesn’t speak, doesn’t radiate anything, it’s the waiting. She does not exist here, she doesn’t fight, she’s just on hold.

Bradley doesn’t want to bring her to the house right now before doing what he has in mind.

He knows she won’t like it but she’ll thank him later.

He parks the car in front of the beach and Y/N does not question it.

He exits the car and she copies him, without a word.

They arrived quickly on sand, and Bradley heads, determined, to the water. Y/N walks a bit quicker to catch up with him but she doesn’t seem to really think about anything.

She doesn’t notice him stepping out of his sneakers and doesn’t see him walking behind her.

What she does notice is how she’s is tossed on his shoulder, and for a second she’s tense, before trying to wiggle a bit.

« What are you doing? Rooster, Rooster what are you doing?! »

She’s getting stressed and starts wriggling harder on his shoulder, he has to reach the water quicker. His steps are getting wider and his arms tightens around her, he feels the water on his socked feet, and he feels a harsh shudder coursing his body with how freezing the water feels.

Good.

His mind is on autopilot and he can hear the surprise, the stress, the anxiety pulsing in each one of her words asking him what’s happening.

He doesn’t answer and for a second, Y/N thinks he’s going to kill her.

When the water is crashing on his waist, Bradley grips her waist and shoulder firmer and Cole’s breath hitched when she feels his fingers digging in her flesh. It’s not pleasant.

Suddenly, he’s yanking her off him and plunging her in the freezing water.

Her breath is knocked out of her lungs, her whole-body screams and the sensation is overwhelming, it’s so aggressive and brutal that her mind shutdown.

She can’t hear it any thoughts anymore, her head is empty, the only existing thing is her body fighting the petrifying feeling of cold.

Her head is under water and she can’t think of it, she just knows she has to breath. Her hands reach outside the water and Bradley pulls her to the surface. But he does not get her out of the water, he just let her push her face to the surface, but the rest of her body is submerged.

She can see his face, it’s calm, closed, waiting for something, and as her head is still in water, her eyes look at the sky.

Her head is empty. She cannot wrap it around anything. It’s empty. Her breathing starts to regulate and she can almost feel her body getting washed by the current and the salt.

Her hand is still tightly attached to his arm, but Bradley doesn’t shake it off, her ears are underwater, and except the purring sound of the ocean, she can’t hear anything.

She feels her muscles relaxing and she floats, mindlessly in the water, everything is soft on her body, on her ears, her head is cleaned.

His hands are keeping her under the water, but Y/N can’t feel anything anymore. Her eyes reach out for his and suddenly, he’s pinching her nose. She opens her mouth to breath in and doesn’t question him when for the second time, he forces her body underwater.

Her eyes closes and the cold ends. She doesn’t feel her skin anymore, but she does feel her inside starts freeze, her muscles wake up after the relaxing they needed, and she starts to shake from the inside.

Her body is reaching for heat, and Bradley instinctively understand it when Y/N’s hand flattened on the warm skin of his arm.

He pulls her slowly out of the water and on her feet.

She’s soaked, dripping continuously, he brushes a bit her hair out of her face and waits for her breathing to find its pace again.

Her tank top is sticking to her skin, to her breast and she would usually feel exposed, but right now, nothing comes to their mind, Bradley is half in the water and Y/N feel her skin prickled with the harsh wind on her.

« You okay? He asks, cautiously leaving a hand on her shoulder. »

She nods before coughing a bit and breathing in deep.

« Yeah. »

« I know what it’s like, and it’s a good way to stop it. We’re going to the house now. »

She nods and follow him in the humid sand, catching his shoes as he passes by them, and climb in the car.

He’s damping the seat, just as she is, but Bradley doesn’t seem to mind. The ride is silent and Y/N can feel true sensation now, the numbness has disappeared, leaving place to confusing feeling.

The house is big and white, it looks like something Y/N could call home.

« The others know what you’re going through, just like I do, no need to feel ashamed, you have a place in this house, just as much as me or Natasha, it’s your house too okay? »

His voice isn’t comforting, but it’s clear and safe, and Bradley knows he’s being neutral but he doesn’t wanna imprint any emotions on Y/N, he needs her to get in touch with hers and then they’ll see how it’ll go.

She nods and climbs out of the car.

Everyone is in the kitchen, drinking beers and as soon as her soaked figure enters the house, all eyes are on her.

She disposes her shoes in the entrance, next to the many pairs already presents.

Phoenix is the first one to hug her, even though she’s wet.

« It’s good to see you. »

Her voice is soft and comforting, and her hug is strong and engulf Y/N, who hugs back.

Next is Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, Bob and Jake, with his strong hand squeezing her shoulder.

It anchors her.

« I’ll show you the house. » speaks Bradley suddenly, and Y/N does not understand why it feels like everything is withdrawing themselves from around her.

She nods and follows him.

« There’s a bed left in the room I have, it’s yours. »

She nods again and when she enters the bedroom, she takes a discreet look at his bed. It’s made, some clothes are sprawled on it and laying on the floor next to the black bag who’s laying at the end of it.

« I know you didn’t take many clothes, back there, if you need something, just go through my stuff and take what you need. »

Everything he’s saying to her feels calculated and yet bored, and she doesn’t know if she’s bothering him or not, but she can’t bring herself to care right now, she just wanna take a shower.

« I’ll go take a shower. »

« Okay, I’ll be downstairs. »

« Oh, and Bradley? »

He turns to her, eyebrows high.

« Thank you. I needed that. »

He nods and offers her a discreet smile.

The shower is quick and Y/N is almost surprised when she doesn’t feel the anxiety coming back, she’s calm, and mostly drained, the night has fall on the house and some little lights are on.

The atmosphere is cosy and Y/N is surprised to see that they’re all bundled up in the couch, snuggling all together, covered in plaids.

Her hair is wet, and she’s quite sure she looks like a clown in her leggings and that big hoodie of Bradley. She’s got his big socks on her feet, and she pulls quietly a chair next to the sofa until she hears someone tutting her.

She raises her head and Natasha is motioning her to come under the plaid next to her. Y/N obeys and goes to bring her knees to her chest, making sure to covers herself entirely.

The movie starts soon after and she cannot help but risk a glance at them, they look tired, some even exhausted. Bob and Fanboy are at the other end of the couch, Coyote and Bradley have their feet sprawled on the coffee table and Jake and Natasha are next to Y/N, and she thinks she can almost see Jake’s hands on Phoenix’s thigh.

She smiles and eyes the movie again.

The plot doesn’t interest her that much, and she doesn’t even see herself falling asleep. Natasha sees it but doesn’t comment, letting her rest against the armrest, curled up in the corner.

She does warns Bradley with a little motion of her head and smiles when she sees the gaze of Bradley softening.

Payback and Fanboy are the first to go, bidding goodnight to everyone, then Natasha and Jake, leaving Bob and Bradley on the couch and Y/N, asleep in a corner.

The movie is still playing, yet, somehow, Bradley looks more fascinated by the way his socks flop on Y/N’s feet.

Bob just stares at them, how Bradley doesn’t do a single thing to approach her, he’s just there, from afar, watching over her.

« For fuck’s sake, Bradley, just do something. » speaks Bob, impatient as he disappears in the staircase.

_______________________________________________

#bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fluff #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun fic #top gun imagine #top gun fluff #top gun x reader #top gun movie #bradley bradshaw fanfiction

[flippyspoon]

What finally makes Billy crack and tell Steve “I love you”?

This made me write a whole thing!

Paris, Texas

Billy cracks somewhere outside Joplin, Missouri.

They are driving out to L.A. to make a new life. As friends, which is more than Billy thought he’d ever get.

The whole thing feels like a dream, even after all the planning and the months of scraping money together.

The diner outside Joplin is a long low building in the middle of endless flat land that seems to stretch into forever. He doesn’t remember the world looking like this when he drove out to Hawkins with his dad and Max and Susan. But then, that drive was miserable even in his own car trying to drive so far ahead of his father that he could pretend Neil wasn’t even there. This drive is...different. It’s just him and Steve in the Beamer and one of those little rented trailers hitched to the back with all their stuff.

That endless land everywhere that blurs by as Steve drums his fingers on the steering wheel gives Billy a big feeling in his chest like the whole world belongs to just the two of them. Sometimes he feels a little dizzy and imagines the car taking flight, soaring into the sky.

He thinks of this as they sit across from each other in a diner booth. Steve might be thinking of something similar because his eyes are far away as he stares out the window. They’re waiting for their food.

Billy allows himself to drink Steve in for a moment. Yellow t-shirt clinging to his lean frame. No one should look that good in yellow. Steve’s sitting back in the booth and nodding his head slightly as if along to music that’s not even playing as he stares out the window at the infinite landscape.

“Where’s your head, pretty boy?” Billy says.

Steve looks at him in surprise and takes a drink of ice water. “Nowhere! Right here, I guess. I was just uh…” He scratches his neck. “Remember that one arty movie Robin made us watch? The one about the guy in the red hat and he was wandering around and all out of it in the desert and then he was looking for his wife-”

“Paris, Texas,” Billy supplies.

“Yeah.” Steve gestures vaguely at the view. “This reminds me of that. I never really thought of stuff like that before Robin made us watch those movies. Didn’t like all of em’. But they kinda… I dunno. Now regular stuff looks sort of different and cool? Makes me think of shit. Is that what art’s supposed to do?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Billy grins, wide and carefree. “That’s so deep, Harrington.”

“Yeah, whatever.” But Steve cracks a smile and Billy thinks his cheeks flush a little.

I love you I love you I love you I

The words threaten to burst out of his mouth and he even starts to speak, terror flooding his veins.

“Steve-”

“Double bacon burger, double cheese burger?” The waitress swans up, a plate in each hand and Steve dives in after a cursory thank you.

The “I love you” dies in his throat and he’s thankful. They eat and between mouthfuls talk about the weird sights they’ve seen on the road so far.

There was a guy dressed as a clown sadly spinning a sign pointing to newly built houses.

There was a parade of wild dogs.

There was a statue of a horse.

Steve orders them shakes and only then notices the little jukebox on the table. “Oh shit, we need music.” He bites his lip and flips through the selection. “Oh here we go. This one’s for you because you keep freaking out about the apartment and because, ya know, California…” He slips a nickel in the slot and punches buttons and a second later the Beach Boys start singing.

“Don’t Worry, Baby.”

Steve sings along.

“She makes me come alive...and makes me wanna drive…”

Normally, Billy would think it’s funny because between the two of them Steve tends to be a bigger worry wart, but the cool thing is they’ve gotten good at talking each other down from shit.

Almost like a couple.

“Don’t worry, babyyyy.”

The words are wriggling up right from Billy’s stomach again and into his throat and he can’t stop it this time after all this time it’s finally gotten away from him in the middle of Joplin, Missouri-

“I love you,” Billy says.

For a fraction of a second there, he’s sure it got lost in the music and Steve didn’t hear him.

But then Steve’s eyes go wide.

“Shakes!” The waitress announces, setting them down on the table.

“Thanks, darlin’.” Billy winks at the waitress, hoping to distract from what the hell he just said. “Appreciate it. Hey Steve, do you have a buck for smokes? They gotta machine over there.”

“Um.” Steve nods slowly. “Uh. Yeah.”

Fuck shit shit holy shit…

They drink their shakes quietly.

Outside they lean on the car and smoke and Billy watches the wind blow Steve’s hair around. This time Steve looks like he’s searching for an answer in that land that goes on and on to the perfect line of horizon just like that guy in the red hat. Except that guy was trying to reconcile his past in the movie. Steve’s the future. If Billy hasn’t just fucked everything up.

Billy stubs his cigarette out in the gravel under his boot and Steve is looking up at the sky when he says, “I love you too. I’m in love with you.”

Billy’s pretty sure that the car must have flown off into the clouds with them in it. Because he’s sure he’s feet are no longer on the ground as he reaches out and grabs a fistful of Steve’s sweaty t-shirt, tugging him forward.

Steve tastes like his chocolate milkshake and his lips are warm and Billy feels them curve into a smile against his mouth before Billy nudges them apart. He feels fingers in his hair, playing with his curls.

Billy feels like he’s gonna fall down and half slumps against the car. Steve chuckles into the curve of his neck. “I know, man.”

For a minute they just stand there, embracing each other, listening to the wind.

Finally Steve takes his hand and says, “Let’s go, baby.”

#harringrove #harringrove ficlet

[dreamwritesimagines]

Twisted 19 - Chasing Silhouettes [Spencer Reid x Reader]

A.N.: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves! Here’s the next chapter, I hope you will like it as well, and please let me know what you think of it! ❤❤ Ily, kisses! ❤❤❤

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Murder, serial killers, violence, manipulation, mentions of sex, drinking, smoking, blood.

Word Count: 3800

Summary: Truce can be inevitable. 

It was safe to say that you were officially off your rocker after the break up. Stress? Check. No sleep? Check. Getting drunk mid-day? Check.

Looking a serial killer in the eye and threatening him?

Also check.

The constant anger was gone though. That blinding fury was gone, the fear was gone, the only thing you felt was numbness. It was as if you were watching everything happening around you from behind a glass, it was there but you couldn’t touch it or feel it.

With one exception; you missed Spencer each and every minute of the day, so you at least knew there was something left inside of you that wasn’t broken. But after what had happened, it wasn’t like you could call him. You had already left him multiple voice messages whenever you got too drunk anyway, and you were sure he had deleted them without even listening.

Not that you could blame him. He had already told you he wished he had never met you, and there was nothing you could do to change that.

“You guys will get back together,” Kenzie assured you like the hopeless romantic she was, “This is just temporary. I just know it, it’s like me and Mina. You can’t stop true love.”

“I doubt Mina ever told you she never loved you,” you stated, exhaling the smoke of your cigarette. “Or that you told her you wish you had never met her.”

She stole a look at Mina who was waiting for your lattes by the counter and turned to you.

“Well alright, maybe you and Spencer are having a more intense fight than we did, but—“

“This is not a fight, Kenz. We broke up.”

“You broke up with him,” she corrected you, “And you’re still in love with him.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you shrugged your shoulders, “I burned that bridge, okay? After this whole case is over, he will want nothing to do with me—hell, he wants nothing to do with me right now and I don’t blame him.”

“Okay,” Mina said as she came to your table and handed you your latte before sitting down, “What are we talking about?”

“Her and Spencer.”

“Yeah no, fuck that guy.”

Kenzie gasped, “Babe!”

“Kenz, he’s in the FBI, okay? He was there when they brought her into that interrogation room.”

“He wasn’t there when they took me to the station.”

“Fine, he came later on but did nothing to stop his beloved team from hounding you.”

“Mina, he was in another room.”

“You can’t possibly believe he didn’t know what was happening in the interrogation room,” she insisted and Kenzie pulled her brows together.

“Wait, didn’t you say he was the one who called you? For the lawyers and everything?”

Mina shrugged, “Yeah, so? That was just because this one,” she pointed at you, “Was too much of an idiot to ask for a lawyer. What, did you never watch a movie? You always ask for a lawyer.”

“But think about it, it means that he was trying to protect her from that whole interrogation process before he even landed,” Kenzie stated, “He knows how that whole thing goes, he made the calls, he gave his professional opinion to the police, he sent his team because they wouldn’t let him in there, it wouldn’t surprise me if he thought they’d go easy on her.”

You held the warm cup in your hands, listening silently.

“Or he just wanted to play the nice guy so that he could manipulate her more.”

You pulled your brows together, “Dude, he’s not manipulating me.”

“Not right now.”

“Not ever,” you said, “That’s not… that wasn’t the reason. Kenzie has a point, he was trying to get me out of there with minimum damage, and he knows how the system works.”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why you need to talk to him and explain—“

“Enough people got hurt because of me,” you cut Kenzie off, “Died, even. It would destroy me if it was him, okay? Me staying away is better for him, at least he will stay alive.”

Mina scoffed, “Not that your heartbreak is not important, but I need to bitch at you before I forget,” she said, “How could you not tell me Nolan was planning to propose mom?”

Kenzie smiled, “I think it’s sweet.”

“I think it’s a fucking disaster.”

“Oh come on,” you murmured, sipping your coffee, “You’ve seen them together, haven’t you? It’s bound to happen, he’s head over heels and mom can’t stop talking about him.”

Mina let out a whine, “I’m a good person,” she murmured, “I give to charity and stuff, I don’t deserve this.”

“You’re not ten years old you idiot, a stepfather will not disturb any dynamics you have.”

“He will though!” she protested, “To repeat, he is basically my boss, okay?”

“He’s a lot of people’s boss.”

“Yeah, do you know what people will think when I finally make partner?” she asked you, “That my brand new stepdaddy pulled some strings.”

“Please don’t call him stepdaddy, that’s just disturbing.” Kenzie made a face and Mina heaved a sigh.

“How are you so okay with this?” she asked you and you tilted your head.

“Mina, there’s a killer who’s going after people I know and making sure I see that,” you started, counting with your fingers,  “I’ve been drugged at my own apartment—in my own bedroom only to find my ex boyfriend’s dead body in my kitchen. I’ve been accused of murder, been handcuffed, interrogated and broke up with the love of my life. The last past week, I got maybe five hours of sleep and oh, before I forget, I also threatened our original serial killer father with death just a couple of days ago. Does it look like I’m in the right mental state to worry about getting a new stepdaddy?”

“To repeat, can you guys stop calling him stepdaddy?”

“What did you tell him when he asked for your blessing?” you asked and Mina rolled her eyes.

“I told him that mom is a grown woman,” she said, “She doesn’t need our permission to do anything. If she wants to get married to the guy who has apparently loved her for decades… who am I to say no to that?”

You tilted your head, “You were nice?” you asked in disbelief, “You’re never nice.”

“Eh, I have my moments.”

“What’s the real reason?”

Mina pointed at Kenzie with her thumb, “She said to be nice.”

“You’re so whipped.”

“You are seriously going to sit there and call me whipped when you’ve been wailing for the last month, miss I shall suffer forever after my lost love even though he was two seconds away from handcuffing me and not in a fun way?”

“He wasn’t-“

“Both of you are being too cynical about Nolan,” Kenzie interrupted you and grinned wide, “I mean come on, doesn’t it make you believe in love all over again?”

“It makes me want to get booze because I’ll never have that, Kenz,” you murmured and she pulled her brows together.

“Oh don’t be like that.”

“Kenz he was the love of my life and I lost—“

“I’m leaving if you start crying into your latte,” Mina deadpanned, “And please don’t say that you’ll plan Nolan’s proposal or God forbid, their wedding.”

“My client list is full.”

She let out a laugh, “You realize we all know that’s your favorite excuse when you don’t want to accept a client, right?” she asked you and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” you said and checked your wristwatch, “Well, I gotta get back to the office, I have this meeting and then I have two other meetings with these new pastry shops.”

“Hey, brat?” Mina stopped you as soon as you stood up and you tilted your head.

“Yeah?”

“You’re okay, right?” she asked, “Besides this whole mess?”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to smile, “I’m not but I will be.”

“Will you?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I mean I have to, right? There’s not much of an option there.”

Mina looked like she wanted to insist, but Kenzie squeezed her hand, silently telling her to drop it before you made your way through the street to approach the building your office was in. You nodded at the security guards then got in the elevator and pressed the button.

When the elevator got to your floor the doors opened but your assistant rushed to you as soon as you stepped outside

“Y/N, hi! You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“Shit, I forgot it on silent,” you murmured and checked it to see five calls from her, “Five calls? Erica, did you guys catch fire or something?”

“I was actually thinking maybe you would want to come to the balcony with me, you know, to get some fresh air before your meeting?”

You pulled your brows together, “What’s going on?”

“We didn’t know if we should call you or left them downstairs but…” she said, making your heart skip a beat.

“What is it?”

“Remember the time you said you were allergic to jasmines?”

You could feel the goosebumps rising on your arms, “Yeah?”

She pointed at something over your shoulder and you turned your head, your breathing catching up in your throat as someone opened the glass door to go outside.

There was a bowl full of jasmine flower petals but you could still take the overly sweet scent. Bile climbed up your throat as you walked through the door to approach the reception desk, and as soon as you saw what was in the middle of the petals, the room started spinning.

A vial of blood.

“Are you dating like a goth guy?” Erica asked as you took a step back, the walls closing in on you.

“Call the FBI,” you gasped as you rushed to the balcony, desperate for air, “Now.”

                                            ***

Panic attacks were a big part of your childhood, and even if you weren’t completely unfamiliar with them as an adult, they still managed to take you by surprise.

It took you nearly an hour to pull yourself together. An hour of sitting there in the balcony, your knees drawn up to your chest as your mind desperately searched for something to focus on, something to hold on to.

Some happy place.

By the time FBI had gotten there, your makeup was smudged around your eyes due to the excessive crying, your whole body was shaky and you were so exhausted that you could barely will yourself to get up and walk to your office.

The jasmine scent still clung to the air though.

You didn’t even have any energy to keep your eyes open, your whole mind wrapped in that numb haze that kept pulling you deeper and deeper into the absolute nothingness as you sat there on the couch, multiple agents coming and going into the office, into the reception, into your floor.

Dr Tara Lewis, Spencer’s coworker had given you a small bottle of hand lotion so that you could take in a scent other than those flowers before she had shot you a sympathetic smile and left your office to talk with the reception.

Even raising your hand to wipe at your nose with the tissue balled up in your palm felt way too tiring for you, but you wiped your nose, your eyes still fixed on the wall as the glass door to your office opened once again and footsteps came closer.

You didn’t even have to raise your head as Spencer approached you before he knelt down to look you in the eye.

“Hi.”

You blinked a couple of times, “Hi,” you sniffled, “Is it okay if we don’t do this today?”

He raised his brows, “Don’t do what?”

“I’m too tired to fight,” your speech was almost slurred at this point but you pulled your brows together, forcing yourself to focus as much as you could. “So can we do that tomorrow please? Like truce for a day?”

He offered you a tight lipped smile, “I’m not here to fight,” he said gently, as if trying to pull you back to the reality without scaring you, “Truce for a day works for me.”

You picked at the crumpled tissue in your hand, “Thank you.”

“Do you think you can talk to me though?”

You nodded silently, wiping at your nose again. “Yes.”

“Great,” he said, his calm voice washing over you, “That’s good. What’re you thinking about right now?”

“I’m thinking…” you tried to put your thoughts in order, “Tara gave me a peach hand lotion, can you give it back to her after you’re done here?”

“Sure,” he said, “That’s a good thing to focus on. What else?”

“It’s not my dad,” you said, “My dad wouldn’t dare to fuck with me, not after- it’s not him.”

“Tell me something other than the case.”

You willed yourself to concentrate on his handsome face, “Do I look like a horror movie corpse right now?”

He scoffed a chuckle, shaking his head. “You look beautiful Y/N. You always do.”

“The only person who’s a bigger liar than you is that makeup artist that told me this eyeliner was waterproof.”

He reached out to tilt your chin up so that his hazel gaze could study you better, and even in your numb state you could feel the warmth spreading through your body with his touch, “How long have you been awake?”

“I dozed off for like an hour last night,” you murmured, “I have this new apartment but I can’t sleep in my bedroom because I keep thinking there’s some noise coming from the kitchen, like… like it’s going to happen again. It’s impossible though, there are like five different locks on that door, someone would have to come with a battering ram to open the damn thing but I still don’t feel safe enough to—to sleep.”

He thought for a moment, “You can’t sleep because you don’t feel safe,” he murmured and you heaved a sigh, your head dropping before you forced yourself to raise it again, making a face.

“I’ve never tried peach lotion before, it smells nice…” you mused, your gaze fixed on the wall while the black spots flew in your vision “Have you ever tried it? Also hypothetically speaking, what happens if you eat lotion? Like do you think—“

“Y/N,” his clear voice shot through the haze again, “Sweetheart, look at me.”

If you weren’t too goddamn tired, the pet name would make you snap out of it and even give you a spark of hope, but you could barely concentrate on what was happening.

“Can you do something for me?” he asked and you nodded.

“Yeah, anything.”

“Lie down.” he said and you pulled your brows together.

“Why?”

“We’ll try something,” he said, stealing a look outside to the reception crawling with agents before turning to you as you curled up on the couch, still holding the tissue tight in your hand, your eyes getting heavy the minute your head hit the small pillow.

“What are we trying?” you managed to ask through the fog and he smiled softly.

“Close your eyes, for thirty seconds,” he said, “Just focus on your breathing. I’m right here, okay? Can you do that for me?”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, counting in your head.

You didn’t even reach fifteen before the sleep surrounded you.

                                                      ***

You were pulled away from the bliss when someone shook you by the shoulder gently.

“Y/N,” Erica’s voice reached you, “Y/N, wake up.”

You opened your eyes groggily, frowning. It was already dark outside and there was nearly no one in the office except for her and you. You attempted to sit up but stopped as soon as Spencer’s cologne filled your nostrils and you looked down at the jacket covering you.

He must’ve left his jacket on you while you slept in order to keep you from getting cold.

You could feel the small spark of peace shooting through you, the warmth spreading through your veins as you hugged the jacket tighter around your body and cleared your throat.

“What time is it?”

“Eight,” she shot you a small smile, “Um, everyone left and I figured you’d get a stiff back if you sleept on the couch any longer.”

“Erica,” you said, “You didn’t have to stay.”

“Come on, I wouldn’t leave you here alone after today,” she said, “Besides, I told that tall handsome agent that I’d drive you home. His team was called back to the FBI, some clue or whatever.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, I’d be a lousy assistant if I didn’t.”

“No, I mean—“ you swallowed thickly, “Thank you. It means more than you know to me.”

She grinned at you as you grabbed your purse and both of you made your way to the elevator.

“So I take it there’s no goth boyfriend but…” she said as the elevator went down, “Maybe a tall handsome flirt?”

“We broke up,” you murmured and she scoffed.

“Yeah no.”

You blinked a couple of times, “Erica, I’m pretty sure we broke up. I was there—“

“No I mean,” she huffed while you left the elevator to approach her car, “I have a talent to sense these sort of things you see. He doesn’t look at you like you broke up, and that jacket over you certainly doesn’t say you broke up.”

You got in the car with her and she started it.

“Is it because of your dad?” she asked you and your head shot up.

“What? How did you-?”

“It’s a small office, people talk,” she said as if apologizing, “But don’t worry, we all know that’s not the kind of person you are. I even had a fight with my boyfriend about it, but I told him that I knew you, you would never be able to do something like that. He was like you don’t know what people are capable of and I was like well...”

You were way too tired to answer her, so you let her talk about the time how she was great at sensing people’s true motives and how her boyfriend thought you were capable of murder while you sat in her car as she drove you to your place. You thanked her, your mind still fuzzy with sleep and made your way to your apartment.

After checking if all five locks were in their places and counting them in your head, you kicked off your heels and made your way to the fridge to get the bottle of whiskey. You took a swig of it and went to the couch, turning on the TV and leaning back to the soft cushions. You slowly took the jacket off and pulled it over your body, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent.

Maybe you could just imagine that you two were together, just for tonight.

You managed to distract yourself for a couple of hours, just sitting there and staring at the TV, barely paying attention to what was playing. By the time it was midnight, you had reached the half of the bottle and looked down at your phone for a couple of seconds before finding his name in the contacts.

You didn’t have to wait for long, and for once it didn’t go to voice mail.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” you smiled, “Um… is the truce still on? Or should I— should I hang up?”

“No,” he said almost too quickly, “No, don’t. We have today, don’t we? Might as well use the truce until the end.”

“Okay,” you whispered, “Thanks, by the way. For today. I can imagine how hard it is for you—“

“No,” his voice was soft, “No you really can’t.”

A silence fell upon you and you grabbed a tissue, wiping at your eyes,

“Professor?”

“Hm?”

“What does science say about heartbreak? Hypothetically speaking?”

“About heartbreak?”

“Yeah.”

He cleared his throat, “Considering the stimulation that increases dopamine and-“

“In a way that I will understand while I’m half drunk?”

“Addiction.”

You pulled back to look at the phone, “Addiction?”

“You know the areas of your brain that are active when you’re in love? Those areas are also active when you use…well, you name it. Cocaine. Drugs. Nicotine.”

“So that means heartbreak means-“

“Withdrawals,” he finished your sentence for you, “Exactly.”

You grabbed another tissue from the box on the coffee table, wiping at your nose.

“Spencer, what if it goes on like this forever?” you rasped out, “This whole heartbreak. What if I feel like this forever? What if I… What if I’m like seventy and I still—“

Love you.

“Miss you,” you changed your mind mid-sentence, “What if I’m old and gray and still using your jacket as a blanket?”

“That’s what you’re doing right now?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, “Pathetic right?”

“I recorded that show you liked and still can’t bring myself to delete it,” he admitted, “I don’t even watch it, it’s just there. You sure you want to talk about pathetic with me?”

You let out a bitter laugh, “Nah, still no competition professor. I still call you whenever I’m drunk, remember? You’re handling this way better than me, you still have your dignity.”

“I saw a fridge magnet in a store a week ago and I actually walked in there to buy it before I remembered I couldn’t give it to you,” he paused, “I’m not handling anything, Y/N. I’m a mess, it’s like…”

You held your breath, waiting for him to continue.

“You took something with you on your way out,” he said slowly, “And I don’t know what to do with what’s left, to be honest.”

“My chest actually hurts when I see you, you know?” you murmured, “And I still haven’t deleted the pictures.”

“Me neither.”

You picked at the tissue in your hand, “So much for Dante and Beatrice huh?”

“All things considered, they’d handle it worse than us.”

“I doubt anyone could handle it worse than us, professor.”

“No think about it,” he said, “We had….we had each other, at least. They didn’t technically lose each other, because they were never together.”

“It’s still romantic.”

“Dante saw Beatrice twice in his life,” he told you, “Once when they were nine, once when they were both adults. Twice in his whole life. Ignore the poems, what would you do if a guy you saw when you were nine showed up years and years later, proclaiming his undying love for you?”

“Call the police?” you said, making him chuckle.

“There you go.”

“When you put romanticism aside, Beatrice should’ve gotten a restraining order.”

“They didn’t have those back then, Y/N.”

You let out a small giggle, “Yeah yeah…” you murmured, “So what does that mean then? We’re more tragic than Dante and Beatrice?”

He sniffled and cleared his throat, “Yeah,” he said, “I think that’s what it means.”

You could feel the tears burning your eyes, “It’s not going to get easier, is it?” you croaked out after almost a minute of silence and he thought for a moment.

“I don’t think so,” he said, “Not for me anyway.”

“Not for me either,” you murmured and wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, burying your nose to the collar of his jacket draped over you.

If you closed your eyes, maybe it would stop hurting this much. You touched your screen to get to your gallery, then found your picture together, both of you smiling at the camera, unaware of the heartbreak that would hit you both very soon.

“Good night Dante,” you whispered and Spencer exhaled a shaky breath, as if he was craving the addictive high of your presence as much as you did his.

“Good night Beatrice.”

Chapter 20

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagines #twisted #spencer #reid #spencer x reader #reid x reader #criminal minds

[knchins]

Kuroshiro - Chapter Three

Summary: Hayami and Suguru were teenagers in love until the day came when he decided to turn his back on the sorcery world and become a curse user, which left his best friend Satoru to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Geto x Fem OC x Gojo

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: Major manga spoilers, alcohol consumption, restraint usage, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, mild aftercare, breakup, cigarette smoking

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Chapter Three - Goodwill

Gojo Satoru wondered just how serious his girlfriend was when she said she would have to kill Itadori Yuuji. It wasn’t that he actually thought she could but rather she’d get herself killed by Sukuna in trying. Of course, if Sukuna did kill her then Gojo would be beside himself. Despite all of the flaws their relationship had, he did truly cherish and love her. They were unhealthy at best and toxic at worst, but all they’ve ever had were each other since Geto left them both.

His mind drifted to the day Geto died as her food arrived, seeing Haya sobbing as she held him. She didn’t seem to care that he tried to kill his students or had caused so much destruction to the city. She was just professing her love one last time right in front of him. He was supposed to be her boyfriend. She shouldn’t love anyone else while she loved him. If she loved him.

Their food arrived and he realized she had been talking. He simply nodded his head, hoping it aligned well with whatever she had just said. Haya didn’t seem to notice, unable to see that his eyes had glazed over behind his sunglasses. He wondered if reapproaching the subject of killing Itadori would cause suspicion or possibly start an argument that would prevent him from getting laid tonight. He figured it was better to be safe than sorry for the time being.

The two began eating in a comfortable silence. Well, comfortable for Haya who did not notice that Gojo had become somewhat tense over what she had said. Maybe if she hadn't been drinking then she would have been more perceptive. She was a lightweight, it didn’t take much to lower her inhibition. She didn’t drink much but when she did she almost always got drunk. Gojo always teased that she was a cheap date and she would pout in protest the rest of the night until he made it up to her with his dick.

“If I didn’t know any better than I’d say you were stressed.” He said in a teasing tone as she finished off her third glass of wine.

Haya rolled her eyes at him playfully, “I am stressed, you ass.” She replied. “I’m a new mom to a teenage girl. I just don’t want to screw her up any more than she already is from her piece of shit parents.”

Gojo smiled softly, a somewhat foreign look for him. “I don’t think you will as long as you stop being so overprotective.”

She scoffed, “I don’t want to hear it from the man who thinks raising a kid means throwing them to the wolves. Megumi is lucky I was around too.”

“I think he turned out just fine.” Gojo replied with a smirk. “You worry too much, it’ll make your hair turn grey before you’re thirty, you know.”

“You just don’t want a silver fox on your arm, is all. I won’t be a pretty young thing forever.” She replied, her temper flaring a bit at the thought of him leaving her for someone younger.

He laughed, knowing that it was unlikely to ever happen. As much as he put up with her, she also put up with him. He knew dating him wasn’t always the easiest thing in the world and she took on a lot of shit for it from others. Thankfully she had always been strong enough to undertake any obstacle that stood in her way as long as it wasn’t related to Suguru or a special grade curse.

“Why waste time with someone inexperienced?” He asked with a playful smirk on his face. “When I can easily just torture you?”

Haya cracked a smile at that, enjoying the warm feeling it gave her in the pit of her stomach. It was nice to have him back. It felt like there hadn’t been that huge rift between them that had been there since the night of a hundred demons. She actually felt at home with him now and the idea of marriage popped in the back of her head.

Suddenly her heart tore, knowing he’d never ask. She kept a smile on her face, though Gojo could tell it had gone fake. He wondered what was going through her mind to make her mood swing so suddenly. Then again, this tended to happen when she’d been drinking.

They had finished their meal and Gojo paid for their food before helping her walk out back to his car. Haya leaned against him, giggling at some dumb joke he had made about other patrons inside the restaurant. Her sadness was forgotten as she let herself enjoy the moment instead of dwelling on things that will never come to pass. She wasn’t meant for stability and for the time being she had convinced herself that that was okay.

Once back at the school, outside Haya’s room, they wasted no time in locking lips in alcohol fueled kisses and laughs. Their respective problems were lost somewhere in the far reaches of their minds as they focused solely on the body of the other. Gojo’s hands searched for the hidden zipper on the side of her dress, tugging it downward as he leaned down enough for Haya to leave a trail of kisses down his throat.

She hastily unbuttoned his shirt as her dress fell to the floor alone with her now discarded pumps. Gojo let out a low laugh at just how short she was without them on, a full twenty-two centimeters difference between them.

He swept her up into his arms, earning a squeal of delight as he tossed her onto the bed. He finished taking off his shirt. He unfastened his belt and slid it from the loops of his pants before taking her wrists in one large hand and securing them to the headboard with the strip of leather. Haya was giggling still, pretending to struggle against the restraints while he removed her strapless bra with ease.

“Toru,” She laughed as the brushes of his fingertips tickled her sides. He kissed her jaw, chin to ear, before moving down to a weak spot on the base of her throat. He pinched both of her hardened nipples, twisting them just enough to make her moan in protest.

He kneaded the soft flesh of her large breasts, enjoying how malleable they felt in his hands. How perfectly they fit into his palms and the tiny sounds of pleasure that caught in her throat as he squeezed gently enough to not hurt her but hard enough to drive her insane.

She pressed her hips against his desperately and she could feel his erection growing against her thigh. Again she tugged at the restraints, this time a little more desperate to get him undressed, to touch him, to taste him, to have him filling her up inside.

Gojo kissed down her chest as he hurriedly took off his pants and boxers before removing her underwear with his teeth and the help of her lifting up her hips and legs. He inserted two long fingers into her dripping core, the wet sounds of him finger fucking her filling the small room. He watched curiously as she writhed, trying to get him in as deep as possible, needing to feel more of him inside her.

His kisses resumed, this time down her mons pubis and then against her swollen clit. He latched onto her, sucking lightly as his tongue swirled invisible symbols across the bud. His fingers continued to move, scissoring inside of her to stretch her more so she would be able to accommodate him without any pain. Though he imagined that with how wet she was, he didn’t really need to warm her up much.

Her strong thighs pressed against his head, causing him to hum against her. The vibrations sent tingles of bliss all the way down to her toes as he increased his pace. His free hand came up to play with her left breast, the stimulation enough to have her moaning without care and cumming into his mouth with a forceful jerking of her hips.

He removed his fingers from her cunt, licking them clean. She wished she could see him in the darkness, but her eyesight was simply too bad in the dim lighting of the moon outside. They had been too eager to bother turning on the lights and Gojo didn’t need them to get things done.

Gojo grabbed a condom from the drawer he knew she kept them in, tearing open the foil with his mouth before taking it out of the packaging and rolling it on. Haya had spread her legs obediently for him, being nice and subservient instead of bratty and defiant like she normally is. It was a nice change of pace for him when she was whiny and needy for him. He always liked her better that way.

“Satoru,” She begged as he lined his tip up with her entrance and just rested there, waiting for her to cry for him as she always did when she had been drinking. “Satoru, please, hurry!”

“Hurry and do what, princess?” He asked, pressing a thumb to her sensitive clit and making her leg twitch.

“Fuck me,” She breathed out, calling out his name yet again as he suddenly thrust into her. She gasped and pulled at the belt, wanting nothing more than to be scratching up his back in the moment. Though they wouldn’t leave a mark, the indentions in his skin would heal instantly. She always did pout about not being able to show who he belonged to. Instead he could always play the role as belonging to no one while she had hickeys lined across her neck and shoulders.

She wrapped one leg around his waist while he held the other down with his smooth hand. He moved at an even pace, his hips moving languidly and almost lazily as he buried himself to the hilt before almost pulling all the way out and slamming back in again.

Haya was loud, and though they had attempted to soundproof the room years ago it was never quite enough to keep anyone from walking outside to hear her when she was particularly excited. She babbled his name, eyes shut in bliss as her body was washed with ecstasy still from her first orgasm.

He increased the speed of his thrusts, grabbing her hip with his free hand to angle her in a position that would allow for him to go deeper. Her walls stretched around him as he found that small spot that was a bit spongier than the rest. Haya’s voice seemed to go up an octave as her thighs shook from pleasure. Gojo grunted at her squeezing down around him, fucking her harder to get her to call his name out even louder. The sudden need to make everyone know that she was his was overtaking him.

“T-Toru,” She stuttered, “Gonna cum.” She sounded breathless as he leaned down to kiss her with an opened-mouth kiss. Their tongues intertwined as she whimpered through another snapping of the knot that had grown in the pit of her stomach.

He fucked her through it, his hand leaving her leg to rub her clit once more. She spasmed beneath him, trying to get away from the overstimulation he was putting her through. Though she couldn’t see it, he was smirking devilishly in the darkness as he rammed into her again and again.

Before she could even come down from her second orgasm, she was having a third. Tears were in her eyes as he finally gave her the break she needed, finishing himself off with a few less precise thrusts and a loud groan.

He kissed away the rogue tear that had fallen down her cheek as he pulled out. Her lower half was still trembling from the intensity of her last orgasm. He gently unbound her wrists, kissing them softly as he lowered her arms down to her sides once more. Haya reached out to hug him tightly, pulling him flush against her as she buried her face in his neck.

“Shhh,” He cooed lightly, kissing whatever part of her he could reach in this position. He gently unwound her arms from around him so he could dispose of the condom and grab a towel to clean her up with. Once done he crashed down on the bed and she was clinging to him again as a child might after having a nightmare.

Gojo rubbed her back in slow rhythmic circles until she fell fast asleep.

“Is it really okay to bring him back?” Nanami asked, lowering the paper he had been reading, “If the fact that he’s alive becomes known at the exchange event, won’t the higher-ups just target him again?”

Them and Haya both, Gojo thought to himself with a playful smile on his face. “Even if they do, Yuuji will be just fine now. You know that better than anyone, don’t you?”

“And Kuroishi? Did you think it was wise to not tell her?” Nanami pressed, having been against keeping the secret from his old classmate and closest friend. The only reason he had agreed to keep it a secret was because Yuuji’s life was in danger. Now that that didn’t seem to be the case, guilt began to weigh heavily on him.

Gojo’s smile only broadened, “Let me take care of Haya. You know she can’t stay mad at me long.”

Meanwhile Haya was standing with Utahime, waiting impatiently for Gojo to arrive. He had been gone the past few days on assignment and she had half expecting him to wake her up in the early hours of the morning by crawling into her bed. She was somewhat surprised to find herself alone when she finally woke up to get ready for the day's activities.

She had watched over Miyu’s training the past two months, and she had to say she was quite proud of how much she had grown in such a short time. She had begun showing signs of muscle development and her cursed technique was coming along as well. The same couldn’t really be said with her new close friend Yua who would rather lay down and die than break a sweat.

All of the students were upset about the death of Itadori Yuuji. The only one who didn’t seem very perturbed was Yua, which made sense as she had never actually met him before. That and she had just experienced a much more major loss, though she kept telling people her parents were simply away on assignment looking for cursed tools in Northern Asia. The only ones that knew the truth were the adults and Shoko asked them to let her come to terms with it in her own time and not to push it.

“Sorry for the wait!” Haya was thrown from her thoughts as she looked up with a grumpy expression, Gojo pushing a cart towards them with a giant grin on his face. Her eyes narrowed, wondering what he was up to.

Utahime uttered his name with disgust and Haya couldn’t help but snort back a laugh. She had always felt that Gojo was unnecessarily mean to their upperclasman. She looked up to Utahime while they were in school. Haya had always thought she was quite beautiful, scar or not.

They watched as he handed out gifts to the Kyoto students before proclaiming that Utahime did not get one. She quickly snapped back that she didn’t want one and Haya shot him an aggravated look. He would have winked at her if his eyes hadn’t been obstructed by his black blindfold.

“And everyone in Tokyo, we have this!” He did a grand gesture as Haya felt a sense of dread wash over her. Something wasn’t right, he was up to absolutely no good. Yuuji popped from the box with an excited smile, cheering nonsense as Gojo introduced him though he needed no introduction.

Her heart sank down into her stomach, shock overcoming her as the first years looked angry and confused. Miyu in particular looked hurt before a blank expression masked her emotions. Haya knew better. She was upset and nothing good ever came of her getting emotionally wounded. Thankfully it did not look as though Aruna would take over, though she noticed Miyu rubbing her wrist repeatedly. It was a nervous habit she did when Aruna began to stir too loudly in her mind.

It was taking all of Hayami not to have a full-on drag out fight with her boyfriend (who definitely would not be her boyfriend for long after this). She did not want to argue in front of the students or Utahime, though the look on her face showed perfectly just how furious she was. Itadori was alive and as soon as word reached her family she’d be tasked with killing him once more.

Blood threatened to spill from her tightly clenched fists as her nails dug into her palms. Gojo sent her another joyful smile, knowing he was in deep shit but too busy enjoying the look on Principal Gakuganji’s face.

She didn’t hear the exchange or words going on, or even realize that Principal Yaga had put Gojo in an arm lock as he explained the rules of the first game. As soon as he dismissed everyone until noon, Haya took a step towards Miyu who just shook her head, clearly not wanting to talk. The Tokyo and Kyoto schools split into their respective teams to discuss strategy.

Haya let out a frustrated sigh, wishing her daughter would open up to her but also knowing that she couldn’t push it. She made her way to where the teachers would be watching the event, ignoring the calls of her name from Gojo Satoru.

Once inside the room, she sat down in a plush chair. Utahime joined her, “your boyfriend said there was something he wanted to talk to me about.” She said, “Any idea what that is?”

“Ex-boyfriend.” Haya said curtly and though she couldn’t see it, Utahime was rolling her eyes. Who could ever keep up when they were together and when they weren’t? They changed relationship statuses more than their own underwear it seemed. “And no, I don’t know.”

Gojo walked in and took a seat, he tried to wave at Haya but she only huffed and turned away from him. Him and Utahime exchanged words before Gojo dropped the bombshell that someone at Jujutsu High was a traitor.

Haya stiffened. They had talked about it a few times though she never could say one way or another if it were true. Gojo was thoroughly convinced while she was not. She knew that both him and Nanami had fought curses capable of speech which was virtually unheard of.

When she learned that Kento had been injured, she rushed to the medical office to check on him. After losing Yu, they both made a childlike promise to never die before the other. He had always been there as a shoulder to cry on or an ear to vent to. They’re relationship was strictly platonic, neither having any attraction to the other.

In fact, she had made Nanami Miyu’s godfather in the event that anything happened to her. Nanami pointed out their promise together before agreeing to it. Gojo did not have any knowledge of this conversation as Haya was not entirely sure how he would take it.

She snapped out of her thoughts when she heard Utahime yelling at Gojo who merely laughed at her. Haya frowned as she watched them, Utahime turning to her before loudly proclaiming, “you really can do so much better than him.”

Gojo merely smirked. After all, who was better than him? He was the best of the best. More importantly, Utahime was wrong as always. Haya couldn’t do better than him. No one could.

Or at least, that was what Gojo thought.

Haya stood and left, not being able to deal with being in the same room as someone with such an enormous ego. Once outside she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. She had taken up smoking when she was eighteen briefly but quit after only a year. However the added stress of being a mother to a teenager had made her take it back up in secret. Well, she thought she kept it a secret.

She sat down behind the building, sliding down the wall until she hit the ground in true dramatic fashion. She wished she could go talk to Miyu and make sure everything was okay. She seemed so angry and hurt. Haya could relate. She felt the same way. How could he really keep this from her for two whole months?

Her phone began to ring, the caller ID flashing her father’s name. A sigh left her lips as she answered it in an emotionless tone.

“Hayami, did you know that the vessel was still alive?!” His voice was loud, booming, and if she didn’t know any better then she’d say it was frantic.

“I did not.” She replied honestly, though she doubted that he’d believe her.

“Come here as soon as you are able.” He said, “But do not raise suspicion.”

She wondered what he meant by that. Any time she had to return home it raised suspicion. It was no secret how much her father hated her. How she had been outcast at a very young age for being not only a female but being a disobedient one at that. Add on dating a traitor and you had the trifecta of disownment. The only reason she was still able to say she was a Kuroishi was because she was occasionally dating Gojo Satoru, whose name held more weight than she could ever imagine.

She wondered if that weight was why he acted like a child sometimes. He could literally get away with anything. No one could stop him even if they wanted to. There was some comfort in fucking the best but it also led to a lot of frustrating inferiority.

“Are you listening to me?” Daiki asked with an angry hiss. “When can you come?”

“After the goodwill games.” She replied. “If I’m not there for them, people will ask questions.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Though the only person that would ask anything would be Gojo. Principal Yaga too if he thought something was up, and that was simply because he knew how fiercely protective Haya was of Miyu.

She looked at the time on her phone. She put out her cigarette and threw away the butt before going back in, sitting in the back next to Yaga. Again she ignored Gojo as she passed him. She watched the screens in silence, pursing her lips whenever Mei and Gojo were speaking to one another. She was too tired to interject or comment, instead she was on the edge of her seat watching her daughter fight off the sister school and low level curses alike.

An hour or so into the battle, all of the talismans correlating to the curses in the field burst into red flames. The screens on the wall had gone black, making it impossible to see what was going on. Haya’s leg bounced, her chair making a rattling noise that had Yaga looking at her from the corner of his eyes.

“I’d love to say Great Teacher Gojo’s students exorcized them all, but…” Gojo started, and the Principal finished.

“The charms will burn red for unregistered cursed energy.” He said in his deep voice, his face perplexed.

“Something’s wrong.” Haya breathed out, sensing danger. “An outsider is here. Someone must have gotten through Master Tengen’s barrier.”

Masamichi stood, “I’m going to Tengen-sama. Satoru and Principal Gakuganji, please project the students. Hayami, make sure they get to safety in the event of an attack.”

Haya was racing out the door before he could finish giving orders to the other two in the room. The others were soon behind her and while Gojo could probably catch up if he tried, he decided it was best to give her space.

She saw a veil start to come down and pushed herself to go faster, somehow making it before it touched ground. She knew Gojo could probably break it, she just needed to find the students and make sure they were safe from whatever was inside with them.

Once inside the barrier, Haya felt chills run up her spine. The sheer pressure from the amount of cursed energy was enough to tell her that there was a special grade nearby. She sent a silent prayer to the gods, hoping they’d protect the students from whatever it was that was inside. Hopefully Sukuna would not come out to fight and kill Itadori once more.

She heard Mei-Mei’s voice in her head, directing her towards where a few of the students were. Miwa was the closest and was at most risk since she was unconscious from Inumaki’s cursed technique. She was informed who was actively fighting the cursed spirit, and knowing that Fushiguro and Inumaki were there made her feel better. Yua was also nearby and would be able to heal anyone who was gravely injured.

Unfortunately, Miyu was there too. And while her parental instincts told her to run to her daughter to get her to safety, she knew her duty was to students who were currently more vulnerable.

Haya made it to Miwa’s unconscious form and crouched down. She placed a hand on her sternum and closed her eyes, visualizing the medical wing. A back portal opened in Haya’s shadow that was cast over Miwa’s body, and Miwa fell into it. Her sleeping form fell abruptly onto a bed, nearly making Shoko scream from surprise.

Again Mei-Mei informed Haya of the location of nearby students. Inumaki had collapsed and though Yua had healed his throat, he had not woken up. Haya cursed, she didn’t want to waste her energy by teleporting to them, but she worried that if she ran then she wouldn’t get there in time.

She pressed her palms together and fell down through the shadows under her feet and reappeared next to Yua, who did scream.

“Yua, I’m going to transport you both to where Shoko is, alright?” Haya said, doing her best to stay calm. “It’ll be away from here. I’ll be transporting the wounded there too for you and her to work on.”

Yua was shaking, her hands bloody as she nodded her head. She was too afraid to form any kind of coherent sentence. She wasn’t good at combat. She didn’t even try to train to be. Though Fushiguro had said she would be more useful if she did, which probably hurt her feelings more than it motivated her.

Again she had them falling through her shadow and again they ended up in the same place Miwa had. Yua immediately got sick, throwing up into a nearby waste bin. The room spun until it finally settled and she sat up to try and get to work.

Haya was getting a headache from Mei’s voice in her head and using so much of her technique at once. While she could use her two other techniques for long periods of time, teleporting was one she had the shortest stamina with. Teleporting objects was easy. Teleporting people took a great amount of energy and so her reservoir was quickly draining.

She caught up with Megumi and Maki, forcing them both to listen to her so she could send them for medical help. Megumi looked worse, buds sprouting from his stomach. She looked at Miyu who was panting heavily, and while she wasn’t injured beyoung some scrapes and bruises, she looked like total shit. “Miyu, I’m sending you back to the school.” She said with a pant, “I don’t think I can transport anyone else after that. Itadori and Todo can handle this curse spirit.”

Miyu didn’t look so sure, but also did not question her mother. Haya sent her to join the others before having to take a knee and rest. There was no cursed energy left. The tiny amount wasn’t even enough to do the simplest of her techniques. She just hoped she was right about the two boys being able to handle the curse.

Haya crawled to rest against a tree, trying to hide herself as much as possible from the others around as she caught her breath. Her head felt like it was splitting in two, the light of the setting sun only making it worse. She needed to get out. Something was different about this curse spirit. Similar to the one that had attacked Gojo before, it was able to communicate with others.

Her eyes slipped shut, having not felt so tired in ages. “Sleeping on the job, Haya-sensei?” Her eyes snapped open at the sound of Gojo’s teasing voice. She glared at him with a newfound energy as she stood.

“Finish this.” She hissed, still leaning against the tree from support. She didn’t want to admit her weakness in front of him. The fact that she left two students to take care of a special grade instead of helping them was enough to make her feel like a failure. She didn’t need him rubbing salt in the wounds.

“I think they’ve got a handle on things.” He said with a smirk, his blue eyes shining and he picked her up and flew to where a curse user and Principal Gakuganji were battling. He set the yelling Haya down before starting his own fight.

Chapter Three coming Sunday (2/27)

Suguru Geto returns for the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons.

#gojo x oc #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk x oc #gojo smut #gojo x oc x geto #geto x oc x gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk imagine #jjk fanfiction #jjk ocs #jjk oc #KSseries #jjk angst #kuorishi hayami #hana miyu #jjk smut

[babybluebex]

everyone loves an outlaw [arvin russell x reader smut]

➽ pairing: mob!arvin russell x fem!reader(y/n) ➽ word count: 2.2k ➽ summary: arvin works for your dad and you have to keep your relationship a secret. ➽ warnings: NSFW/MDNI. smut, explicit language, age gap (reader is legal tho!), fingering (f!receiving), praise kink, breeding kink ➽ a/n: mob!arvin goes brrrr hehe​

In small towns, there weren’t many ways out. A job was the usual way-- graduate high school and get a job out of town and leave Coal Creek in your dust. Sometimes, though, the job search was fruitless and many people, young and old, were left to rot in West Virginia. That seemed to be the case for Arvin Russell. We went to high school together, him being a senior when I was a freshman, and I remember my father going on about him. “Gonna get him when he graduates,” Daddy said. “Not lettin’ somethin’ like him get outta here.” 

Legally speaking, my dad’s business was in bail bonds. We had family in Chicago that we worked for, and the line of work that my father did was less on the end of selling the bonds and more towards extracting the payments. Coal Creek had a few names for what my family did-- “mob”, “mafia” (which were technically two different things, but the people in Coal Creek had no hope of ever distinguishing the two)-- but we preferred to call it family. 

And, God almighty, Arvin Russell was in need of family. When he graduated, he had a bright future ahead of him, but that flame was put out when his little sister died. Lenora was a year ahead of me, quiet and reserved and very bookish, and it took the entire town by surprise when we heard that she had died. Rumors flew around as to why; she was sick and didn’t want to burden her family with her illness was a popular one. When Lenora died, Arvin lost his way. Wayward young men looking for protection and acceptance was my dad’s type when it came to employment. 

He had me do it. I usually was the one to go out and hire young men. Papa realized fairly quickly that men would do basically anything I asked of them, including signing themselves into our little family, so, one day in my senior year of high school, I went to the garage where Arvin Russell worked. He split his time between road construction and the garage and, when I met him properly, he had grease all over his hands. “Hi, Arv,” I said sweetly. 

His pink mouth had quirked into a smile. “Hey, doll,” he said. “You’re Y/N? From high school, ain’t ya? Ya daddy’s got that bail bond thing goin’?” 

“That’s me,” I said. “I, uh…” I had a script that I had to stick to. “I… I was just wonderin’ if ya wanted to get dinner sometime. Maybe go to a drive-in? That car you’ve got is pretty neat.” 

“You like my car?” Arvin asked, and I giggled out a yes. “Ya sure it’s the car ya like, doll?” 

“Not as much as the driver,” I said, biting my lip. ‘C’mon, Arv, this is takin’ a lot of courage to ask ya.” 

Arvin sat up from the rolling creeper he was at and wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants. “You really wanna go out with me?” he asked. His voice was dripping with absolute sarcasm, but his honey-colored eyes held something more hopeful. I knew, right then, that we got him. 

“Well, yeah,” I mumbled sheepishly, picking at a loose thread on my blouse. “I’ve kinda had my eye on you since… Forever, I guess. I-I just think you’re outta sight, Arvin.” 

Arvin’s eyes glanced over me, still wearing my clothes from school, and he gave me a smile, much more sincere than ever before. “Sure thing, doll,” he said softly. “What d’ya say to Friday night?” 

Friday night came, and it was quickly obvious that the movie would be forgotten. Instead of that, Arvin and I ended up in the backseat of his car, his hand up my shirt, making marks on my neck that my dad would be mad at. I never planned on fucking Arvin and, while I had no qualms about doing so, I stopped when his long fingers began to dance at my panties. “Arvie,” I panted, grabbing his wrist. “I ain’t ever done nothin’ like this before. I-I just--”

Arvin kissed me softly, his hand holding my cheek tenderly. “No sweat, doll,” he told me. “We’ll go as fast or slow as you want. I’m here for you.” 

I was supposed to break it off with him after that, but I just couldn’t. There was a bit of truth to what I said when I asked him out initially, that I had my eye on him for a while. I had always thought that Arvin was pretty cute, and I enjoyed the time I had with him. We had to sneak around, though, because my dad would have cast both of us out if he knew. While I was supposed to fluff up their egos and convince them to join the business, I wasn’t supposed to fool around with the guys my dad hired. Arvin was different, though, in a way that I couldn’t put my finger on. He was kinder, a gentler soul than most, hidden behind a gruff exterior. 

School was grueling, but the sight of the old Chevy waiting in the parking lot for me brought me comfort. Arvin stood near the door of the school, smoking a cigarette as he waited for me, and a smile passed his face when he saw me. 

“Arvin, you know damn well that you aren’t supposed to be here right now,” I hissed quickly. “My daddy’ll kill you.” 

“I reckon he’d have to catch me first,” Arvin chuckled. His smile promised illicit moments in the coming minutes, and he added, “It looks like it’s gonna rain and I was thinkin’ of offering you a ride. Wouldn’t want ya to walk and get all wet and melt.” 

“Why would I melt?” I asked. “I ain’t no witch.” 

“Nah, but you’re all made of sugar,” Arvin told me. “C’mon, babydoll. I know you want to. I might even buy you a milkshake if you’re good to me.” 

“Good to you?” I laughed. “Right, ‘cause that’s my goal in life, Arv, is to please you. Fuck off.” 

“Dolly’s got an attitude today,” Arvin drawled around his cigarette. His dark eyes were full of energy and promised nothing but fun, and the fact that he hadn’t given up his advances yet let me know that he saw right through my fake resistant measures. After all, he knew that I would give in no matter what, just as I always did. “Jesus, woman, you’re makin’ me work for it today, huh? This is fun for you, yeah?” 

“Oh, so much fun,” I assured him. “I love makin’ ya dance, Arvie.” 

“Shit, do I gotta get down on one knee?” Arvin laughed. “I was hoping that you’d be all graduated first but--” 

I tugged Arvin close by his worn leather belt and I silenced him with a kiss to his cheek. My pink lipstick left a mark on his skin, and I said, “We can talk ‘bout that later. Thanks for the ride, loverboy.” 

“Never a problem with you, doll,” Arvin told me. 

As usual, we ended up parked at the river, with Arvin’s hand up my skirt. My hips bucked up into his hand as his skilled fingers found home inside me, and a soft whimper fell from my lips. “Vinny,” I whispered quickly; that name was reserved for moments like this. “O-Oh, fuck!” 

“Such a good girl,” Arvin whispered in my ear, gently nipping at my earlobe. “S’fucking tight, doll. You really ain’t been lettin’ other guys fuck ya, huh?” 

“I only want you, Vinny,” I said. “Nobody makes me feel the way you do.” 

“Good girl,” Arvin told me, and my body went warm with the praise. Arvin had always been so good to me and I truly didn’t want anybody else. But I had always imagined getting out of Coal Creek, leaving my family behind and having a good and honest life. I wanted to get married; maybe to Arvin, but maybe to someone with no ties to my family. I was lovestruck, I’ll admit that much. I was so pathetically in love with Arvin that I had doodled his name during class, even going as far to put his last name with mine. Mrs. Y/N Russell was enticing. If Arvin were ever to propose, I would be compelled to say yes. 

“Vinny,” I said, and I grabbed his strong arms. “I-I’m gettin’ close, baby.” 

“You hold that shit in,” Arvin growled into my neck. “Want ya to come on my cock, babydoll.” His fingers fell from me quickly, and he made light work of undoing his belt and jeans. My thighs were quivering around his hips, and I sunk down onto his hard cock with a satisfied keenness in the back of my throat. Arvin’s moan in my ear was heavenly, and he mumbled, “Pussy’s so good, doll. Fuck.” 

“Fuck!” I squealed as he snapped his hips up into me. “Vinny, I-I--” 

Arvin’s mouth met mine in a greedy kiss, and I whimpered my way through a blissful orgasm. Arvin swallowed every single noise I made, his hands raking my blouse up to feel the skin of my back, and I felt myself shaking so hard in his grasp. “Good girl,” Arvin shushed me, kissing all over my face. “So good for me, babydoll. Gonna help me now?” 

Even though my legs felt like liquid and my hips ached, I rolled my hips down onto him. Arvin quickly got rid of my shirt fully and tugged my bra up my chest to expose my tits, my nipples hard at the feeling of him. His mouth latched into my tit quickly, and I pushed his curls off of his forehead as I watched him suck on my tit. Arvin looked up at me through his dark eyelashes and gave my nipple a quick bite with his front teeth, and I yipped. “Vinny!” I cried. 

“Aw, dolly,” Arvin cooed. “I only do it ‘cause I like the pretty little noises you make.” 

I chuckled breathlessly, and, with his lips back on my nipple, Arvin winked at me. “Arv,” I sighed. “Your cock is literally inside me right now. You can knock it off with the flirting.” 

“Can’t help it,” Arvin said, biting his bottom lip as he cupped his hands around my breasts. “Just an instinct.” 

“It’s a good thing I like it,” I whispered, and I leaned down to kiss him. His breath was hot against my mouth, and I clutched his hair as he continued to fuck into me, and I finally pleaded, “Vinny, please come. Want you to come inside me, Arvin, please.” 

Arvin took a fistful of my hair and tugged my head back to expose my neck, and he kissed all over the soft column of my throat as his thrusts became quick and sloppy. “Fuck,” he whispered and sucked a mark onto my neck, but I was too far gone to chastise him for it. Arvin huffed out a heavy breath then, and I felt him spilling himself inside of me, painting my walls with his hot cum. I gasped aloud at the feeling of it, and Arvin set a kiss to my lips to silence me. “Ya like that?” he whispered. “Like being fucked like this? My good girl, my best girl.” 

“Christ, Vin,” I whispered with a giggle. “I love you, you fuckin’ square.” 

“Hey, I’m not a square,” Arvin laughed. His arms were circled around me, holding me tightly, and his cock was still inside me as he laid his head on my chest and tried to catch his breath. “But I love you too, babydoll.” There was a quiet that blanketed the car then, the only sounds being our rasping breaths and the faint radio that we had left on before climbing into the backseat. Arvin was right; it had begun to rain. 

“Think it’ll take?” I asked softly. 

“What?” Arvin asked. His brown eyes were still blown out as he looked at me, and a smile split his face. “Oh, dolly. Is that why you wanted me to come inside ya?” 

I shrugged sheepishly, and I hid myself in his neck. Arvin laughed and readjusted us so that he was laying on his back, making sure to stay inside of me all the while. 

“You wanna have my babies?” Arvin chuckled. “Your daddy’ll kill us.” 

“I jus’ wanna be yours, Arvie,” I told him. “Want everyone to know I’m yours.” 

Arvin pulled my face from his neck and captured my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “No more hidin’?” he asked hopefully. 

I shook my head, and Arvin smiled. “No more hiding,” I agreed. 

Arvin gave a content sigh, and he kissed my mouth once more. “My pretty girl,” he whispered. “My pretty wife, maybe?” I nodded, and he laughed. “Shit, that sounds pretty nice. Having a pretty little wife to come home to, gettin’ all big with my baby… Jesus, I love the thought of that. But you ain’t even graduated yet, doll. Are ya sure…?”

“There’re girls who dropped out ‘cause they got married,” I told him. “I think the fact that I’m engaged and pregnant, and still manage to graduate won’t be a problem.” 

Arvin kissed my forehead, and he whispered, “Just a few more minutes, baby. Wanna make sure, ya know. Then, I’ll get you that milkshake I promised.” 

#arvin russell x reader #arvin russell #arvin russell x y/n #tdatt #the devil all the time #tom holland #arvin russell fanfiction #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #arvin russell fluff #arvin russell angst

[michals]

Alright so this came outta nowhere but why not. Just a little something in that special niche genre I love: cheerful angst.

Five's technically younger than his siblings so it makes sense that he's going to die last, he doesn't like it but he accepts it. G, 1334 words, major character deaths:

-

It’s stupid, really goddamn stupid, Five thinks, that Luther’s 58 when he dies. He gets the joke, thanks universe, but he doesn’t think it’s funny that his twin is the age Five came back to him as when he dies. Five’s mind is 85 but his body’s only 40 and even though he knows he shouldn’t he still hates that he’s not the first one to go.

It’s the serum’s fault of course. Despite his powers, despite the strength and endurance, people can’t walk around as two different creatures, not forever. Stupider still Luther knows it’s happening.

“Ben’s probably been bored without us,” Luther says, sitting with one arm around Five’s shoulders, Five’s head tucked into his neck. Five feels so small, this time it doesn’t make him angry it just makes him sad.

“He’s waited this long,” Five says.

“It’s okay, we’ll keep each other company until the rest of you get there,” Luther’s voice is quiet, he sounds tired. “It’s okay.”

Klaus tells him after the funeral that Luther stuck around after to tell him to watch over Five and hopes he doesn’t see any of them any time soon.

“Me, look after you? Delusional right at the end wasn’t he?”

Five doesn’t want to smile at that but he does.

-

Diego’s 65 and he dies cause he’s an idiot. That’s what Allison tells him though her voice is choked, trying to speak through tears.

“Still kicked that guy’s ass,” Diego says with a weak grin. He never gave up that whole vigilante thing and no matter how many times they yelled and scolded and at one point actively locked him up, nothing ever stopped him.

“Could’ve picked something cooler than a gunshot wound,” Five says, holding his shoulder in his hospital bed.

“Yeah,” Diego sighs, “that part kind of sucks.” When he coughs Vanya squeezes his hand in hers.

“Fitting,” Klaus says with a smirk though his eyes are watery, “you’d go after Lu, like always.”

Diego chuckles, says, “I’ll tell him you guys say hi.”

At the funeral Five tells himself he only needs to do this three more times, as if that’s a good thing. He’s decided he’s not leaving any of them first. If he has to be the last anyway he’s holding on tooth and nail until he really is the last. He’s 93 in his head, he feels ancient.

“Convenient he was already wearing black,” Klaus says with a cigarette between his lips. This time Allison laughs until she cries.

-

“We’re just going right in order aren’t we?” Klaus mutters as he sniffs a rose. It’s one of thousands that’ve been sent to the mansion, now stacked ceiling to floor with gifts from Allison’s fans.

Heart attack, 82. So mundane and simple for someone like her. Five always figured she’d go out with fireworks but on the other hand it was peaceful and easy and honestly, not a bad way to go. He hopes his own happens like that.

“Vanya you have to take something home,” Claire urges her aunt, “I can’t take all this back to LA.”

Vanya plucks a single lily from a bouquet. “Hmm, I’ll take this,” she says teasingly. Claire rolls her eyes, hugs her for the 100th time.

“We’ll put this half,” Klaus says gesturing to one side of the room, “on Luther’s, and this half on Diego’s.” He twirls the rose, “and this I’ll put in Ben’s little copper hand.”

Five huffs and shakes his head at him though he can’t hide his smirk.

Before Claire goes back to LA a few days later she hugs Five for a long time. She’s not a young woman but Five will always see her as that little 5 year old Allison finally got to bring back to their family home to meet her aunt and all her uncles.

“Bet she and Diego are already arguing,” Klaus says later as they sit by the fireplace.

“Bet Ben’s already sick of all of them,” Five says.

-

Klaus is wrong, he’s not next. Vanya loses her voice to throat cancer a couple months before she goes but it doesn’t actually seem to bother her. It makes Five angry and sad, but she just grins and has whole conversations with him and Klaus by manipulating records and radios and TV’s.

Five’ll ask how she’s feeling and she’ll pull down the soundwaves of the TV playing upstairs, the weather report announcing: “Sunny without a cloud in the sky.”

She’d spent years looking for pictures of Sissy and Harlan, gotten a locket and put them in it. She'd been buried with it but Five puts some of the extra photos by her headstone just to show everyone they were hers too. Klaus lays the violin down with them.

“I broke it,” Klaus says, “Just a little. So it could follow her up there.”

Five is ready to be angry about that, it’s so ridiculous and stupid but then again…well, it is stupid, and sweet and he imagines Vanya entertaining the others with her music, all together again. He surprises himself when he laughs.

“You really did fry your brain didn’t you?”

“Like an egg,” Klaus says.

-

Five was only ever being rational when he figured Klaus would die first. He’d spent most of his life with any variety of poisons in his system, spent decades abusing his body. Five considered it reasonable to brace himself to lose Klaus first.

Except no, Klaus is the last, just he and Five left. Klaus is 93, then 94, and so on and still they both linger. Five’s body is 20 years younger than Klaus’s but his consciousness is 25 years older. His bones shouldn’t feel as old as his mind but they do.

But he’s not lonely. The mansion’s too big for them but neither are willing to give it up, they belong there they figure. When Klaus has to start using a wheelchair he makes Five push him around the house, pretending to give him tours and rattling off absolutely nonsense stories of the past. He still drinks wine and smokes and wears feather boas and Five wakes up every day then has to wait til Klaus rolls out of bed at noon.

As the years pass the others get further away and yet closer at the same time. Klaus tells him what he knows about the afterlife: that it’s there, that it’s bright, that there is color you just have to want it.

-

“No roses,” Klaus says, leaning back in his wheelchair, face to the sun. “Too cliché. Tulips maybe. Marigolds. All together, my grave should look like a parade float.”

“Dandelions,” Five says, leaning his chin on his cane.

“I like dandelions,” Klaus hums. Then: “Not that you’ll be around to put them there.”

Five’s face scrunches, “Of course I will.”

Klaus opens his eyes, turns to him. “No no, I die after you that’s how it goes.” He says it so nonchalant.

“What’re you talking about?” Five is genuinely thrown, “Of course I’ll die first.”

Klaus shakes his head, like Five is being obtuse. “That’s not the deal.”

“What deal?”

Klaus’s turn to be confused, looks him over with a furrowed brow. “Five, have you been waiting around for me?”

Five reels back as far as his body will let him. “Of course I have!”

Klaus shakes his head, smiles like he can’t believe it. “No Fivey, I worked it out with the big one upstairs,” he points heavenward with a boney finger, “I get to stick around for all of you as long as I don’t bother her before then.”

Five sits back against the bench, processing.

“Besides,” Klaus says with a shrug, “Luther told me to look after you.”

Oh, well, that’s that then. Five smiles.

-

Five is 85, Five is 130, and he dies peacefully in his sleep just like he wanted. Klaus sticks around to put him next to his twin, then he sits in the courtyard with Dave's dogtags in his hand, looks skyward, and says, “You all better have rolled out the red carpet for me.”

#tua #tua fic #umbrella academy fic #t.ua #tw character death #mine #my fic

[all1e23]

Between the Stars [Pt.10]

Pairings:  Bucky x  Reader

Series warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Grief. Overall sadness. Depression. It’s pretty angsty if I’m being honest. Things mellow out as the series goes on. TW: Military/Spouse death. **Smut.** 18+ please and thanks. 

A/N:  This chapter has my whole Goddamn heart. I wasn’t planning on posting. I am just going to see how this goes y’all. As always  my beautiful beta @moonbeambucky​​​​​​ made sure this wasn’t trash and I adore her. If you like it write me a book report, sing me a song or come scream at me.

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****

The last month has been the hardest thirty days since Steve died and the heartache you were feeling had nothing to do with that loss.

Things between you and Bucky have been awkward since his late night confession. You didn’t know how to feel about any of this. Bucky admitting he loved you when you were kids was not something you ever saw as a possibility. Or maybe you convinced yourself it wasn’t one. Looking back now, there were moments that it was obvious. Right there in your face, shining brighter than the sun, and you chose to ignore it. Even after you married Steve, there were times you caught Bucky staring in such a way it stole your breath; he never tried to hide it, or at least he wasn’t great at hiding it. He became angry with you every time you attempted to set him up with someone, and then there was the night out, everyone had been drinking and things were said that shouldn’t have been. The jealousy you felt at the thought of Bucky finding another girl pretty enough to take her home still stings. You hadn’t realized it was jealousy until now, but it was. The anger in Bucky’s eyes that same night when he told you not everyone could be as amazing as your husband — he couldn’t be Steve. 

You’ve never wanted Bucky to be Steve. Now you were wondering if he even knew that?

While the truth made everything a lot clearer, that didn’t mean that any of it made sense. If anything, things between you only became more complicated now that you knew his secrets. Bucky felt the divide as much if not more than you, and began spending more time away from the house. It started with taking his bike out for a drive that would last several hours at a time. He would come home long after you had fallen asleep and you suspected it was so he wouldn’t have to talk about all the things that needed to be said. You didn’t want to talk. You just wanted to lay with him. 

Things quickly spun out from there.

More and more, his days were spent with Sam or visiting his mom. What could you say? Please stay here with me instead of visiting your mother and sister? It wasn’t like when he first came home. Not that you were anywhere close to being healed or normal or whatever everyone around you expected you to be, but you could get up and live. You didn’t need him to be the crutch that kept you breathing. You could breathe all on your own. So, you let him go without a word, hoping things would go back to normal. Or, a new normal? You didn’t want to forget everything that was shared or pretend you weren’t feeling the way you’ve been feeling these last few months. You did want Bucky; you wanted him back home with you. You know how selfish it made you, and you didn’t care. 

That selfishness quickly turned into desperation. You were desperate to have him back, you tried over and over to make plans. Resorting to scheduling time with your best friend, the man who lived in your house just to get some time alone with him, but it was next to impossible. There have been more canceled plans than plans followed through the last three weeks. Bucky was avoiding you. There was no point in sugar-coating it to spare your feelings. Most nights he spent away from you were spent with Sam, and you knew that. Still, it hurt to know he simply didn’t want to be around you. When Bucky finally makes his way home, he always smells like bourbon. Those evenings you spend alone, but on the rare occasions he does come back in time to sleep with you, he sleeps facing you so you could rest your forehead against his chest or bicep. 

Even those moments were few and far between lately thanks to an incident two weeks ago. Bucky stumbled into bed thinking you were asleep, and in his tipsy state, he whispered some things that will forever be etched into your memories.

“I should have chased after you—that night. I should have made sure you knew I loved you,” you could hear the disgust in his voice, and you wanted to sit up and tell him you were awake. You shouldn’t be listening to this when he never meant for you to know these secrets. “I should have told Dot to go find someone else because I belonged to you. Had since we met. Wouldn't have changed much, though. Once Steve kissed you, I could see it, it was like you woke up or somethin’. I’ve never seen you smile at anyone like that. Let alone at me.” 

It was silent after that, and you thought he had fallen asleep, but then you felt him press a kiss to the side of your head, and he whispered into the dark, “Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to tell you when you’re awake.” 

He didn’t know how much you knew, but it was clear just saying the words out loud pushed you further away. You hated this and wished you could take it back. You wished you never brought up that night and kept your childish notions to yourself. If only you could take it all back, change the way you felt then maybe things would be okay again. 

The house was quiet when you snuck in the back door. You told Bucky this morning you would be gone all night, out with Wanda for a girl’s night so that he could have the house all to himself. That part was genuine. You had gone out, but the longer you were out, and the more time you spent away from Bucky, the more you wanted to be with him. You ended up calling it an early evening and waited in the dark until you saw Bucky head out onto the back porch with a small glass in his hand. 

He hasn’t wanted to see you lately, anyway. 

Steve’s hidden stash of whiskey was on the counter, and your heart hurt at the sight. You catch sight of Bucky leaning on the back porch, red dot glowing between his lips and three fingers of amber liquid floating in his glass. You quickly scurried upstairs and crept into your room, opening the door just enough to slip in because the squeak in the hinge will give you away. You heard the glass doors off the kitchen shut and a glass clinking against another, you closed your eyes and forced yourself to stay put and get ready for bed. There was nothing you could do to help him when he didn't want to see you. 

Bucky trudged up the stairs, carrying his bruised and beaten heart behind him. The soft yellow light spilling into the hallway from your bedroom had him stopping. Your door cracked several inches. It wasn’t like that before. He slowly moved towards the open door enough to spot you standing in front of the long dresser on the far side of your bed by the bay window. You were slowly undoing the buttons of your shirt after shimming out of your jeans, and Bucky couldn’t move even though he knew he shouldn’t be watching you like this. You didn’t need to hear the tiny exhale he let out to know he was standing there. You could feel him. Standing there nearly naked with your grey flannel (Bucky’s shirt technically) unbuttoned and hanging open leaving your black lace bra and black cotton boyshorts on display, you should feel embarrassed or self- conscious. You didn’t. You glanced up from the floor, locking eyes with him. Neither of you says a word. Bucky slowly stepped one foot into your room, making sure it was okay before moving any further. When you make no move to throw him out or curse him for even considering this to be okay, he slowly moves across the wood floor with careful steps on bare feet. 

His eyes fell to the black lace taking you in as if it’s the first time he’s truly seeing you. Bucky looked back up and met your eyes as he slowly reached out, running a thumb down the soft, thin material covering your breast. You inched forward, settling your hands on his ribs, clutching the worn navy-colored fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Bucky’s head tilted his head just enough so he could run his nose down yours, and he smiled when you tilted your chin towards him. His hands came to rest on the sides of your face, and he let his lips ghost over your skin. They hovered over your cheeks, the corners of your mouth, but never touched your lips. When your mouth fell open, lips barely parting he took his chance and tentatively pressed his lips against yours, softly letting them linger there for the longest three seconds of your life. Bucky scanned your face looking for any sign of regret the moment he pulled back, and when he found none, his lips claimed yours again this time without hesitation or uncertainty. 

The kiss was gentle despite the desperate want behind it and not at all what you thought kissing Bucky would be like. He was in no rush for this to be over. His lips moved over yours, slow and delicately. He tasted like whiskey from the bottle you knew was still resting on the counter downstairs, and there was a faint smell of cigarettes lingering on his shirt. He always smoked when he was distressed and hurting, and you hated it. With the way he was gently parting your lips with his own, smoking was the last thing on your mind. You honestly didn’t know what you expected but, kissing him like this made you dizzy, and when your knees went weak from the high, Bucky kept you from falling.

His right hand fell to your back, pressing firmly into your skin as he walked you backward until you bumped into the dresser behind you, giving your shaking legs support. The lamp that sits atop the old wooden chest wobbled and fell back into the curtain, dulling the soft yellow light, leaving a more delicate peach hue to fill the room. It stayed where it fell. Neither of you daring to let go of the other. Bucky hands have yet to leave your skin, much like his lips and you wanted it to stay that way. You didn’t have a lot of experience kissing, but it’s never felt like this. It’s never reached inside and grabbed a piece of you, stealing your breath and maybe a bit of your soul. 

A sweet sigh led to several short soft kisses that allowed you to catch your breath. With closed eyes, Bucky pressed one last honeyed kiss to your lips, and his forehead fell onto yours. You were trembling but not in the way you thought you would be when you found yourself here again. Bucky looked apprehensive when his eyes opened, the hand on your back pressed further into your skin, and he took a deep breath. 

“We can blame it on the whiskey,” Bucky whispered, his breath warming your swollen lips. 

That would be the easy thing to do. Blame all of this on the alcohol; tonight and the bonfire. You could end whatever this was before it became messier. Tell Bucky to leave, sleep in your bed for once, and wake up in the morning, pretending that Bucky didn’t just steal your heart with a simple kiss. You could do all that, and Bucky would act as if it never happened. There would be no guilt or shame he forced on you for wanting to take it all back. He would still love you the way he always has. That was the right thing to do, and that’s what you should tell him. 

“I haven’t had any,” you whispered back instead. 

Bucky gave you a sad smile and shrugged his shoulder. "We could still blame it on the whiskey." 

There was the out if you wanted to take it. You weren’t sure if it was an out for you or him. It was hanging there in the air regardless. If only things were as simple as walking away and forgetting. You’ve been straddling the two lives, two versions of you for long enough, and you were so tired of faking it. 

“I don’t want to be sad anymore, Bucky. I’m tired of being sad, and I’m so tired of pretending.” 

“Pretending?” Bucky questioned. You could hear his heartbeat, you could swear it. It was hard and fast, pounding with uncertainty against his chest. 

“What part of you has been pretending?” 

It’s terrifying how one simple question can change everything. 

“The only part of me that’s real is one tied to you.” 

You were playing with fire, but you’ve always had a way of finding trouble, and Bucky’s always been fond of the kind of trouble you were made of.

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that so he let his hands say all the things he couldn’t. They brushed gingerly down your sides, lightly running down to the top of your thighs and playing along the edge of the black cotton covering you. You wanted to memorize the way his fingertips felt on your skin in case you never again get the chance to feel them. His hands were rough in the right places and soft where they needed to be. The roughened calloused thumb and forefinger and that thin line running down his middle finger through his right palm to his wrist -- an incident with a knife while they were deployed a few years ago. 

He reached behind him and pulled his shirt over his head, and your hands immediately found his skin trailing soft fingers over the various scars. New ones you’ve never seen and some old ones that made your skin crawl from the haunting memory. The scarred skin on his left shoulder left you with that queasy feeling. You almost lost him that time. They nearly took his arm, and you could still hear Steve’s voice in your ear, desperate and tear-filled coming down a scratchy satellite phone to tell you that Bucky may not be coming home. 

Your lips brush over the scar from the bullet that ripped through his shoulder nearly taking him from you and Bucky’s breath hitched at the contact. You wished you could take that pain for him. You know how much it still bothers him, especially when it’s cold, and there are nightmares tied to the scars that won’t leave him alone. If you could, you would take those, too. You slowly pull back to find him watching you intently. There’s a long pause from you both. Did he need the assurance that you both wanted this, and it wasn’t a mistake? Did you? His breath heavy, the desperate want between you making the air thick and hard to breathe. The silence in the room was overwhelming, and it was the confirmation you both needed. 

Bucky’s left hand came up to grip your hair, and he pulled you forward with a gentle demand, swiftly claiming your lips. Rough fingers push the sleeve of his flannel from your shoulders enough that it fell onto the floor on its accord. There’s a kiss to each shoulder as he nudges the straps of your bra off your shoulders, unhooking it with one hand and letting it join the pile at your feet. You briefly wonder how many times and with how many other women he's done this. How many of his one-night stands has he touched like this? The thought was quickly extinguished when you felt his lips gently land on the tip of your nose. He bumped your noses together, wearing a small smile when he kisses the corner of your mouth and presses a sweeter, softer kiss to your lips. 

He’s never done this before. He was making sure you know it’s never been this way with anyone. He's never held anyone the way he's holding you now, nor does he want to. 

Bucky urged you back towards the side of your bed, stopping right before the mattress could brush the back of your legs. He hesitated, glancing from the bed back to you. It was a question. Did you want to do this here? Because he would understand if you didn’t. There wasn’t much of a question in your mind despite his worry. Your fingers land on his belt, slowly undoing it and pulling it from the loops. It was okay to want this, and it was okay to want this here. Bucky wasn’t a dirty secret or something shameful you had to keep hidden. 

There was nothing shameful or dirty about what you felt for Bucky.  

Kicking his jeans to the side, Bucky dropped to his knees in front of you, he grasped behind your knees and pulled your legs out from under you dropping you back onto the bed. You squealed softly and Bucky’s deep chuckle followed, making you shiver. With thumbs hooked in the waist of your panties, he slowly tugged them down, kissing each ankle as your foot slipped free. The room felt hot. Maybe it was the fan spinning on low or the heat of Bucky’s shoulders under your legs. It could be how he was staring up at you with his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen and his hands sliding up to cup your ass, lifting your hips to meet his mouth. 

A lecherous moan bounced off the walls and Bucky hummed against you. It didn’t take much. The first feel of his tongue and your legs were quivering around his ears. The intention was to taste you, not tease you until you were begging for release. It was easy to tell with the way he devoured you from the moment his lips were on you. He wanted to savor the sweet taste on his lips. You simply couldn’t stop your pleas for more. You couldn’t fight it. The burn from his beard on your thighs and the strokes of his tongue had you squirming. He didn’t relent until you were writhing and coming undone under him.

Bucky stood between your legs, panting, and still wearing the evidence of your orgasm glistening on his lips. You couldn’t take it another second. Leaning up onto your elbows you tangled the chain from tags around your hand, pulling him to you. The kiss is wet and frantic. Not like before. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only spurred you on. Your hands were steady, rushed but steady, as you tugged his boxers down. Bucky’s hand lands on top of yours, slowing your movements. He needed this slow. You both did. There was a breathy, please that fell from someone’s lips. Neither of you are sure whose. 

With a gentle push to his chest, you guide him to sit back against the headboard. His necklace fell back to his chest, gripping his biceps with both hands to steady yourself as you straddle his waist, and Bucky’s hands came up swiftly, gripping your hips and halting you from sinking down on him. His eyes frantically roam your skin, his thoughts were racing and you could hear every one of them as if they were your own. He’s searching for the truth in all this. Is this all something he imagined? If he takes the chance will you fall with him or is he on his own? It’s the same thought making your legs tremble. You pressed your forehead against his and took a deep breath.  

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You can fall, Bucky. I'm right here with you.”  

Something about your words made the tension he was holding dissipate and left him with an easy smile. His grip on your hips slowly loosened, the shake in his hands steadied as you pressed a kiss to his lips and you sank down on him. His head tilted back against the headboard and his mouth fell open at the feel of you clenching around him. You didn’t move for a moment, giving you both a minute to adjust. Allowing your head a chance to catch up to your heart. The hand on your waist slid around your backside, urging you to move with a gentle tap. Fingertips wandered every inch of your skin, exploring every inch of you as he watched you breathless and rocking against him. 

His palm comes to rest over your heart, closing his eyes as your heart thumped against his palm letting him know this was real. You were here with him, and this was no dream. 

It was quiet save for the creek of the headboard, your heavy breaths, and Bucky’s soft, guttural moans he couldn’t stop. You came apart first. The sight of your mouth hanging open, gasping for breath, and quivering in his arms pushed Bucky over the edge. He came clutching your thighs and whispering your name. It was a pretty sight.  

Your bottom lip was still trembling long past the last wave when you asked if he felt the same thing you did. 

“Did you fall, too?” 

Bucky smiled at your question and cupped your face in his hands, kissing you sweet and sure between heavy breaths. 

“Yeah, Trouble. ‘Bout fifteen years ago.” 

You rest your forehead against his jaw and press a kiss to his neck—Bucky’s lips land on your shoulder, his beard tickling you enough to make you wriggle. Bucky grinned, wrapped an arm around your waist, and slipped down low enough to cover you with the sheet. There was a brief worry that you were cold, but you simply burrowed further into his chest, assured him you hadn’t felt this warm in a long time. You would both need to leave this bed and get cleaned up at some point, but for a few minutes longer, you could stay right where you were. 

Bucky had every intention of soaking in this moment that was never supposed to be. 

A conversation needed to be had. There would need to be explanations and assurances. None of this was planned. You hadn’t meant to fall for Bucky. He loved you in a way you didn’t fully understand. You wanted to though, if he was willing to show you. You wanted to let him love you. None of what you were feeling was intended, and it was never meant to be a replacement for what you had. He was different. It was something new—a new kind of old you never wanted to lose. 

New was nice, it turned out. 

Previous // Next 

#bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #Past!Steve Rogers x reader #alternate universe #military au #TW: military death #tw: death of a spouse #tw: character death #smut

[fascination-street-writing]

For Make Believe and Not So | Part II of II | La Squadra x Reader

To wake up to the sight of your messy hair and eyes softened by sleep is a lovely pleasure in life, but one not granted to him nearly enough. Tonight, however, you will stay and dream of an impossible future together. Tonight, you will save the heartbreak for your better selves.

Link to Part I

Content Warnings: N-SFW Sexual Content

The faux leather of the booth seating creaks with each jostle of laughter and lunge across the table for another shot of liquor. You suppose – after weighing the throbbing of your knees to the disoriented thrum of your head – that you have drank far too much. But you do not care, for you know that you are indeed with good company. Never mind that you had agreed to work opening shift tomorrow, because that is not your trouble now.

Though the music from the speakers blares through the tight space of the bar and patrons shout in jovial cheer to one another, you could not be bothered by the distractions. After all, the game of briscola before you is far more enticing – that, and your team is winning.

Formaggio nudges you in the ribs and discretely flashes you his cards before playing his turn for the both of you. Melone throws his cards down with a groan, withdrawing from the game. If not for Formaggio, you might have done the same; you are lost – utterly and completely lost. Perhaps you would have done better for yourself if you were not currently so intoxicated.

You reach for your ears to twirl your earrings out of habit, only to be met with air. Your silver earrings sit discarded on the table. You remember now; something about Illuso using the reflection to cheat, and Formaggio begging you to take them out. You did so with a shrug, though not entirely certain that your partner’s whim was so embedded in truth. Your earrings were not that shiny.

In the end, the two of you finish the game victorious. The waiter sets down a tray full of cinnamon whiskey shots. A cloud of cigarette smoke engulfs the table as Prosciutto takes a drag and sighs, accepting his defeat. Seated beside him, a look of mortification sweeps across Pesci’s face. “Do I have to?” he asks, eyeing the amber-colored liquid with hesitation.

“You lost, ragazzo,” Formaggio sneers with a smirk. He slides the tray towards the younger man.

“Mhm, losers have to drink up,” you say with a giggle. “You knew the rules.”

Pesci bites his lip. “It’s just – Well I . . . Uh . . .”

Prosciutto rolls his eyes. “Gesù Cristo, Pesci,” he mutters. “If you want to salvage your dignity, then drink.”

The green-haired man turns red in the face. “It isn’t bad, Pesci,” you insist, reaching across the table to tap his knuckles in an attempt of reassurance. “I promise.”

It is enough to goad him, but begrudgingly so. Liquor held at eye level, he swallows his spit before downing it in two – no, three – sips. He sputters and coughs as the whiskey burns his throat. The others laugh, yet he feels as if he has conquered the world, though only for a moment. The way you praise him, like hailing some accolade of his, makes him want to try again. Just to hear you speak so fondly of him.

Alas, the night drones on. Formaggio leaves the booth to chat up the bartender, and Melone wastes no time in claiming the newly vacated space beside you. You do not mind the change in scenery and the way he practically dangles off you, or the comments he throws your way regarding just how much he admires the style of your hair tonight – or, about the way your outfit perfectly accentuates your birthing hips (“That dress was made for you, bella-bella”). It is not until he asks about your blood type that Risotto promptly hoists you from your seat and ushers you to sit betwixt he and Prosciutto. You never had the chance to protest.

“What’s this?” Formaggio asks when he returns with two drinks clutched in his hands – one for you, no doubt. “How the hell are the rest of us supposed to shoot our shot with [Y/N] when she’s sitting between you two?”

His words fly over your head. Your attention is instead trained on the purple concoction he holds. “Speak for yourselves,” Ghiaccio scoffs. “You should have better things to worry about than getting your dick wet.”

“Hey, hey – I never said I didn’t have important things on my mind, but she’s one of them!”

“Wait, what?” you suddenly ask, your interest piqued after receiving your drink.

“Formaggio’s trying to fuck you,” Ghiaccio says with disinterest.

You shake your head and chuckle, chewing on your straw. “Of all the people at this table – no, in this bar – you’re the last person I’d sleep with, Maggi.”

Those cat-like eyes glisten and his jaw drops. The others erupt, and you can only hope that you have not wounded his pride too much. It is all just fun and games, after all. Formaggio points an accusatory finger towards Pesci. “You’d even pick testa di ananas here over me?”

“I said what I said.”

“Mio dio!”

At the end of the night, it is Ghiaccio who agrees to drive you back to your apartment – and reluctantly so. You stumble out to his maroon Alpina with little help from him. You think that he must like watching you trip over the bits of loose cobblestone masonry that line the pathway to the parking lot; even more, you suspect that he does not care for you very much. Or at least, not nearly to the same extent that the others do. It is no matter, for you have learned that you cannot win the favor of everyone. It is one of life’s many daunting natures.

The soft lights of Napoli flash by in a whirl as the car speeds down the road. Admittedly, he drives a bit too fast for comfort – or perhaps it is his attempt at furthering the wedge between you two. When he nearly swerves into oncoming traffic, undoubtedly distracted by something, you wonder if it is his vendetta to get you killed tonight. You suppose he would not risk the insurance claim on his car, however. The thought quells you. But it does not change the matter of your non-existent comradery to the man driving.

He is intelligent – one of most intelligent people whom you have ever met. Yet, his fixating rampages over the most miniscule of things is startling. Frightening, even. More often than not, however, it is he who is the subject of his own rage.

“Ghiaccio, can I tell you something?” you ask, though you know he will tell you to be quiet. You do not give him the chance to say so. “I think that deep down, you’re a nice guy. You just don’t want the others to see it, for whatever reason.”

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

“I had a good time tonight, and I hope you did too. It was nice seeing you let loose a bit.”

To say that he ‘let loose’ is a gross understatement. He refused to join the game of briscola, insisting that it would not be a fair match, and that the lights were too dim to even see the cards properly. He had refused every beverage offered to him – even water. Ghiaccio merely sulked the entire night, making it clear enough that he would rather have been elsewhere.

“It would be nice to do it again, and I –“

“Just, stop,” he hisses, throwing out his fingers in frustration, without releasing the wheel. “Stop talking.”

You huff and look away. The air within the car turns cold. It makes you shiver. “I know you’re just trying to get me to take back what I said, but I won’t. Why can’t you just let me say something nice to you? Why can’t you let me try to be cordial? I’m not asking you to like me or anything. You don’t have to be so hostile, especially when I’ve done nothing wrong to you.”

The car rolls to a halt in front of the townhouse that you share with several other university schoolmates. You expected an attempt at some semblance of an apology, but you were simply hoping for too much from the man beside you. Grabbing your purse, you wrench the door open, failing to notice the ice chips that have formed around the seal. They crackle and shatter on the pavement.

“I’m sorry.”

You thought too soon, it seems. He does not look at you – in fact, he refuses to tear his gaze from the road ahead of him. Stiffly, his jaw juts out in vexation, and you can practically see the gears churning in his mind. He does not know what to say next, yet you have heard all you need.

With a glimmer of a smile, you bid him adieu: “Goodnight, Ghiaccio. Thank you for the ride.”

He watches you hobble up the steps, supposing that he ought to have at least offered to help you inside. But why should he force himself into your servitude when you were the one who chose to drink tonight? Shaking his head, he at least waits until you vanish behind the front door – though not because he wishes you well.  

Certainly not.

Behind closed doors, you have taken a lover. You do not dwell in childish games with one another. In front of the others, you spare the fleeting looks of longing – of insatiable adoration to the man who succeeded in swaying your affection in his favor, and he to yours. You suspect that they must know of the affair, but he insists that your secret has been kept. It is better this way, for all parties involved. Better than souring hearts or making enemies of those who have become your closest of friends.

You suppose that you might feel remorse with each passing of his fingers over the supple perks of your breasts – but guilt does not make your belly swell with anticipation. With a content sigh and a lopsided smile, laced with ardor, he leans over your sprawled form and brushes his lips to yours. He thinks you look like a goddess, naked and tangled in the mess of bedsheets; and perhaps you are, for he has never met a woman as beautiful as you. He pulls away, only to kiss you again, as if to prove to himself that you are real. Goddess or not, you are corporeal.

Do not ask him to say that he loves you, because he will not admit it. And yet, under his gaze, you swear that you have become a daisy flower, potted on a windowsill, and he the preening blue jay, just beyond the reach of the glass. You wish to feel this way forever.

“Do that again,” you command, a nymph-like grin on your face. You reach out a hand to cup his cheek and sweep your thumb over the moon of his cheek.

Illuminated by high-spirits and spent desire, he cocks an eyebrow. “Do what, cara?”

“Kiss me.”

Who is he to deny you? At the peak of your own satisfaction, his lips move to your neck, savoring the warmth of fresh love-bites. You turn your head to give him ample space. You will surely parish in the heat tomorrow, in what will be your decision to wear a turtleneck to cover the blemishes, but that is a problem for your future self. The gentle rumble of a stifled chuckle sends a vibration through you. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him close – as if he might slip away if only you let go.

“You look pretty like this,” he says without pulling away. You quiver as wetness pools between your thighs. “Sei così bella.”

“And only for you,” you tell him.

He shifts until his trail of kisses have led him to your glistening folds. “Only for me.”

You wait in your own delirium for his mouth to work you open. And he does, until he has had his fill of your balm and saccharine sweetness. You writhe and buckle into his lips. Just before you reach your limit, he stops and beckons you to stand. You do so on shaking legs. He settles against the headboard and you follow suit, straddling his hips and sinking yourself down on his stiffened member. Arms coiled around his neck, you stretch around his shaft and sigh in delight as you contort to his hardness, as if already molded into memory. His hands clasp your hips, urging you along with each jostle of your body.

It is euphoric. Even when you throw your head back in ecstasy and cry out his name, reaching your fill and gifting to him your release, his eyes never leave your face. To wake up to the sight of your messy hair and eyes softened by sleep is a lovely pleasure in life, but one not granted to him nearly enough. Tonight, however, you will stay and dream of an impossible future together.

Tonight, you will save the heartbreak for your better selves.

When a neatly packaged box addressed to the men of La Squadra di Esecuzione arrives on the front doorstep of their hideout – via express mail, no less – Risotto is the one to bring it into the living room, though not because he wants to. He recognizes the penmanship of the scrawled address. He has seen it on dossiers, files, letters of grievances and recommendations, and of course, thirty-six wrapped formalin frames. As always, there is never a return address. But he knows who it is from, even before Formaggio slices through the tape that welds the box shut.

Photographs spill onto the coffee table. Far too many to count, admittedly. And all of them, pictures of you. The first that Melone pulls from the pile is one of you caught in motion, a textbook clutched in your arm and your cellphone held up to your ear – heading to a class amidst the bustle of your university campus, no doubt. A look of exasperation sweeps your face, frozen in an eye roll and a scoff. The next is a photograph of you at work, in mid-conversation with Formaggio, who leans over the front counter. Your hand hovers over the cash register, ready to punch in the total for his order. What the camera did not capture was the smile upon his face as he beamed up at you. He takes the picture from Illuso’s grasp.

The analog lettering in the corner is dated to the very same day that the green-eyed man first visited you at the pizza shop. “Unbelievable,” he hisses. “Unbe-fucking-lievable!”

There is a photograph of you sharing a cigarette with Risotto in a park near your apartment – something that has become an unspoken pastime between you two. There is a photograph of you sitting in Ghiaccio’s car the night of the bar trip; his scowl has been immortalized for the others to see, and for a moment, a twinge of regret eggs him. Another of you in the bar with everyone else, taken through the cloudy glass of the front window, earlier that same night. When the photograph of you and your lover is turned over, all eyes fall to the man – accusatory gazes laden with what might perhaps be anger. But it is not the time to dwell in jealousy and betrayal, because he will lose you soon enough.

“He’s been watching us, all this time.”

Melone begins to flip the photographs over. Despite the tension of the room, something has caught his attention. “Some of these have letters on the back,” he says as he shows the evidence to his squadmates. “This one’s an L. Here’s a P. And an A.”

It is Illuso who understands the intention, though only after finding an E and an I. Lei – she, in reference of course to you. “It’s a message,” he insists.

No one argues. Not even Ghiaccio makes the effort to refute the permissibility of Illuso’s discovery. By the time the code is finally pieced together, the room has grown heavy and odorous of cigarette smoke. Two spent packs litter the floor, but Prosciutto will worry about sweeping the ashes later. He can bear the mess a bit longer, for there is another – far more pressing – that needs tended to. In that tantalizing cursive, the ever-elusive Don of Passione speaks: “Lei è la prossima.”            

She’s next.

No one speaks. How could you, their fondest friend – a woman who delivers pizza to fund her way through her studies – have fallen into Passione’s snare? “It wasn’t enough that he killed Sorbet and Gelato,” Illuso sneers. “Now this? Now her?”

Risotto is quick to shut him down. “I told you to forget about them,” he reminds the men. “I told you to – ”

“How are we supposed to do that when this shows up at our doorstep?” It is Melone who interrupts. Risotto stiffens. “How are any of us supposed to forget about Sorbet and Gelato when the situation is about to repeat itself? We can’t, and you can’t expect us to.”

“I can, and I will. And I expect the same to be done of her.” The man with black sclerae cannot even utter your name. Even the thought of it makes his chest tighten. “From this point on, I am prohibiting all of you from seeing her. If not for your sakes, then hers.”

Truly, each man in the room already knew the daunting solution – they simply did not wish to hear it uttered aloud. Your safety and well-being are important to them; it just so happened that the bond you share has put your life in jeopardy. They will not be the reason for your death. “So, who’s going to tell her?” Pesci asks.

“Why bother?” Ghiaccio huffs. “What part of ‘forget about her’ don’t you understand, mammoni?”

Pesci casts his gaze downward to avert the glare of the hot-tempered man. No man in the room volunteers. Their leader supposes that it ought to be his duty – to assume the responsibility, considering that it was his insistence. But, despite the stoicism, he never has been good at saying farewell.

“I’ll do it.”

Prosciutto steps forward, and the others are grateful for it. “It seems that, in the Don’s attempt to herd us like sheep – to weaken us into subordination – he’s instead succeeded in creating enemies for himself.”

He releases a puff of cigarette smoke. Perhaps he should have held it in for a bit longer, until his lungs swelled, and his head grew dizzy – because in the end, he feels nothing.

Aprile in Napoli is, you think, the loveliest time of the year. The pavement is slick with afternoon rain, but it does not trouble you in the slightest. In truth, you enjoy the smell of rain – it is purity and earth, and a fresh start. You peddle to a stop just before the row of graffitied townhouses at Vivo Pallonetto Santa Chiara. This time, there is no dog to gawk at you through a window. No child in rags to run past you with a stolen purse. No pizzas with sausage, eggplant, or porcini mushrooms, either.

Only you and your shattered heart.

You do not bother to tether your bike in place, because you will not stay long. With each step on the cracked concrete stairwell, it becomes harder to breathe, and you imagine that you are traversing your own ascension. Only, there is no heaven at the top – unless heaven is a locked door. In that case, you want little to do with her. You find the key buried within your purse, amongst gum wrappers, a bottle of vitamins, and receipts that ought to have been thrown out long ago.

You had not known what to say to the young man – no, the boy – with golden hair and turquoise eyes who met you in a black Maserati with tinted windows. You had not known what to say when he handed you an envelope with money and the key. Something of compensation for their family, he had said, to get along after their deaths. Had they even had family outside their tightly woven niche? You never knew. Your tongue grew heavy like lead: you did not thank the boy, but he did not expect you to. Instead, you sat in the backseat of his car and wept, moistening the expensive upholstery with tears.

There were no funerals. No memorial services. No solidary condolences. Only money to finish your studies, loneliness, and a key.

You begged the chauffer to pull over. You exited the car without so much as a contemplation of gratitude. There you stood, in some distant courtyard of a café, where you had met Prosciutto one last time just months ago. Or maybe it has been years. Grief has a way of making time pass slower. Perhaps you are already an old lady – or perhaps, only twenty and some more.

He greeted you with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a peculiar tiredness to his eyes. You moved to take a seat, but he held out his hand to stop you. You understood what he wanted – he wanted you to walk with him until you reached the park where too many times before you sojourned with Risotto. Only then, with Prosciutto instead, the sight of the neatly cropped grass made your stomach curl.

“Don’t make this difficult for me,” the blonde man said, all the while avoiding your furrowed brow and gaping mouth. “But you need to stop coming around. It’s better this way, for all of us and yourself.”

Do not be difficult – and so, you do not beg or cry, nor do you ask questions. You had always known that dangerous men did not make safe company. You knew, forever in your soul, that Eden did not last forever; and one day, you would have to leave. Prosciutto stubbed his spent cigarette on the heel of his shoe. You thought he meant to reach for a new one, but you did not give him the opportunity to.

He never said you could not hug him. And so, you did. Face buried in the lapel of his suit jacket, you spoke: “I know it’s not any of my business why, so I won’t ask,” you told him. His breath hitched. “It’s not my place to pry. Oh, I’ll miss you all so terribly, but, in the end, I wish you the best.”

His arms encircled your back, hesitant to return the gesture of your affection. At first, he merely hovered; yet, when you moved to pull away, he held you, tight. “I told you not to make this hard,” he mumbled into your hair. Vanilla – your hair smelled like vanilla. “Be good, bella ragazza. Stay safe for us, huh?”

“You too, Prosciutto.”

You insert the key into the lock. A part of you wishes it will not fit – that you can turn around and leave this wretched place that you love so dearly; why bother with something that will only make you wish you had not done it? Alas, the knob clicks. It is closure you seek, and you open the door. You could have prayed for a nasty little prank. That, sitting on the couch, Formaggio would be waiting for you, with a lopsided grin on his face, asking what took you so long?

Prosciutto might be cooking pasta and puttanesca in the kitchen, simply because he knows it is your favorite. Pesci might be watching a game of soccer on the television, glad for a new spectator to endorse his commentary. Illuso might be standing there, offering you a glass of wine to share with his own – a toast to the end of an arduous week, or just because he feels like it. Melone might beckon you to sit on the floor so that he can give you a back massage after your long night of running around Napoli. Risotto might be brooding in silence, though his demeaner brightens whenever you enter the room; and already, his fingers will begin to itch at the anticipation of slipping away for a cigarette with you. And Ghiaccio . . . Well, maybe Ghiaccio might scoff at your intrusion, but you would welcome it all the same.

But it is only you and your thoughts. With a shudder and a sigh, you sit down on the couch. The springs contort beneath your weight. Cobwebs adorn the walls like autumn decorations. Dust collects on the furniture. Everything has been left out as if they all might walk through the door at any moment and resume their allotted daily leisure.  A tear trickles down your cheek. You wipe it away and hold your breath until your eyes dry and you cannot cry. They would not want to see you like this, and you know that it is best to just move on with your life. To reach for the opportunities that were never permitted to them.

Your cellphone vibrates – a phone call from a schoolmate. Against your better judgement, you flip the screen open and accept. “Hey, [Y/N]!” she says to you. “We’re still meeting up to study tonight, right?”

You look to your watch. You were supposed to be at the library twenty minutes ago – this little detour of yours has not come without consequences. “Um, yeah,” you tell her. Your voice echoes in the dark space of the room. It makes you wince. “Sorry, I just lost track of the time. I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Well, if you’re going to keep me waiting, I’ll get us some coffees. Addio!”

You toss the key on the coffee table, atop a stack of over-turned photographs that you cannot be bothered to look at. It is none of your business, anyways. Or at least, that is what you told Prosciutto. At the door, you turn the lock, prepared to seal it all away. In the hue of the setting sun, you cast one final longing gaze into the living room. With the shaking of your head, you shut the door behind you and take your first step forward, though not before uttering to vacancy of that which was once irrefutable happiness.  

“Arrivederci, amici miei.”

| 4364 Words | Epilogue |

#la squadra x reader #la squadra #prosciutto x reader #risotto x reader #formaggio x reader #melone x reader #illuso x reader #ghiaccio x reader #jjba reader insert #vento aureo

[s1ut4harrypotter]

savior complex

George Weasley x Fem!reader

this is based on savior complex by phoebe bridgers, my favorite song. it’s not my best work or anything but i sorta liked writing it. I haven’t been able to figure out endings on any of my wip’s so i might put a bunch of stuff out this week but idk. yet another without a happy ending because as usual i’m a piece of shit.

Warnings: sad, angst, mentions of canon character death, not proofread. If there’s anything wrong with it let me know lolz

word count: 2.5k

lyrics in italics/bold

tags: @amourtentiaa

Emotional affair, overly sincere

It’s been almost a year and a half since Fred died. George seems to be getting better, but also more distant. He is happy and joking around again, but he has been going to see Angelina more often. You and George had been dating since your 6th year at Hogwarts, you were going to be together forever. But now, as the days go by, he is getting farther and farther away from you. 

Smoking in the car, windows up. Crocodile tears

You were there for George, through everything. You didn’t shy away from any of it, the nightmares, the rage, the sadness, you were there. You helped him, he had started smoking, you’d find him in his dad's old Ford Anglia, smoking a cigarette, sobbing. you got in, rolled up the windows, took the cigarette, and took him on a drive.

Run the tap til its clear

 We pulled up to a small cliff we used to hang out at during the summer and held him while he cried. We had talked for the whole night, we only left when the sun started to come up. 

Drift off on the floor

You tried to keep him involved with the rest of the world, so you started having monthly movie nights with the rest of his siblings. One night a month, everyone would go to one person’s flat and watch a movie or two. One month, it was your turn to have everyone at your flat, the two of you lived alone in the flat now, since Fred was gone. George hadn’t been sleeping well and ended up falling asleep halfway through the movie. Once everyone was gone, you cleaned up and decided not to wake him. 

I drag you to the shore

Just as you were about to walk into your bedroom, you heard him. George had been having nightmares since Fred died. Some nights you’d make him a potion for dreamless sleep, but tonight the two of you forgot. You sighed and walked back to the living room,

You’re gonna drown in your sleep, for sure

“Georgie” you whispered. “Georgie it’s me, y/n you gotta wake up darling.” he was sweating buckets and breathing heavily. You gently coaxed him awake and walked him back to your bedroom, he started to cry. “I’m so sorry darling” you cooed, as you stroked his hair, trying to get him to fall back asleep.

Wake up and start a big fire, in our one room apartment

He wouldn’t stop crying now, he was hiccuping and mumbling incoherent things into your chest. You were so tired, you were the only one with a job at this point, not that minded, you had just had a long day and needed to go to sleep. 

But i’m too tired, to have a pissing contest.

“George, darling, you need to breathe, take deep breaths, you’re going to throw up if you don’t calm down Georgie.” he had a bad habit of crying until he threw up, then passing out and falling asleep. 

“He’s gone. It’s my fault. I should’ve been there. It should’ve been me.” He hiccupped out, crying harder now. You were on the verge of tears too, you hated how sad he was. 

“No George. You can’t think like that, it wasn’t your fault. Fred wouldn’t want you to feel this way.” you spoke softly into his ear. 

“Don’t tell me what he would’ve wanted y/n” he suddenly got serious. “You didn’t know him like I did.”

“Of course I didn’t know him like you did George, but I like to think that I knew him pretty well, and I don’t think he was the kind of person to want you wallowing in your bed, wishing it had been you instead of him.”

“God y/n can you just go? Please? I want to be alone tonight.” he said, you scoffed. He couldn’t be serious, but you were tired and you didn’t want to upset him more. You slept on the couch that night.

All the bad dreams that you hide.

You were grieving too, you had met Fred first at Hogwarts, then he introduced you to George. You felt like you had been really good friends with Fred, so it really hurt when George said things like that, but you knew he didn’t really mean it. Sometimes he just said things like that when he was upset, you understood, he was hurting. Sometimes he wouldn’t tell you about his dreams, he would just change the subject whenever you asked, you had dreams about Fred’s death sometimes too. You were with him and Percy when it happened, you’d constantly beat yourself up for it, all the things you could have done differently to save George from this pain, but what’s done is done. 

Show me yours and i’ll show you mine

You wished that George would tell you what was going on with him. He had been going through different stages over the past year, at first he didn’t talk at all. You’d walk by his room at night and he’d be mumbling things to himself, never anything you could make out. Then he started telling you how he was feeling, anything and everything that he felt, he’d tell you. You liked it then, even if he was sad and there wasn’t much you could do about it, at least you could be sad together. Now he didn’t tell you anything, he just brushed you off.

Call me when you land, i’ll drive around again.

You loved him so much, there wasn’t much he could do that you wouldn’t take. You were willing to wait for him to get better. You knew he was hurting, you knew it would take time for him to get back to the ‘old George’, if there was even any of him left. You’d never say it out loud, but you knew everyone else was thinking it. When Fred died, he took a big piece of George with him. It brought you so much heartache that he was in pain. You wished you could just bring Fred back, then maybe you could get your George back. But you were willing to wait.

One hand on the wheel, one in your mouth. Turn me on, and turn me down.

You and him hadn’t been intimate in months, you knew George was hurt, and he would only ever think about it on his good days, which were now few and far between. But it was ok, you were willing to wait for him. You loved him. 

Baby you’re a vampire, you want blood and I promised. I’m a bad liar.

Lately you felt as though you never saw the happy side of George. He’d go out during the day, to meet friends from school he said. He’d never say who it was if you asked, but you figured it was just Lee Jordan or someone else he had been close friends with. He was physically and emotionally exhausted when he got home. It was like he used up any energy he had to be happy wherever he was during the day, then when he got home, you were left to pick up the pieces when he shattered.

With a savior complex

You were beginning to get burned out. You had finally gotten some time for yourself to meet up with some friends, and they suggested you break up with George. You simply couldn’t do that. It may be slightly exhausting to keep up with him, but you knew the old George was still in there. They kept telling you it seemed like you had a savior complex, and that George was a lost cause. Deep down, you knew you were probably the only one still holding on to the relationship, but you still loved him so much. You wouldn’t know what to do without him, even if you knew it was practically already over.

George had been getting further and further away, figuratively and literally. He was almost never home, and when he was, he was back to barely talking, occasionally giving you one or two word answers. You’d ask him how his day was and he’d reply with just “good” not even bothering to ask about your day. 

You were fed up with how things were, you wanted to know if at least he was back to his joking self around his friends. You knew it was wrong, but you followed him one day. Turns out he had just been going to the Leaky Cauldron, at first you were worried he just spent the day drinking. But, you waited a few minutes and went in, only to see him kiss Angelina Johnson on the cheek. 

Ok, maybe they were just catching up, they were good friends at school, you knew that. But the longer you watched, the more you realized you weren’t watching two friends catching up. You were watching your boyfriend, the man you had spent the last 5 years of your life with, with another girl. Deep down, you knew your relationship was over, it had been for months, you were just dragging it out because you didn’t want it to end yet. But you didn’t want it to end like this. 

You wanted to scream, cry, hit him, do something. You had thrown away the last year of your life, devoting yourself to helping George feel better. You spent long nights rubbing his back, whispering comforting things in his ears as he cried into your chest. YOU did that, not her. How could he do this to you? After everything you’ve been through together, everything you had done for him. He threw it all away. 

You were distraught. You were thinking irrationally, sending yourself into a spiral. You called in sick for work and walked back to your flat in a daze. You needed to think about this. For a few minutes, you contemplated obliviating yourself, maybe if you just forgot you saw it, went about your relationship as it was before this morning, it’d be ok. But you knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. So you did the only other thing you thought you could do, you conjured some boxes and started packing. 

You spent the day packing every last trace of your belongings, you called one of your friends and told her something happened with George. You didn’t give her any specifics because the optimistic, or stupid, side of you was holding on to hope that you were overreacting, maybe you saw wrong. Maybe, this was a big huge misunderstanding and you could unpack your stuff with George when he got home and live happily ever after. But you knew that wasn’t the case, so you told her you’d tell her when you got there. You finished packing the last of your stuff a few minutes before George got home, it was later than usual. You didn’t want to face him, you thought about leaving him a letter, telling him you saw what he did and not to contact you ever again. But you needed to hear it from him.

He walked in and saw the boxes, confused he walked into the living room and saw you sitting on the couch, just staring off into the distance. 

“Y/n darling? Are you alright.” he asked, confused.

“No Georgie, but I will be.” you whispered back, sadly.

“What’s with all the boxes? What happened?” he asked again. It was like you were a ghost, or someone else. You were there but not really, he could see you’d been crying. 

“What did I do wrong Georgie? What could I have done differently?” you asked, you could feel the tears starting again.

“Darling I don’t know what you’re talking about, did something happen at work?” he said, he was worried maybe you got fired.

You scoffed. “No George, nothing happened at work. I have been so worried about you lately, you seemed to be getting worse and worse. Coming home from god knows where, in a mess of tears. Just coming home for me to clean up, then going out again the next day.”

When he didn’t reply you continued, “I have spent the last 5 years of my life with you George. Completely devoted to you, through everything I supported you.” you laughed bitterly, “I spent all day packing today, trying desperately to figure out where I went wrong. What I did to you, what I could’ve done differently, to make you love me enough. But it wasn’t me was it?” 

“What are you talking about dear? Why were you packing.” he replied.

“God George you’re just not seeing it are you?” You looked at him, bewildered. “I saw you. You and Angelina.”

“Oh” he whispered.

“OH! THATS ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY GEORGE? OH?” You shouted, he could feel himself starting to cry now too. 

“I have spent so much of my time cleaning up after you, taking care of you, loving you. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I should’ve known. When you started going out more, I told myself, maybe you were just out with friends, when you came home after a long day with Angelina, using up any happiness that you did have with her, who was there to pick up the pieces? ME!” you yelled. 

“I just can't do it anymore George. We’ve been over for a long time, and I need to let you go now.” you trailed off, the last part coming out in a mix between a whimper and a whisper.

“No, darling please let's talk about this!” he begged.

“What is there to talk about George? I saw you, with my own two eyes.” you replied.

“Please baby it was a mistake. I love you so much, please please don’t leave me.” he was begging you, he needed you.

“I can’t George. I’ve spent so much time caring for you, I need time to care for me. I need to get better too. I just can’t do this anymore, there won’t be anything left of me if I keep giving it all to you.”

He broke down next to you, crying. You stood up, ready to disapparate with your things, but he ran up to you and hugged you.

“Please don’t leave me y/n. I’m so sorry! It was a mistake I love you so much.”

“You need to let me go Georgie, I'm sorry. I need to go.” you whispered, calmly removing his arms from their tight hold around your waist.

You whispered a quiet, final goodbye, before disapparating from his flat and to your friends home, you both needed to move on.

#george weasley x reader #george weasley #George weasley smut #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley smut #harry potter #harry potter smut #harry potter fan fiction #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy #marauders fan fiction #marauders era #waking up and choosing violence yet again

[marvelfansince08love]

“My loyalties lie with you, not the title you’ve been given” - Part 5

Word Count: 3k 

Pairing Cordelia Goode x Protector!Reader 

Warning: Some mentions of blood, fighting scene I guess? 

A/N: So sorry for the late update on this series, these two chapter are pretty heavy and I wanted them to be perfect! I hope you enjoy! x Thank you so much @canarypoint for editing and reading over and fangirling with me x Also a huge thank you to my girl for encouraging me to continue and for helping edit both parts, I love you <3

Side note: The Entity is slightly based off Michael Langdon but it isn’t him. 

Tags: @waitingfortheendtocome @natasha-danvers @veteranwerewolf95 @chewbacca0805 @creepingwolfberry @bluevelvetbitxh @saucy-sapphic @coconutlipss @fand0m-obsess3d-g33k @nyx-aira @versonstar @witchxaf @r0an0ke @pearplate @kikaykimkim @the-obscurity @mssallymckenna @minavenable @lezzzbehonesthere @goodeday2u @screechingshepherddeputygoth @softsleepypeach  @grilledcheeseandguavajelly​@shes-a-cancer-b @venablemayfairgoode

Part 5 

“What have you done, you stupid girl.” Fiona’s voice growls, startling you from your thoughts as you glare over at the woman.

“Protecting Cordelia, something you aren’t familiar with,” You snap back, anger spiralling throughout your body as you shake slightly. Fiona scoffs shaking her head as she slowly approaches you, standing a hair breath away her dead eyes stare into your own. 

“I always knew your love for her would get you killed one day,” Her voice laced with a certain emotion you would never associate with her with; fear. A humourless grin appears onto your cold lips as you take in her aged face. 

“Quite poetic is it not?” You murmur, your eyes showing no emotion not willingly to give this woman any satisfaction of seeing your torn vulnerability. 

Before she could answer a white light surrounds you all, making you squint and hiss at the brightness of the glow. Within a blink of an eye, you regain your senses gasping for mortal air as you reawaken above Fiona’s grave. Warm hands caress your cheeks as they continue their inspection for any harm. 

“Shhh you’re okay darling, it’s me. It’s me.” She repeats over and over as your wide eyes take in your surroundings the feeling of panic and anxiety erupts through your chest. Your eyes finally land on brown eyes full of reassurance and worry, seeing the familiar gaze makes you relax almost instantly as you try to even out your erratic breaths. 

“Lia,” You croak, clearing your dry throat. She smiles watery at you and nods mouthing a ‘yes’ before placing the crown of her head against your temple. 

“It felt like you were gone forever and then your body started to twitch uncontrollably I thought-” 

“Cordelia.” Fiona speaks from the side of you both, keeping her distance from her daughter. Cordelia tenses beside you before turning to face the woman she calls mother, she slowly stands from her crouched position keeping a steady arm around your waist as you gingerly stand with her. The two Goode’s stare at each for a moment taking in each other’s appearance, 

“Power looks good on you, dear.” She croaks, as her eyes scan her daughter’s stance. No longer cowering from the past supreme. 

“And death hasn’t done you any good, mother.” Cordelia retaliates, scolding herself silently for allowing herself to bite back. 

“Marie, would you like some help getting up? Shit, you white bitches.” Marie grumbles, as she shrugs off the dirt that lays against her clothes. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to shower until the smell of death leaves my body,” She informs, huffing as she takes her leave, Cordelia nods in acknowledgement at the Voodoo Queen mouthing her thanks as Marie nods back in reply continuing on her way. You stare longingly wanting to also depart from this awkward reunion as the two continue to stare one another down. Fiona breaks off the staring contest first as she flicks her wrist revealing a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, sparking one up. Inhaling deeply she allows the smoke to blow out into the cold dark night and sighs. 

“So, where do you want to start?” She asks, her careless persona strong as she continues to take in the nicotine. Cordelia smiles cruelly. 

“I’d rather we didn’t revisit the past, you are here for one reason only and that’s to help us defeat this darkness.” 

“The Entity,” You interrupt, correcting her softly, your eyes clashing with Fiona’s briefly. Cordelia turns to face you in confusion.

“While we were down there we got a lovely visit from Papa… He gave us little to nothing on the damn thing but told us his name.” You inform her, watching as she takes in the information. 

“He?” 

“Yes, the thing is a man. Big shocker there.” Fiona drawls out, through occasional puffs of smoke. Cordelia opts to ignore her mother, focusing her attention on you. 

“Did he give you anything else?” She asks, her voice laced with slightly desperation. You shake your head much to her disappointment.

“I’m sorry, Lia.” You apologise, wishing you could have given her more  She smiles reassuringly and cradles your cheek briefly shaking her head slightly. 

“No don’t be sorry, you risked a lot going down there. I- Thank you,” She says, her eyes lingering onto your own for a second longer. You almost feel like you could drown into her gaze forever but before you could reply she steps away clasping her hands together as if resisting herself from touching you again. 

“If you two love birds are done, I would like to run a hot bath with some nice salts, maybe a lovely glass of scotch,” Fiona rudely says, already making her way out of the graveyard and towards the car. You both blush as you avoid each others eyes, making your way back to the vehicle Fiona’s distance voice whining from a distance, “Have you got a spare pair of sunglasses, I wouldn’t want my ‘dead eyes’ scaring the children,” you scoff as you open up the front passenger door purposely moving into the seat, Fiona huffs as she settles into the backside. You open up the glove department and pass the older blonde a pair of black sunglasses. 

“Bold of you to assume you didn’t already scare children before you died,” You bite, a teasing grin appearing on your face as you feel Cordelia’s scolding but amused eyes on you. Shrugging, you settle into your seat and stare out into the night, Papa’s deal heavy on your mind as guilt settles within your chest. Looking into the wing mirror you can feel Fiona’s gaze through her heavily tinted glasses, gulping you turn away from her judging gaze focusing on the road ahead. 

‘What have I done?’

***

Pulling up at the Academy, you can see the older girls lingering by the window curious to see the woman that’s been brought back from the dead. Myrtle stands regal as ever by the front door, her signature cigarette holder in hand as she takes a drag, her icy gaze burning heavily into Fiona’s form as she makes her way up the steps of the Academy. 

“You look awfully ghastly my dear,” She comments, her fiery hair matching her sass. Fiona scoffs holding her arms out to the woman. 

“At least I have death as an excuse, you old hag.” She fires back, grinning icily at the redhead. You and Cordelia share a knowing glance used to the pair’s bickering back and forth, as you hover close behind the pair. Myrtle chuckles dryly as she steps aside to let the older woman through before placing herself in front of you and Cordelia stopping you from following.

“Are you both okay, my dears?” She asks, her voice no longer full of ice and venom as her motherly gaze scans you both. You both nod smiling softly at the woman who holds you both in such high regard and vise versa. Cordelia presses a kiss to her cheek before moving past her and into the building not wanting to leave Madison and her mother in a room alone together for too long. You hover for a moment debating your next words as you take in Myrtle’s form. The witch frowns at your fidgeting state, silently questioning your hesitation. 

“I did something stupid,” You admit quietly, briefly glancing through the open front door making sure no one else could hear your confession. The redhead steps away from the door and loops her arm around your elbow guiding you away from the entrance so you could circle the grounds. 

“My dear girl, you have a look of someone with a heavy heart. Please speak to me,” She comforts softly, her tender voice makes your eyes tear up as you blurt out your secret. 

“I made a deal with Papa Legba. If we don’t deliver him the Entity’s soul then he shall take mine,” You confess, tearfully. The woman remains calm and quiet as she allows you to continue. 

“I’m not even scared of that, I’ve never been scared of death but- He mentioned my powers and the darkness as if sensing my potential ability to destroy everything in my path. I don’t even know what I’m capable of anymore, Myrtle.” You admit, your real fear spoken out loud makes you sob as the older woman pulls you into a bone crushing hug. She whispers harshly with a touch of tenderness into your ear. 

“You listen to me, my sweet girl.” She pulls back and holds onto your face with both her hands, forcing you to keep your attention on her distraught face. “You are not evil, you may have powers that you have yet to unlock but you could never be evil. That power that swirls inside you is the most powerful magic I have ever come across that’s why you are the protector. You’re of love and light my dear, that darkness that wants to pull its way through is unmatched to that of the light,” Your eyes blur as you take in her reassuring words, collapsing slightly into her arms. 

“You should tell Cordelia about the deal,” She advises, making you pull back from your embrace slightly offended by her comment. 

“It would kill her Myrtle, I promised her that I’d be beside her always. I can’t-” 

“Would you prefer that you didn’t and then die without giving her a chance to fight for your life,” Her words penetrate through your heart like a stab wound. You gulp feeling torn by her words and guidance. 

“I’m the one who’s supposed to fight for her life,” You argue weakly. Myrtle chuckles amused, before holding your gaze once again. 

“Y/N haven’t you realised it yet, darling? You both continue to fight for each other, you think after all these years Cordelia didn’t once ask me about you. Or how during the attacks with the witch hunters a few years back, you didn’t step in from the shadows and take out the last remaining vermin as they tried to attack her.” She pauses for a moment allowing you to take in her painfully truthful words. “You both have had each other’s backs since you stepped foot into this academy all those years ago. This will be like any other time, so tell her and fight like hell against the bastard, together like always,” She finishes her speech, her breathing becoming erratic as her words spill from her mouth. The sound of a twig snapping startles you both from your private moment, slow clapping starts from within the shadows around the trees. Pulling Myrtle back slightly you inch away from the dark forest that surrounds the Academy. 

“My, so much wisdom from such an experienced witch, bravo.” The deep voice teases, as the figure becomes more clearer as it steps out from between the trees. Stood dressed in a black suit and a devilish grin is, the entity. You tense instantly as you keep your gaze on his confident form. 

“Get to the house,” You murmur to Myrtle,  who goes to protest. “Now.” You force out, watching as his grin becomes more apparent. 

“Yes, listen to your dear protector.” He taunts, watching as the redhead flees to the academy to alert the others. His black eyes turn to you a glint of mischief sparkling within the darkness. 

“It’s more fun when they are terrified, makes for a better meal.” he teases, folding his hands in front of him. You glare at his smug expression. 

“Sorry I didn’t realise we were dressing up for the event,” you comment, wanting to keep him distracted for as long as possible in hopes that Myrtle and the other older girls manage to perform the safekeeping spell allowing the younger witches and warlocks to be sent as far away as possible from here. He chuckles amused at your attempt of distraction.

“Well it is your funeral, my dear. I merely dressed for the occasion.” He follows up, his hands becoming more invisible as the black mist surrounds his fingers. You can feel your powers boiling at the surface as your body becomes aware of its current threat, tiny sparks tingle from your fingers as you keep a close eye on him. Before he can make a move you throw your hands out, throwing him further into the woods wanting to keep him as far away from the academy as possible. His confident exterior falls after you make your first move, striding deeper into the woods you follow the line of destruction already made by his flying body. The faint sound of your name being called from the house, gives you pause allowing him a chance to take advantage at your distracted state. Black mist encircles around your feet as your body begins to tense, fear spikes through you as you start to lose awareness of your own body, unable to move anything as it continues to circle around your waist. 

“Y/N!” Cordelia screams as she races forward, Misty and Queenie moving to the side of the man effectively startling him from his task, both chanting in Latin as he loses his focus on you. Tears build in your eyes as you feel your senses overwhelm you again as you regain them back, Cordelia stands at your side in a flash, keeping her eyes on the entity as he continues to fight off the two older witches. Marie and Fiona join the pair as they begin to lose the upper hand in their ongoing fight. 

“Cordelia- the girls,” You choke out, holding onto her arms for dear life. Her hand strokes through your hair briefly, 

“They're okay, the other girls got them out. Myrtle is with them.” She informs quickly, ready to move away from you to help with the fight, noticing Queenie’s unconscious state as he manages a good strike to the witch. Before she can move you grip her arm, needing to tell her before it's too late.

“Cordelia I-” 

“This can wait Y/n, we've gotta attack while we can,” 

John Moore appears next to you with your brothers in tow, ready to take him on as you reluctantly let go of her arm, Marie flies backwards as he strikes her next effortlessly knocking back every effort from each of them who dare to reach him. Elijah makes his way around the fight, attacking him from behind as he launches forward, taking him to the ground before disappearing from beneath him. A deep chuckle echoes throughout the tall trees as you all look for the location of his voice, Misty kneels closely next to Queenie as she slowly regains consciousness. 

“You won’t win, your powers are nothing compared to mine,” His voice sinister, as if whispering in your ear. Cordelia looks over at her dishevelled witches gulping slightly. 

“Michael, Elijah get Queenie out of here now,” She demands, her voice trembling. They try to protest but your eyes silence them from speaking any further. 

“Ah yes, run away. I like the chase,” He taunts further, still invisible to the eyes as we keep an eye on the clearings surrounding us. The boys move quickly towards an exhausted Queenie, throwing her arms around their shoulders as Misty trails behind them, ready to attack if anything were to happen to them as they retreat. You keep your back close to Delia’s as the other three keep close, creating a make shifting circle. 

“Fucking Coward!” You shout into the air, frustrated by his cat and mouse game. He appears then leaning lazily against the tree trunk, that devilish grin on his face once again. 

“Oh my dear, we both know that’s not true. Little Ms. Protector, poor thing having so many expectations to live up to,” He pouts, taunting you some more as you clench your jaw. You try to shake off his words, knowing he’s looking for a window to get into your head. 

“I’ve been watching you for a while, Miss Wardwell. That darkness that swirls deep inside is boiling over and soon it will all topple over,” He continues, you feel Cordelia tense next to you as your normally bright coloured eyes darken a deep black. 

“Enough of this!” Fiona exclaims, launching forward to attack using her magic, startling him slightly as her attack strikes his cheek from afar causing the smallest trickle of blood to drop from his cheekbone. He touches the trail of blood examining his red stained finger before turning to the woman, his eyes blown black. Tree branches move on their own towards Fiona, Marie and John wrapping themselves around their wrists and waists pulling them in close to their tree trunk keeping them in place, a trail of black mist surrounding them to stop any magical advantages. 

“I wanted to play nice but now you can watch your only daughter die,” He says, smiling mercilessly at the woman before turning his attention onto you both. You move quickly in front of her, as you try with all your might to keep the mist at bay as it seeps through your protective barrier. Your head begins to pound as you feel your powers weakening as Cordelia helps with the barrier, as the mist encircles you once again you turn towards your Cordelia helplessly. She places her hands delicately against your cheeks, her fingers trembling against your now wet skin. 

“I can’t hold this up for long,” You whimper, feeling yourself becoming less aware of your senses, the tiniest touch of Cordelia’s lips against cheek is the only reassuring embrace as you close your eyes wanting to hold onto the feeling for as long as you could. You lean your head against Cordelia's as watery eyes match her tearful ones, she smiles brightly at you, that same smile you saw the very first day you met her. Before you could tell her the one thing you’ve wanted to say since that day you walked out on her wedding day, you succumb to the darkness.

I love you.

#cordelia goode x reader #cordelia goode #sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #cordelia foxx x reader #cordelia foxx #ahs coven #loyalty series #fiona goode #myrtle snow #ahs apocalypse

[blinder-secrets]

Lion Tamer - part 10

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine 

4,211 words

warnings: nsfw, language, canon violence + blood

ao3 link

If Arthur was anyone else, anyone else in the bloody world, he’d have thought he was dead. But he wasn’t, he knew that, because men like him didn’t go to heaven, and women like her would never be in hell. Cause there she was, lying at his side, all golden, like the sun shone out of her fucking chest, as close to an angel as he’d ever be, and so he mustn’t have died yet. He was alive, more than ever, while she was next to him. He’d done some good then, somewhere along the way. Something had led him to this waking paradise. Banked his deeds in exchange for the wealth.

‘Mornin, love,’ he drawled, stretching up to push life back into his limbs. He moved like an old man now, sometimes, just in the mornings. Cracked like splintered doorframes.

She peeled her eyes open to look at him, smiling once they’d focused. He’d never touch whiskey again, he thought, not while he had that in front of him. She put more fire in his heart with half the effort, none of the cost. ‘It’s the afternoon,’ she whispered, ‘we slept all morning.’

And thank fuck we did. His fingers went to her hair without planning to. ‘Good,’ he said. Bloody good, enough mornings, enough work. Time didn’t exist in that room, not to them. They needed the laziness, deserved the peace, they’d spent years waiting for it. ‘Bout time we had some fuckin’ rest.’

He swore too much. Maybe that’s what she thought, why she was staring. He tried not to fidget under her gaze because, well, really, deep down, he knew she’d never think anything malicious, he hoped, not about him. He was just worrying ideas into her head, yeah, putting reason to the gaze that she slung across his shoulders, his chest. She still was shining and it wasn’t just the window behind her, wasn’t the cream silk of her slip. The one that had melted through his fingers like ice, like water, brushed his nose when he went down her body. If he tried hard enough, he could find the taste of her on his tongue still.

Say something, then, Arthur, fill the quiet. ‘Feels like heaven,’ he confessed, thinking of her, thinking of the night before, thinking of everything at fucking once.

Then they’d talked, and talked, and she’d put their schedule together. Decided what they should do, which was good because he hadn’t considered it at all. Had thought they would just stay in bed, go somewhere to eat, then be back in the hotel again. Making a home in the over-priced room he’d booked. Then he could finally have her, properly, see her take him in, beg for him, ask for more. He’d wanted that forever, really, thought about it enough times that it almost felt like they had already. Like he had fucked her before and they’d just never spoken about it. But that was all in his head, all just a fantasy, and now it was real, an actual possibility, he was living it. He’d pinch himself but the heat of her lay against him was enough.

She kissed him and his chest tightened, the blood ran from his head straight into his underwear; how she hadn’t felt him, he didn’t know. He forced a gulp and put his palm to the dip above her arse. I want to listen, he thought, I want so badly to pay attention, to be gentle for you. He tilted his head to breathe in the scent of her neck, because that’s where it was strongest, that’s where she smelt most like herself. And his lips went to her skin like she had a fucking magnet beneath.

‘Don’t know how long I can be a gentleman for,’ he told her. It was the least he could do. He was an animal, right, a bloody chauvinist pig like the rest of them, but he wanted her, wanted her so bad, the least he could do was confess it. Honest. He was always honest with her and he was trying, he was. He’d been as good as he could.

She said something back, but all he took from her words was a ‘yes’, a please, so he put his teeth to the edge of her ear, and her breath hitched so sweetly that he thought he might cum on the spot. It was now then, fuck, it was happening at last.

But the fucking phone rang and he knew in an instant who it would be. Who in the world had the bloody seventh sense to always be there at the exact, wrong, moment, to always kick his shins right before the winning penalty. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he swore. ‘I should take this.’ If he didn’t, he’d just ring again, and again, and he would never be able to enjoy himself, or her. The ringing wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t help his rhythm, wouldn’t let him find ecstasy, as he knew he would, in her beautiful, sweet, wet—

‘Yeah,’ he said into the receiver, sharper than he intended.

‘Arthur?’ Tommy clarified, as if he could sound like anyone but himself.

‘Yeah.’

‘I need you to do something for me, brother.’

‘Alright,’ he said, agreeing because it was inevitable, it saved time. ‘When?’

She stood from the bed, shutting herself into the bathroom instead of lingering to listen. He looked at the woodgrain while Tommy explained.

‘Alfie Solomons,’ he started, sighing between the words, ‘has asked to hold a meeting, a dinner, of sorts. Tonight. He wants to meet you.’

‘Me?’

He hummed a confirmation; he was probably setting a cigarette into his mouth.

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head a fraction. ‘He’s fucking mad, Tom.’ He’d seen the man only from afar, but heard enough from the boys they had working with him to know that he wasn’t normal, wasn’t right in the head.

‘We’re all mad, Arthur. It’s just how he does business.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s not how we do business,’ he grumbled. They were a collective, a trio. He never went into meetings on his own, never without the support, without at least one brother on his flanks.

‘Go with Billy, alright, our man from the bakery. He’ll meet you outside at six.’

‘Billy? Bloody Billy?’

‘I’d go meself, but there’s something I have to do.’ He exhaled. The smoke may as well have poured through the phone and into Arthur’s ear. ‘Just a couple hours, Arthur, then you can get back to your holiday.’

He was seeing a woman too, of course, it wasn’t something, but someone. He thought they didn’t know he was slipping away, to her house in the country. Dossing about with the maids and the toffs like he was one of them. He put a fuck over his brother, threw the bad jobs to the foot soldiers so he could play between her tits.

‘You should be there,’ Arthur said, tutting. ‘Makes no sense, it being just me.’

He sighed. ‘You wanted more control, brother. Now’s your chance.’

Prove yourself, he meant, prove your worth. Pull your weight. ‘I know,’ he agreed. He had asked for more opportunities with the expansion, but he would never have asked to be dealing with Solomons alone. He rubbed at his brows like he could work will-power into the skin. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll handle it.’ Because he could. He would.

Tommy coughed into his end, chipping the noise against the side of Arthur’s head. ‘He’s one for theatre,’ he said dryly. ‘Probably just wants to make an impression, alright, and have you running back to me with the gossip. That’s all. Just a fucking show, for sport.’

‘Yeah,’ Arthur laughed, ‘well, you better be fuckin’ right, Tommy. Sending me in blind.’

She was back from the bathroom, bumping against the mattress as she waited. He looked at her once and then pulled away again because she looked like snow, for one dizzying moment, she looked like fucking snow. Not literally, but in feeling. One glance at her had the same effect as a line, as a fresh-filled bottled in his palm; his brain fuzzed in anticipation, excited before he’d even done anything, before he’d even rubbed it on his bloody gums.

‘And don’t fucking fight anyone, eh?’ Tommy nagged in his ear. ‘Keep it civil.’

‘Yeah, alright.’ He was nodding, rattling words out to get it over with, to end the call. ‘Best behaviour,’ he agreed. Then the line cut and he put it back on the stand so he could focus on her again, so he could get the reassurances out of the way, and make her gasp in his ear like she had before. If he didn’t hear that again, his head might blow off, he thought, his teeth might chew themselves to gravel.

‘Fuckin’ showgirl, you are,’ he told her, once she was on his lap and around him like wildfire.

It was a novelty still, thinking things about her and then getting to just say them, to bark them carelessly, knowing it wouldn’t cross any line because the line had gone. Gone up in the smoke, away from them at last. He’s always thought she was a blinder of a woman; he’s always looked at her and felt curses pool in his skull, hot-phrases of compliments dying to go out and all over her. Now he said them freely, now she said intoxicating things in return.

‘Will you have me then?’ she asked and he felt like he’d put his head through the fucking mirror.

Like she didn’t know the answer already, like he wasn’t hard against the back of her thigh. Panting, yanking on the bit, he felt like he did when he lost his calm, but this time it was welcome. This time, she was the stoke beneath the flames. Her hand was in his hair, running through it and back again, rough enough to send goosebumps down his spine. He dragged her over him before he went mad with need.

‘You want it?’ he asked, not bothering to sound polite. He was done with being polite. She melted between his hands, went limp and let him do as he pleased. Let him grind her over, and over, and over on his cock, and there it was, that noise again. That chirp in his ear, the sound of her composure splitting, snapping in a soft ping like thin glass. Like fucking crystal vases. ‘Yeah? You like that?’

He wasn’t a genius, but it didn’t take one to know the answer was yes. Yes, yes, fucking yes.

She liked it, and she kept on liking it until he felt like he was the king of the free world, and she was the country. She was the gold beneath the dirt, the water in the rivers, the stars, the fucking stars, that were spinning behind his eyelids as he lay over her, as he panted into her collarbone. Spent. He was bloody spent. He wouldn’t be able to fuck again, he thought, not after that. Not after what she’d taken from him. He pulled his hips back and they both shook slightly, both worn out and delirious, sensitive like they were having withdrawals.

‘I think,’ she said, taking a breath big enough to lift him, ‘that you have something to say to me.’

‘Eh?’ His brows pinched. He was still a ghost behind the pleasure, sunken in euphoria, slowly coming back to reality. ‘What?’

‘You said—‘

‘Oh, right.’ He knew now; it had shot out of him like a fucking bullet before, in his head one minute, into her chest the next. ‘That.’

‘Yes, that, Arthur.’ She was smiling. Her cheeks were still hot, her mouth still swollen from all the kissing. He’d never kissed a woman as often, and as hungrily, as he kissed her.

‘I do love you,’ he said. ‘A lot. Like, a fucking lot.’ He laughed with it but only because it seemed stupid, silly, to feel the way he did about her, and so strongly, and so freely already. But it wasn’t that new, not really. It wasn’t a feeling that either of them hadn’t felt before. It was as overdue as what they’d just done. Just as sweet, even with the delay.

She put a palm to his face and he wondered for a moment if she cared that it was damp, that he was sweating like he’d run a marathon.

‘I love you too,’ she said lightly.

And he said, ‘say it again,’ because no one had ever told him that and meant it. But she looked like she meant it, he knew that she meant it. ‘Say it again,’ he insisted.  

‘I love you.’

‘Again.’

‘I love you.’

He kissed her, lips to her jaw, her cheek, her temple. ‘Again,’ he said once more, addicted to the sound of it already. He wanted it over and over, until he was drunk on the feeling. Until it was the only noise in his head.

Later, outside the gallery, Arthur waited until the cab had taken her round the corner, and out of his sight entirely. She was safe, and she would stay safe at the hotel. He could do his job in absolute certainty that nothing would happen to her. Not that it would, anyway. She was too smart for that, too tuned in to her surroundings. Always seeing the smoke before he’d even smelt it. That was enough of a comfort to be able to portion her off, just for a bit, tuck her away in his head so he could think clearly. So he could focus. So he could be Arthur-fucking-Shelby, the one man military, the self-contained arms of the Blinders.

He hailed another cab for himself and gave the driver the address, or the almost address, to Solomans’ bakery. He wouldn’t drive right up to the door, sitting like ducks in a tin can, he’d be dropped on the street once over from it. Find Billy and walk in like he owned place.

He could do with some snow, he thought. Just to smooth the cogs, polish the senses. If Billy had any on him —and if he had any mind, he would— he’d take some of that. One boost of the powder couldn’t hurt. They put it in the horses to get them out of the gate and, well, this was one hell of a bloody gate. If Tommy was right, he had nothing to worry about, if he was wrong, he would need all the cocaine he could get his hands on. Tommy had intuition where he had blind rage but, for once, he wasn’t ready for a fight. He wanted it to be easy. Wanted to be back in the hotel like he was a man on holiday, like he’d stepped out for a paper and now he was back again. Ready to make peace with the soft between her thighs.  

Billy was where he was supposed to be, ginger and lumbering, towering above Arthur’s head. He looked nervous; whether it was for the meeting, or for himself, he didn’t know. Didn’t bother to find out. If he was worried about working with Arthur, he should’ve never come in the first place.

‘You got snow, lad?’ Arthur asked, before saying hello or anything else.

‘Snow, Mr. Shelby?’

‘Cocaine.’ He fidgeted with his coat, straightened his tie, waited for his partner to find some fucking common sense. ‘Do I look like a copper, Billy?’

He shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

They didn’t have time for pratting about, he needed the fix, the spark, the ignition. ‘Then stop playing fuckin’ dumb,’ he said, ‘and give me the bloody stuff.’

The bottle was pulled out of a pocket and put into Arthur’s waiting hand without further hesitation. Right, then, they were off. The evening was well on its way. Turning on heel, the pair walked the remaining distance, only stopping when faced with the large double doors to the most elaborate booze-front in London.

They were greeted by a lad taller, but younger, than Billy, who led them through the barrels without saying a word. Arthur tipped a pile of snow onto the edge of his fist as they went and then brought it up, sniffed it in, shot it right into his fucking brain. Felt the zing, the relief. The flash of white behind his eyeballs. He had missed it, he had. He wished he didn’t, but he did and, God, it ran round his skull like a hare on the dog track. He was the winner, now, he’d take the prize. The curly-haired jewish boy looked at him, watched him wipe the excess from under his nose, but said nothing. Good, good, not for him to judge. He knew that well enough. Anyone who worked for the type of people he worked for, just like the Shelbys, knew not to say a damn thing about anything. You had to be trained well to survive in the underworld.  

‘Gentleman! Welcome, welcome!’

There he was, the man he’d come to meet, the eccentric that had asked for him specifically. Alfie boomed into the room, arms wide, like he was a friend and they were much awaited. ‘Mr. Solomon,’ Arthur acknowledged, dipping his chin as the group came to a stop.

‘You must be Arthur.’

‘That is right.’ Alfie took his hands into the both of his; they were cold by comparison. Arthur was running hot already, full with the fire, burnt from the snow. ‘Pleasure to meet you, sir,’ he said, though the baker was still trilling his name over and over. Like Arthur was the fucking royal guest, and maybe he was. Maybe his presence in the club scene hadn’t gone unnoticed. His name preceded him at last, his work put notches in their fucking bedposts.

Alfie pulled forward, tucking their joint hands into his chest. Preening like an eager mother-in-law. ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ he said, in that unusual voice of his.

It was a warm welcome, in truth, a polite one, and to his luck, to his bloody luck, Arthur was very good at being polite. Fucking wonderful, in fact. He’d already asked Billy what to say in the hallway before. The word bounced around in his head, rattling in excitement. It was ready to come free, to impress, he just had to say it.

‘Shalom,’ he told him, leaning forward too, rounding the syllables, plopping it from his mouth into the small gap between them. ‘Let me just say…’

Alfie looked to his partner, wide-eyed, in surprise, he thought, but the good surprise. Probably impressed, really. Probably didn’t think a Shelby would have the fucking good manners to say it.  

He shook their hands and said again, ‘Shalom.’

It was a strange gathering. Just a handful of them, sitting round a table that was really just four smaller ones, pushed together in a line, under low-hanging lights. He hadn’t seen a crumb of food, but they had rum by the barrel and that was enough. That filled his stomach plenty.

He hadn’t been listening much, not really, just repeating the odd word and agreeing like a good little boy. Like a nice humble gangster. He laughed to himself between sips. If she saw him now, what would she say? What would she think? Bet you never expected this love, grace like a fucking politician. A diplomat. He sat, pleased with himself, and watched it all happen, followed Solomon’s strange, choreographed show behind the cocaine-curtains in his head.

He didn’t come through the noise until they walked a bloody goat into the room.

It was white like snow, like clouds in the blue, like the sheets of their hotel bed, with her hand all knotted up in them. He blinked once to put his thoughts straight. Looked at Alfie like he had been paying attention, very close attention to the droning. Pretended his head wasn’t thumping, fizzing, wasted. ‘You’ve named it?’ he asked, catching only the last half of the sentence.

‘We fucking did, yeah.’

He looked to Billy. Billyboy, Billy with his hair like fire. Billy who was still fucking bricking it. ‘They named the fucking goat,’ he lowed. Pay attention, son, act like you care. This was important to them, to Solomons, this was the chain between the anchor and the hull.

Alfie continued, ‘The evil fucking Egyptian pharaoh—‘

‘The fucking enemy,’ Arthur added.

‘That’s right,’ he agreed.

They were singing, going hand in hand, running in sync like clockwork. This is how you do business, Billyboy, this is why Tommy sent him. Arthur, with all his roughness, still had the fucking mouth, the right good brain on him to partake, to converse intellectually, like. To sit amongst kings as an equal. He had Alfie with him now, on his shoulder. Parroted words off each other like chums, like longtime friends. Relations, you see, Billy, they’re a craft. An art. He had sculpted this exactly as he should have. Sit there and watch.

‘You know what we called it?’ Alfie asked, eyebrows lifting.

Arthur leant back, puffed his chest, sang like the crow at dawn. ‘Yeah, what did ya call him?’

‘Tommy Shelby.’

It happened at once. So quick, Arthur was acting on instinct and nothing else. He burst forward and the bullet came across the table, shot out from Alfie’s hip, right into Billy’s chin, the soft underneath, the money shot, the dead fucking ringer, and rope went around Arthur’s neck; held him back, pulled him tight. Choking, choked. The spit balled on his lip. He tried to swear, but it cut through as a gasp, a wheeze. He stuttered like a pig in the slaughterhouse, thrashing before they hung him up to bleed. The bastard had been lying, tricking, planning it from the start. It wasn’t business, it was a trap. A fucking trap. He’d walked right into it, sole after bloody sole, led by his hand into the belly of the beast. He went to curse him again but the words broke apart, shredded into a roar.

If he had to go, it wouldn’t be in the basement of a bakery. Not at the hands of men without respect.

He was reaching for Alfie, clawing at him, knees pushing the table and rattling the silverware. They had to use two men to get him back, to drag him to the nearest support pole. They wrangled him, rope cutting, twisting and burning at the base of his throat, until he was rod-straight against it. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fucking breathe. His fingertips were trapped between the threads and his neck, helpless, unable to pull a gap big enough to let air through. He’d felt it before, he didn’t want it again.

Fuck you. Fuck you, Solomons, fuck you, Tommy. Fuck the rope. Fuck the goat spilling blood over the floor. Fuck the lot of it, and then some. He would kick his way through the dirt before they put him down like this.  

‘Yeah?’ Alfie taunted, only approaching now Arthur was contained, strung up like meat. He dipped his head. ‘What was that?’

‘Fuck you,’ he snarled back.

Alfie’s knee went into his gut, hard into the tissue, the pool of rum; Arthur would’ve collapsed if he could’ve. The pain was bad enough. He groaned, whined, dripped spit and blood down his chin. His hands went forward, grasping at Alfie’s coat for some relief, some purchase.

‘That’s right, let’s take a load off,’ he said, lifting Arthur by his ears. Up as if he was nothing.

And then the air came back, pouring down his throat like liquor, blood going up and into his head in the same rush of feeling. He could think again, he could, his brain was pounding, pulsing against the skull. It was there. Kicking still. Angry noise replaced with a word, with one image, one light beneath the dark. Her. Her, he would live for her. His feet would touch the fucking ground again and take him back.

‘So,’ Alfie drawled by his ear, talking though he wasn’t listening, didn’t care, ‘the evil, Egyptian scum, was finally cleansed.’ He brought a rag to Arthur’s forehead, stained red, and dabbed it onto the skin between his brows. ‘With the blood of the Passover goat, mate.’

It was put to his mouth, wiped through his lips. He tasted the sourness, the copper, but he still didn’t care. He was thinking of her, clutching to the idea of it. The golden sun on her arms, the lift of her cheeks, the pull of her smile, the sound, the words she said, the soft, oh, the soft. Keep that, Arthur, hold that. One breath forced after the other. They couldn’t hurt you if you weren’t there, not in your head. He put himself into her hold and stayed close to her heart. Heard the drum of it between the chaos.  

Alfie was kissing each of his cheeks like it was a greeting, and not a seal of death. Not an X on the line.

‘That’s from Sabini,’ he said and, after that, there was nothing.  

Read part eleven >>

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taglist: @theshelbyclan​ @woeisbutwoe​ @random-stupid-stuffs​ @sanktaalinaa​ @peaky-arthur​ @murderousginger​ @isaiahdurag​ @inceptenet​ @fanngirl19​ @queenoftheworldisdead​ @bellamybellamyblake​ @caelys​ @ourlordandsaviourmrstark​ @meltingicequeen​ @hufflepeople​

#arthur shelby #arthur shelby x reader #arthur x reader #peaky blinders fanfic #arthur shelby x you #ROIGGHTTTTTTT very different chapter for us lion tamers ! but i hope you enjoy #and dont mind kind of rereading some of the same scenes #also sorry for the language but arthur is a brash baby #ALSO i couldnt find a gif to put in form actual s2 so please pretend? anyway #love u enjoy #tell me ur thoughts as always #this was very fun to write #minus the misery #oh also there was a few people i couldnt tag so plspls let me know if youve changed your url or something!! xx

[kindiekritz]

Get Some Rest, Samurai...

Via Anon Ask; “because im also a sap for Johnny and V- How do you think Johnny would help V cope with a panic attack? Especially when its likely something he's feeling laggy echoes of himself if he's in her head during it? (hurt/comfort is a FAVE of mine and i have anxiety, can ya' tell?)”

B ro,, don’t worry anon bc same here, we are anxiety homies together 👏😔 - This is my first time writing for Johnny Silverhand! Trying to get back on the writing boat, (haven't forgotten my previous fic!) and there's nothing like simping for video game characters to get that inspiration flowing. Do let me know what you think! Johnny may be a bit too OOC in this, I may have gone a little bit overboard with the soft? Ah well, I hope someone will enjoy it regardless :P

Here is the Ao3 Link! :D

V’s time was running out. 

Every time the relic in their head would malfunction, every time they went into a coughing fit and the disgusting taste of metallic blood would fill their mouth, every time he would manifest himself in her head and V would catch a glimpse of his stupid fucking face…

V was reminded of the fact that their time was running out, and fast.

And despite the fact that they were doing everything in their power to stop the construct in her mind from completely destroying her from the inside out, that didn’t stop the fact that she still had to pay the rent. 

In fact, it wasn’t cheap coughing up the eddies to pay Rouge for her services, or having to pay for bigger and better gear that would keep her alive when dealing with Arasaka guards, hell, it wasn’t cheap to keep purchasing more and more bottles of Omega Blockers, the pills were the only thing that kept him from completely taking control. 

She found herself taking more and more gigs, trying to simply keep up with the extra costs of having a completely second personality living rent-free in her mind. But even then… she couldn’t find it in herself to reject or turn away people who needed her help, even if they had little to nothing to offer in return. 

It seemed as if her phone was constantly buzzing with calls and texts of people who wanted and needed her help. No matter where she went or what she did, people needed her services, people needed her time.

And yet, time was something that she had very little left of.

V was exhausted. The bags under her eyes revealed that she hadn’t slept in days, and she couldn’t remember when she last had a proper meal.

She was always on the go, she didn’t have time to take care of herself.

But as she groggily opened the door to her apartment, she thought to herself that… maybe, just maybe… she would finally let herself take a nice, long warm shower.

V was too exhausted to care about the possibility of Johnny potentially staring at her nude form as she stood under the running water. Hell, let him stare for all she cared! The thought of warm water running over her exhausted muscles, washing away the dirt and grime of the city… it was too appealing at that moment. 

She removed her weapon slung across her back, letting her beloved leather Samurai jacket slip off her shoulders and onto the ground, too exhausted to care about putting it away properly. 

The weight of the gun in her hands was normally a welcome and grounding presence for V when she was on a mission, the weapon in her hands keeping her safe from those who wished to do her harm. But now? It felt too heavy, unbearably so, as if the weight would make her topple over onto the floor below. The muscles in her arms were exhausted and spent. As she rotated her shoulder she heard the joints audibly pop. The consequences of pushing her body too far.

She would do anything for the physical ache to go away. 

As she stepped through the door to her armory and switched on the fluorescent lights of the room, her gaze fell upon someone already there, casually lounging atop her workbench and raising a cigarette to his mouth, pausing to speak before inhaling a deep puff of smoke.

“Damn V. You look like shit.”

She rolled her eyes at his comment, and made her way to her weapon locker instead, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze on the nape of her neck.

V fiddled with the combination, her foggy mind struggling to remember the correct numbers and the correct order, her fingers felt clumsy and uncoordinated as she inputs each digit. V cursed herself for making it so damn difficult, but eventually, she finally managed to swing the metal door open, proceeding to put her gun away amongst her collection of stored weapons. 

Johnny hopped off of the workbench, stepping towards V as she organized her storage, resting his metal arm against the locker, using his height to his advantage as he towered over her and confronted her. “No, seriously V, you look like shit. When was the last time you slept?”

“Fuck— Johnny, I dunno… A few days I guess?” V slammed the door of the locker using more force than necessary, Johnny already starting to get on her nerves, the last thing she needed was Johnny Fucking Silverhand following her around like a worried mother hen. V pouted and huffed, blowing away a stubborn strand of hair that had fallen across her face, then turning to meet his gaze, hidden behind wine-colored lenses, and asked, “Why do you care anyway?”

“You’ve been on edge all day, I can feel it. You’re like a string that’s been strung too strongly. I feel like you’re ready to snap at any fuckn’ moment, V.” 

She could feel his stare on her body and the tension in the room was beginning to suffocate her. He was poking at a sensitive topic for her, and he knew it. 

V stuttered, trying to find the right words to say as she couldn't bring herself to look at him in the eye anymore, instead choosing to halfheartedly push him aside and walk away, “Johnny… I’m fine. Really. I just— I just need a shower and a nap, that’s all.”

As V stepped out of the room, the weight on her chest seemed to grow heavier with each step. 

She wanted to crumble, she wanted to cry. 

She just wanted to wrap up herself in a bundle of blankets and cry into an order of takeout. One of those ugly cries that made snot dribble from your nose and your cheeks flushed and red.

She wanted— no, V needed to let everything out.

But… she couldn’t. She didn’t have the time for it, she needed to get back to work soon. Here were people that needed her help and there were eddies to be made. She would let herself rest when she’d gotten that damned biochip out of her head.

It was at that moment when V’s phone began to ring, the sound interrupting her thoughts and causing her to pause in her step.

Almost as if on reflex, she quickly reached into her pocket and withdrew the device, not even bothering to check the caller ID before answering, “V speaking, what do you want?”

“V, it’s Regina. I’ve got another report of a cyberpsycho attack…”

V stopped listening to the voice on her phone, too distracted by the crushing pressure on her chest and the fact that she had begun to tremble and shake like a leaf.

All she had wanted was a hot shower and a night in, was that too much to ask?

After weeks of dodging blades and bullets, running meaningless errands and tasks for just a few eddies in return, spending sleepless nights that left dark circles under her eyes, and going days on end without even seeing her fucking apartment, all she wanted was a night in.

Was that too much to fucking ask?

She could faintly register Johnny’s voice coming from behind her, an uncharacteristically concerned tone in his voice as he asked, “...V? What’s wrong?”

The pressure in her chest grew heavier by the second, her breaths becoming strained and labored as the increasing fear and dread overwhelmed her body. She gripped her phone tightly in her hand, glaring at the device with tears prickling the corners of her eyes.

“V? Are you listening? I said that there’s another report of a cyberpsycho near your current position, are you still—“

With a press of a button, she hung up the phone.

Johnny watched V, her form trembling and shoulders tensed.

In all of their weeks stuck together, he’d never seen his little merc look so small. A real juxtaposition when compared to her usual self; a real fucking hardass, she was the only other person Johnny had ever met that was just as bullheaded and stubborn as himself. 

As much as he teased her about it, Johnny knew one thing for certain. V was strong, V was determined. A damned force of nature and he pitied the bastards that stood in her way.

But despite the cybernetics in her body and the chip in her mind… V was human. V had her limits.

The facade she’d built up for herself couldn’t last forever, and Johnny knew it. He’d sensed the cracks in her resolve grow larger and larger with each sleepless night and after every exhausting gig.

But for a brief second, a thought crossed Johnny’s mind; 

V was fractured… V was broken… V was weak.

And with that thought, V finally snapped.

“I AM NOT FUCKING WEAK!”

V cried out, lobbing her phone at him. It phased right through him, instead hitting against the wall, shattering the screen, and sending the device flying into some unknown corner of the room. 

She froze, her eyes widening in shock, almost as if she couldn’t believe what she had done. The realization slowly setting in after the result of her outburst.

V’s vision blurred as tears welled in the corners of her eyes, she slowly fell to the cold floor, cradling her knees up to her chest and muffling her sobs in her arms.

Johnny watched as she sat in the middle of the room and sobbed. 

She didn’t let herself cry when Jackie had died, she didn’t let herself cry when Vic told her that she was practically dying. V didn’t cry as she carried Evalyn’s bloodied body, and V didn’t cry late at night when she was alone, and her chest felt tight and her throat choked up.

He knew it was coming, he could feel V’s emotions as they bubbled up and reached their boiling point. 

But what truly surprised him, was just how much it hurt him to see his little merc cry.

“Shit— V…” he nervously swallowed his throat, but try as he might, for once in his goddamn existence, he couldn’t find the right words to say.

Johnny didn’t like the way he felt. 

Johnny didn’t like the way she made him feel at that moment.

He didn’t like the way his chest tightened at the sound of each of her sobs. The way he felt so restless as he could only watch her curl onto herself for comfort. He couldn’t stop himself from pacing back and forth across the room, unsure if it was her anxiety or his that was setting him off. 

Johnny could almost feel V’s heart racing in her chest, the adrenaline flooding her veins, adrenaline meant to stimulate a fight or flight reaction. But when the pain and panic swelled from within her own chest, there was nowhere V could run, nobody she could physically fight.

All she could do was sob into her knees, desperately trying to hide her sobs and cries from him, but her own cries easily overpowered her. 

And because of him, she didn’t even feel like she had the ability to freely have a goddamn mental breakdown in her own apartment, even as she choked and sobbed, she tried to grasp onto the shattered remains of her facade. Was it for her sake, or for his?

At that point… neither of them knew.

V couldn’t stop her body from trembling. She tightly gripped onto herself until her knuckles turned white. But V didn’t notice. It didn’t even register in her mind.

She didn’t register the hot tears as they streamed down her face, the shuddering cries that caused her lip to quiver with each breath. She couldn’t recognize that no matter how hard she tried, her frantic breaths caused her lungs to feel as if they were on fire, incapable of delivering oxygen to her body.

V’s mind didn’t even register the fact that Johnny had stopped pacing back and forth.

Her mind cursed at her to get her shit together. V needed to wipe away those tears and she needed to get back on the streets. A moment of weakness could’ve gotten her killed in her past, and now was no different. 

But… the thought of standing up and leaving her apartment caused another fresh wave of sobs to rattle her body.

She was tired… she was so goddamn exhausted… 

“V…”

All she wanted was a night in. Was that too much to ask? After all of her hard work and effort, hadn’t she earned it?

“V, listen to me.”

Clearly, she hadn’t done enough if people were still calling, still demanding her presence. Clearly she—

V felt something warm touch her cheek.

Someone was there. 

Although her mind had stopped temporarily spiraling, she felt the wet salty tears dripping down her face, her vision was still blurry, and her cheeks were incredibly flushed. She must’ve looked… pathetic she thought. But regardless, she allowed herself to look up at the person who had reached out to her.

The cold of his metal rings juxtaposed the warmth of his hand, and as her eyes trailed up towards his arms, she caught sight of his familiar tattoos, but also an unfamiliar detail as she reached his face.

Instead of seeing her reflection in the lenses of his glasses, she was surprised to see his eyes staring into hers. Gone was any trace of malice or cruelty, instead his brown eyes reflected nothing but concern… an emotion she’d never expected to see from him.

Johnny. 

As her tearful eyes met his, he could’ve almost sworn that he felt his engram heart stop beating for a second. The tears rolling down her cheeks, the way her lip trembled with each breath. He didn’t know why the sight of V feeling so upset affected him so, he blamed her emotions, her hormones, whatever came into his mind. He hated the way she made him feel, he hated that she had this much power over him. 

But most of all, he hated the fact that he felt so powerless to stop it.

He would’ve gladly taken V cussing him out, he would’ve taken V nagging at him and complaining about the smell as he smoked in her apartment. He would’ve even happily taken V as she sang along to the car radio, something she’d originally done to get onto his nerves, but now it has become a sound he’s grown… to tolerate. Even sometimes… appreciate it. 

He wasn’t the type to comfort people like this, he was the type to leave as soon as emotions came into play, the countless amount of hearts that he’d broken in the past were evidence enough. Fuck, he didn’t know how to deal with his own goddamn emotions, blowing up Arasaka tower as revenge to deal with his grief, that’s what got him into this mess.

But as he wiped away a tear from her soft cheek with his calloused thumb… he wasn’t going to just sit there and let his little merc cry.

“V. You’ve done more than enough for this city than it deserves. You’re always running back and forth, trying to make this shithole a better place… all while trying to keep yourself alive.” He wanted to tell her that this damned city didn’t deserve her generosity, it didn’t deserve her hard work, fuck, this city didn’t deserve her.  

He didn’t deserve her.

And she didn’t deserve what he was doing to her.

“You keep spreading yourself too thin, you keep wanting to do shit for others, you keep wanting to help. But then you add the cherry on top — the fact that there’s a chip in your head slowly killin’ ya… You’ve got enough on your plate. You’ve earned a few nights of rest.”

V sniffled and tried to wipe away tears, her voice wavering as she spoke, “I-If I don’t keep goin’ if I don’t keep looking for a solution— I’m gonna die. Johnny, I don’t want to die—“

“V, you’re gonna end up dead long before the chip has an opportunity to kill you if you keep pushing yourself like this… You need to get some rest.”

He was right. As much as she fucking hated it… he was right.

She felt his metal hand cup her other cheek, the cool metal refreshing against the flushed skin, wiping away tears as he continued to speak.

“You’ve proven yourself enough to this city. You’ve proven yourself enough to me. But running yourself to the bone is not worth it in order to prove it to yourself. And you’re not alone V… as much as they get on my fuckn’ nerves, you’ve got chooms lookin’ out for ya, even if one of them is a fuckn’ cop—“

Through tears, V chuckled and playfully chided him, “Johnny…”

There it was… that little chuckle of hers that he was looking for. He wouldn’t admit it to others, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself, but V’s laughter never failed to make him feel something funny in his chest… it wasn’t like the high of drugs or liquor, but it felt just as addictive. It wasn’t like the adrenaline rush of a firefight or the rush during a show, but it made him feel just as excited and lightheaded.

He cleared his throat, trying to get his mind off of that feeling, and spoke, “Listen… all I’m saying… is that you’re not alone V. And although I don’t have much of a choice, whenever you need me…” he playfully smiled as his eyes met hers, “I’m always here for ya V.”

And that’s all it took.

In one moment to another, V wrapped her arms around his waist, knocking him on his ass from his previous kneeling position, and burying her head against his chest.

Despite sharing a head and body, somehow, someway, V always found a way to surprise him.

He groaned, the deep rumbles from his chest as he spoke making V settle in closer, anchoring herself to his presence.

“Fuck, V, a little warning next time would be nice.”

But even as he whined… he wasn’t complaining. Not when her sobs were beginning to fade, and she was instead chuckling at his expense in his arms. 

He ignored that funny feeling in his chest as his organic arm wraps itself against her body, his calloused hand rubbing circles against the small of her back, feeling her trembling begin to slow under his soft touch. Over time, her breathing began to even, and soon enough she was taking deep breaths as she recovered. 

Without even consciously doing so, Johnny’s metal hand found itself entwined with the strands of her hair, softly caressing as V’s eyes began to droop, and exhaustion began to overtake her body.

“V… it’s time for you to go to bed.”

“I’m fine Johnny, I’m—“ a yawn interrupted her mid-sentence, “I’m not even tired.”

“And I’m not buying it.” He chuckled as his arm wrapped around her midsection.

“W-wait Johnny what are you— Johnny!” In an instant, V was thrown over his shoulder as he stood from the ground, and she gripped onto him in order to avoid falling to the floor.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking you to bed.” He chuckled as he felt her hand playfully slap against his shoulder.

“Fucking hell Johnny, a warning would be nice!” He could almost imagine her expression as he walked across the apartment, the way she would pout in exasperation.

“Just repaying the favor, that’s all.” He smirked as he reached her bed. Slowly setting her down from his shoulder onto the mattress below. 

“There. It’s time that you allowed yourself to get some rest, and not that weird shit you do where you sleep across the bed huddled in a little ball, but some actual sleep, under the covers and all.” 

“Fine, fine…” V slipped into a pair of nightclothes as Johnny had the decency to look away, and then slipped under the blankets, making herself comfortable. But before she drifted off to sleep, she called out, “Johnny?”

“... yeah?”

“I just— I just wanted to say thanks. Y’know, for tonight and all.”

“‘Course…” he stepped towards the bed once more as he spoke, “I mean, if I’m the one telling you that you need some rest, you probably fucked up somewhere along the way.”

“That’s true… judging from your memories, you’re terrible at following your own advice, Johnny.” She smiled at him, uncertain if the lack of sleep had made her delirious or if perhaps she was feeling particularly honest that night, but she spoke, “Y’know, if fucking up this badly was the catalyst for us to meet… I would do it all over again.”

He smiled sadly in return, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his cold metal hand brushing her cheek as he did so. An action to acknowledge the words between them were best left unspoken and unsaid— at least, for now.

“...Goodnight V.” He tore his gaze from her as he turned to walk away.

“Wait— Johnny!”

She grasped his metallic hand before he had the opportunity to pull away.

“... stay with me? Just for tonight?”

With her eyes looking up at him, her smaller hand clinging onto his, causing his breath to hitch and his heart to race—

How could he say no?

“Fine, but just for tonight. I can’t have you thinkin’ I’m goin’ soft or something.”

Johnny slipped under the covers, and without even needing to be asked, he wrapped his arms around V, and she rested her head against his chest in return.

“Get some rest, samurai… the city will still be there waiting for us when you awake.”

-

Thank ya kindly for reading! I'm always down for some constructive criticism and I love to read any lovely comments about my fics. Do let me know if there are any mistakes, I don't have a beta reader for Cyberpunk just yet, so a few mistakes may have gotten away from me!

And feel free to send in asks/requests! I'm so in love with Johnny and V and I can spend hours thinking and talking about them aaaaa

#CW Panic Attack #Cyberpunk 2077 #Johnny Silverhand #Johnny Silverhand x V #V #my works #fanfic #fluff #hurt and comfort is my kink ngl? #god i just.... lOVE THESE TWO SM

[goldenlaquer]

Hey, can I ask for some headcanons, please? For Gin, Toshi, Sougo and Kamui. About how they were in a fight, separated from their so and something happened like an exposion or whatever, anyway the main point is that they thought that their so have died but later they see her alive and relatively unharmed. So the headcanons of them when they thought they lost their so and when they see that she is ok. Sorry, this is so specific and long, I'm just a slut for some angst and I love your writings

Thank you for the support and sorry for the wait! I don’t know if I’m that much good at conveying angst but let’s bring on the feels! 

Gintama Headcanons: 

Hijikata Toushirou: 

Hijikata stands on top of a pile of rubble, and surveys the destruction around him. 

His hands don’t shake. His feet are firm against the ground. His shoulders are straight and rigid against the fleeting wind. Smoke escapes him in steady stream, and when he inhales in, the dust and fire of the air sticks to the walls of his lungs like sludge. 

To the men who stop to look at their vice-commander with their ugly concerns plastered on their ugly mugs: He’s fine. 

To the Gorilla who can’t stop asking him the question every ten minutes and that, he really should take a break or else at this rate, he’ll collapse: He’s fine. 

To the brat who stubbornly stays by his side like spit-up gum on the sole of his shoe: He’s fine, damn it, so go do your job and leave him alone. 

For once, Sougo doesn’t have anything clever to quip back at him. He doesn’t need to-- the silence between them speaks better than words. And Hijikata hates what it says, so he turns back to the grey landscape, eyes darting and sifting through the mangled and charred parts to see something, anything that is you. 

Nothing. 

He reaches for a cigarette, pulls it out of his pocket like second nature. The lighter is the trickier to work. The blasted thing refuses to flicker on. Oh, the cigarette falls down. Hijikata bends to pick it up. He tries again. The cigarette falls down. He stares at it. His shoe crushes it. He’s stomping down hard. Sougo is still silent, watching. Hijikata doesn’t care. 

The facade of normalcy is gone. Here he is: Taking his frustrations out on a sad little cig, like it’s the cause of all his fucking problems, like it’s going to bring you back. Harsh pants come out of his mouth, and in another series, they’d sound like something akin to sobs, but his face is dry.

“Hijikata.” He ignores Sougo. The cigarette is reduced to paper and dry leaves scuffed against concrete. “Hijikata.” He doesn’t answer.

Okita, with an eye-roll, kicks Hijikata square in the back and knocks him off the pile. 

Sougo, what the fuck? He. Is. Mourning. Hijikata has always known Sougo to be insensitive, but this is blatantly crossing several lines and he clearly doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with. 

But if it’s a fight that bastard wants, Hijikata will give it to him. He leaps up from the ground, ready to hand Sougo an express ticket to hell, misty eyes narrowing in anger as he looks up

and the breath is knocked out of him in a way that years of chain-smoking had miraculously failed to do 

Standing before him, white particles clinging to your clothes, hair, and eyebrows, is the damn most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. The feet move faster than he can process, and by the time his arms are around you and he’s breathing in the scent he thought he’d lost forever

“Fuck.” Because that’s the only appropriate response he can say without his voice cracking. “Don’t do that again.”

Kamui:

Loss is not a new thing. It was in the labored rise and fall of his mother’s chest, the pallidness of her white skin. The feel of his sister’s small hands, fisting in his clothes and pleadingly tugging back, her blue eyes wide and wet. It was in the looming shape of his father’s retreating back.

But there were other, worthier things to focus on. The pain in his knuckles slamming against bone and muscle. The taut stretch of his lips as he licks his wounds, tasting metal and victory. The title of ‘Universe’s Strongest’ nearly within his grasp. He didn’t have time for the weak. Didn’t have time to be weak.

Loss is not new, and yet there is something about this loss. Now, Loss is a sentient being, latching to his throat and squeezing as he grapples through the mud.

Abuto’s face is too blank and too careful. His voice is low and calm and reasoning, and he is saying things, but Kamui doesn’t listen. The words ‘she’ and ‘gone’ don’t mix, they don’t make any sense, so why should he listen? He digs and digs and digs, not hearing, he can’t, his ears and eyes are filled with the same muddy brown that must also be filling yours. Kamui works even faster, his nails splintering against the rocks embedded in the wet ground.

Hair released from its braid, trussed and caked in dirt. Pupils dilated, black swallowing blue. His face abnormally slack as he claws in frenzy, in desperation at the ground like a wild animal.

There are few things in this world Kamui can’t fight. No matter his strength, one cannot simply beat Mother Nature into submission. But there is no excuse. If he cannot save one woman from something as stupid as dirt, then what is the point? What use is his strength? He didn’t leave that tiny, rainy planet, ignoring all the things left behind with it, to become this weakling who couldn’t even manage to keep you by his side like he promised.

He’s a young brat again, helplessness coloring every pore. A damsel in distress. Someone who can’t save, but needs saving. He is no different than the baldy. Unable to keep promises. Unable to protect. Unable to do anything. Was he always this fragile? Pathetic.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. The word is a punishing mantra in his mind.

Something crashes into him. It’s not near enough to make him pause in his digging, but the something is tugging on his clothes. Incoherent, muffled shouting in his ears. He doesn’t pay it any mind because mud keeps slipping back in place despite all his useless strength and you’re still trapped, waiting for him--

“KAMUI!”

He blinks in surprise, snapping from the heavy cloud covering his mind. He’s flat on the ground, staring up at you. How he got there, he doesn’t know, but you are here in front of him, covered head-to-toe in mud and crying.

He is silent, watching as you blubber concerns and curses. A curious hand reaches out to your face in wonder, carefully tracing the path that a salty tear had made down your cheek. The familiarity of your soft skin warms his numb body and a small smile emerges from his lips.

As you sit on top of him, crying not because you are scared but because he’s such a stupid idiot, he realizes that that he isn’t all alone just yet, that there’s one thing that refuses to leave him. 

Okita Sougo: 

It’s happening again. And it honestly makes him want to laugh. 

He doesn’t believe in it, karma, but when you think that you’ve gotten used to the pain of losing someone you love, his rotten, black heart has to go and get ripped out for the second time as if he forgot, as if he needed reminding that there’s no way someone like him deserves something as good as happiness. There’s no other explanation to this shit luck other than that, for the accumulation of every filthy deed he’s done with his filthy hands and every fucking sin he has committed once and twice and will most definitely commit thrice, someone has to pay for it. 

And because Karma is two bitches and a half, that someone wasn’t him. 

There it is. The laughter finally comes out as he looks at the torn fabric in his clenched fist. It comes out harsh and hollow and, if you listened hard enough, choked, but who’s checking? Not him. Not Mitsuba. And certainly not you. 

He reported it to the vice-commander himself, voice robotic, telling how he was walking front of you when it happened, how the enemy somehow managed to predict your movements and ambushed the both of you on a bridge, how he had been unable to react in time to stop the silver flash of a knife and how the world tilted, too fast and too slow, and that there was a piece of hanging rope that he managed to snag on to with one hand and when he blindly flashed out the other to grasp at you, reaching through free air and snatching at cloth, it ripped from his fingers, and you fell to the chasm below.  Deep enough, Okita said as he looked straight into Hijikata’s eyes, that death would be quick and painless.

If nothing else could go right for him, then at least for this, he hoped, even fucking prayed, that it was painless.

Hijikata doesn’t react to the report with anything unnecessary, just a stiff upper lip and an “okay” before he walks off to stand somewhere far enough, yet close enough. For all their differences, Hijikata knows. He understands losing youthful love, and that the pity that comes with it is nothing more than steaming trash. In this way and other ways that he’d sooner eat shit than to admit aloud, Okita is grateful for him.  

He stops mid mirthless chuckle to shove the hand holding what’s left of  you up to his eyes, slanting his head downwards so his bangs cover what he doesn’t want the world to know what he’s somehow still capable of. Hijikata is tactfully looking away. Over the distance, Kondo is bellowing orders to his men who keep a wide berth from the spot where their 1st Division Captain stands. This is the only opportunity he can afford to be an eighteen year old again. Sougo swallows thickly, feeling the roughness of fabric dampen against his eyelids. 

Acutely, he hears the sound of footsteps. It is slow and steady and he thinks that they belong Kondo at first but the weight of them is too light for a gorilla. Before he can process this information further, the steps halt for several long seconds before starting again, this time faster and more urgent, lurching in his direction. Hijikata mutters an astounded “shit” but  for whatever reason doesn’t move to intercept. Okita really isn’t in the mood to deal with dumbasses but the sword by his side is already unsheathed and he’s aiming his red eyes to glare at whoever the fuck--

Arms wrap around his waist. A face burrows into his chest. His knees almost give out, but his name is Okita Sougo and he has already maxed out his whiny bitch points for the next decade. Instead, he drops his sword to cup the back of your very-much-alive head, caressing the wet silk of it before threading his trembling fingers through the strands to

sharply tug you from his chest and grasp your cheeks with one hand, squeezing your expression to that of a startled fish. 

“Now,” Okita murmers, the smirk on his lips at odds with how fucking great it feels to see you again. “What should I do with you?”

Sakata Gintoki:

Before they say anything, he knows. 

He has seen that type of expression too many times to ever forget the set jaw, the horrible attempt at stilling a trembling bottom lip, the unshed tears of eyes that can’t seem to stop roving, unable to face the recipient of bad news for more than half a second, and the pallidness of knuckles straining against skin, holding onto their clothes like a lifeline. 

He knows this expression so well he can gaze down at Shinpachi and Kagura with well-placed apathy, perfectly appearing as if his lungs aren’t threatening to collapse on itself when he notices who is not there with them, and tell them in his same old way to stop sucking on their teeth and finish what they can’t seem to get out because he has an appointment at the pachinko parlor at four and if they don’t finish up this job by three-thirty he is going to dock their nonexistent pay by 80%. It hides the rising nausea and stone weight of the stomach well. 

This time, however, his casual rudeness doesn’t make them react the way he wants them to, it only makes them fold into themselves even further. 

The thing is, no matter how many times you see it and know better than to entertain it, there’s always this one glimmer of hope, so ridiculously strong that you’d gladly pray to anyone and everyone, even if you don’t really believe, because if anything is possible then it better be possible that this isn’t bad news, or that even if it is bad news then the worst of the pinched expression is just a by-product of eating food gone bad or the pain of an ingrown toenail, that it isn’t about someone dying or dead. 

But life rarely goes like that, and Gintoki lives in an extra-shittier life compared to most people. 

When you stumble across them, hair singed and smelling of gunpowder and smoke, there is something so thick and so wrong with the air, something that makes you stop from crying out in elation at seeing the people you love most. Shinpachi is fastidiously rubbing his eyes and Kagura has her face buried against Sadaharu’s fur and Gintoki

Gintoki looks alone. And you don’t think you have ever seen him look like that, so withdrawn into himself that even if he is surrounded by people, there’s nothing that can come close to him, nothing that can ease the dull bleakness of his eyes and the defeated hunch of his shoulders. He looks like a single thread worn too thin, on the verge of snapping. He looks like nothing matters anymore. Nothing. 

You dislike it. You hate it. You hate it so much, to see this man turn into something so unfamiliar and terrifying and gut out. You don’t know this Gintoki. You want the other one back, the one who wouldn’t hesitate to smear dog shit and boogers on the back of your jacket and the one who doesn’t really mind it when you take a sip of his spoiled strawberry milk. 

So when you shout out loudly, so loud that vibrates the space, that you’re here and alive and that you didn’t, couldn’t die because how could such a measly explosion off you when there were idiots waiting back home for you, to see Kagura and Shinpachi fly to you, screaming and whooping as they open their arms wide for your hug, snot running down their noses, and Gintoki snap his head up, disbelieving at first, yet searching your form with a speck of hope that brings life back to his dead eyes, and when he finds whatever he was searching for, he goes to you on steady feet, folding his arms around the group, gaze still drinking your form up as he leans across Shinpachi’s and Kagura’s heads to bump his forehead against yours, his breath sighing out something like relief-- it almost makes you cry, or maybe it does because you can feel something wet trailing down your face.

Gintoki is silent for the most part, because Kagura and Shinpachi are doing most of the talking for him, but when he does speak, it is to say: 

“Damn, there goes the life insurance money.” 

#gintama #gintama headcanons #gintama x reader #gintama imagine #sakata gintoki #kamui yato #hijikata toushirou #okita sougo #answered ask #asks closed

[wordstro]

omg okay so here are yeosang’s and wooyoung’s more indepth backstories in the hero/villain au because in between working on my wips I’ve been thinking about this universe as a whole a LOT lol. this also includes everyone else's powers (the backstories aren't as in depth yet) as well just a little worldbuilding establishment:

yeosang’s powers are persuasion. he was always a quiet, shy boy who liked to keep to himself. he wasn’t always quiet though, not until the day he activated his powers. when he was 13 years old, he’d been upset about something he didn’t even remember, that’s how insignificant it was, and he screamed and shouted at his parents. his mother sighed, and his father crossed his arms over his chest and said stop being a brat and tell us what happened. ironically, yeosang hated being told what to do. he stomped his foot in anger and shouted, “leave me alone! go away!”

then he turned and stomped up the stairs and slammed the door shut. when he emerged from his room hours later and tiptoed to the kitchen in search of food. the apartment was eerily quiet, the tv still running and the lights still on. he’d gone to sleep peacefully that night, unknowing that his parents would never return.

to this day he did not know where they were.

he’d lashed out a boy prodding at him during gym class, still reeling from his parent’s abandonment. he remembered the boy’s insult. you’re so useless and ugly. no wonder your parents left you, he’d spat. yeosang saw red. he hissed, “go jump off a bridge, asshole.” the boy’s eyes went blank and he turned away. yeosang stared after him in confusion but the bell rang and he was herded back to the school. the next day he learned that the boy jumped off the highway bridge still dressed in his gym uniform.

that’s when yeosang knew what he could do.

he did not speak and kept to himself since then, festering in guilt, always on the look out for his parents. in high school, he met a boy with a big smile on his face and mischief in his eyes. he witnessed one of yeosang’s bouts of anger, when he cornered some bully behind the school where the CCTVs were broken and kids came to smoke and skip class and he told him to forget about his victims and leave them alone, to focus on his grades and family and stop bullying innocent people. he’d owed one of the bully’s victims for her help with keeping him from failing math. jung wooyoung witnessed it all. the boy’s blank eyes and listless nod, yeosang’s test afterwards, everything. before yeosang could persuade wooyoung to forget, wooyoung flicked a finger and blue flames sparked to life at the tip of his fingers.

yeosang suppressed the relief and a sudden onslaught of tears at the sight, the knowledge that he was not alone anymore.

wooyoung used it to light his cigarette and wordlessly offered it to yeosang. yeosang grimaced.

i hate smoking, he’d said. me too, wooyoung replied with a grin, tossing the cigarette to the ground and grinding it with his heel. he swung his arms over yeosang’s shoulder and the rest was history.

yeosang spoke again and wooyoung helped him control his powers and outbursts. yeosang promised he would follow wooyoung to the ends of the earth. and he did, to the hero-villain alliance where he acted as a villain, to the underground meetings, to the coup, to his fights with a team he’d come to love just as strongly as he loved wooyoung. he followed wooyoung through everything and he would do it again and again. still, why did he feel so guilty? why did he feel so much regret?

wooyoung can control fire. his backstory was nothing horrifying. it was kind even compared to the others. he’d simply lost control one day, overwhelmed by emotions as teenagers are, and he burned down his house with his family still in it. he’d left severe burns on his mother and brother, but no one died. when the police came to investigate, his parents covered for him.

his mother reminded him that she loved him and stroked the tears from his face, reminded him that he’d made a mistake and she forgave him for it.

his brother said he forgave him too, but the fear in his eyes remained and wooyoung saw it. he worked to remove it but he saw it. it stayed with him. the fear changed him. not death nor hatred, just the way people looked at him when they found out what he could do, even when he played a hero.

when he and yeosang joined the hero-villain alliance, he’d basked in the kindness in their eyes and though he told himself that he would stop being soft, that he only cared for the people he cared for and that’s it, just his parents who were too old and exhausted and his brother who feared him and yeosang, the team wormed their way into his heart. he loved them. he really did.

they taught him to embrace his softness. they taught him to care. he’d been chosen as a hero by management. but he saw the injustice done to his kind. he despised the fear the public felt towards his villain counterparts, his best friends. it angered him.

because it wasn’t fucking fair. though wooyoung was soft he never agreed with peaceful protests. he believed in fighting and sacrificing for the greater good. peaceful protests rarely changed anything. the ends justified the means. always. so he staged a coup. he had to. for his people. for the world. for the greater good. he betrayed the people he loved most in the world and he would do it over and over again. for the greater good.

jongho’s powers are invulnerability/absolute durability. he has indestructible skin. it’s said he could withstand a nuclear bomb, but no one lets him try it no matter how many times jongho asks. jongho likes danger. it’s the only thing that keeps him entertained and gets him through the numbness he feels every single day. they made him a villain and jongho wondered if they knew that he feigned his optimism. he wondered if they knew how much he despised himself. he wondered if they knew that he used to beat people up just to feel something.

san’s power is intangibility. he can phase through objects by vibrating his molecules to pass through objects. recently he learned to phase his body parts so when someone tries to attack him, they fly straight through him. he tries to learn the science behind it but frankly he doesn’t care. jongho asked once if he could make his molecules turn into a nuclear beam, eyes alight with hope. san would always scold him, but he could see the sincerity in jongho’s eyes. san joined the hero-villain alliance last, plucked from jail for petty theft and given a second chance.

he loved too deeply, and he grew attached too quickly. it was a fatal flaw of his.

so when they betrayed him, yeosang and wooyoung especially, he grew so angry, he was terrified of the force of it. he never knew he could hold so much resentment, but he figures that if he could hold so much love, he could hold just as much hatred too. he fought with a vengeance with anger, but more than anything, with deep, deep hurt.

mingi’s power is light manipulation. he can manipulate light, blind people, create burning heat from it, and even create entire illusions by fracturing light particles. he’d blinded people with his power and he casted an illusion of himself, forever living in his hometown, suffering the consequences of a crime he should have been, and he fled. he’d met yunho on the streets before the hero-villain alliance and they quickly became best friends, brothers even.

hongjoong’s power is dimensional storage. he can store objects and people away for safekeeping. he’s been told that if he trained hard enough, long enough, he could advance his skills. he could manipulate space itself, erase people from existence, create wormholes and paradoxes, warp reality. it would be hard for him.

wooyoung spoke of the possibilities with twinkling eyes.

hongjoong couldn’t admit that his powers terrified him. he still couldn’t bury the guilt of what he did when he couldn’t control his powers. he still didn’t know which dimension he placed his hometown in, whether they were still alive, and it’s nearing twenty years since the accident.

that’s why hongjoong advocated for peace, for treaties and regulations. he hoped for the best in people because that’s all that kept him going. he didn't want to fight. he advocated for his team every single day. he loved them.

that’s why he ignored the signs that wooyoung was up to something until it was too late. every day since then he fought to bring them back, to right his shortcomings.

bonus:

technically this ateez hero/villain au takes place in the same timeline as the astro hero/villain au i have on here on AO3. so the juxtaposition between how fluffy and how much of a fun time astro/the ioi unit/etc are having vs ateez shows how much public opinion of people with powers changed over such a short period of time. especially as super powered people began emerging in droves.

astro’s stories take place when people with superpowers just started emerging. and villains and heroes hated each other but it wasn’t ever as serious as it now is. superheroes were a commodity. no one was extremely afraid of ppl with powers to the point of murder and villains only stole for the paycheck. that’s why they were all best friends. but as the government began to start regulating people with superpowers and ppl began to protest their existence, more government-run academies opened up and all of astro joined the hero-villain alliance as a team. that’s when they joined the biochemical weapons sector. at first it was fine - they didn’t work out on the field often but they hoped with their research they could help their kind and learn more abt themselves. until the experimentation got worse, more invasive, forced. eunwoo was the sole survivor. he lost his shit, but they managed to contain him at a high security facility. when jongho broke him out, eunwoo swore he would avenge them.

#ateez #ateez scenarios #astro #astro scenarios #hero/villain au